Olga McArrow - Hot Obsidian

“I’ve just learned this recipe today! It’s awesomely strong stuff. It must help,” he said every time he brewed another one and added when it failed to work, “Don’t worry, I have another recipe right here…”

Bala’s optimism was the only thing that made Kosta smile now.

Clumsy as he was, Bala was good at potion-making, just as good as he was at cooking, maybe because those two things had a lot in common. His potions did produce some effect, just not the one he was hoping for: a bit of colour returned to Kosta’s cheeks, his cough became softer, and his hair grew long and shiny.

Still, the invisible disease kept filling the boy’s lungs with liquid, slowly but steadily.

***

In the beginning, that morning seemed no different from many previous ones. Jarmin tucked the blanket around Kosta to keep him warm and got back to painting. The little artist worked on its magnificent steel bridges today. Bala’s cauldron was merrily bubbling on a small stove fuelled by Pai’s Fiat-lux. Bala added the last ingredient to the mix, stirred it for a while, took a sip from the spoon, and decided that the potion was ready. He filled a cup, dropped a small cube of diadem sugar into it to sweeten the medicine, and brought it to Kosta who drank it obediently, in small sips, as he always did.

Everything was just like it had been yesterday, everything but the look on the sick boy’s face. There was fire in his eyes that Bala had never seen there before.

His cup of medicine finished, Kosta got out of his bed and started to dress. And not just dress: he put on his sword belt as well.

“Where are you going?” exclaimed Bala. He clumsily waved his hand as he did that, making a pile of pans and pots tumble down from the table with a crash.

Kosta unsheathed his sword, gave it a long look, then sheathed it again.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, very quietly but with determination. It was the first time he had spoken in weeks.

“No, you can’t!” cried Bala, throwing himself between Kosta and the only way out of the room.

Jarmin had left his balcony and was peeking from behind its door now, frightened by the scene.

“Bala… my friend…” said Kosta with a weary sigh. “I’ve been waiting for weeks. My illness used to pass by itself before but looks like it won’t now. If I wait any longer, I will die in my bed. I must do something. Just trust me, please. I will return healthy. Or won’t return at all.”

“What’s on your mind? Suicide?”

“No. I’m going to deal with what is torturing me. Please, let me go.”

Bala was silent for a long time and under this silence, his doubts were having a mortal fight…

“Fine…” he gave in at last. “But I’m going with you!”

The Crimson Guardians would have had a lot of questions to a child leaving the city alone, but a child accompanied by an adult warrior was okay in their book. No one had stopped Kosta and Bala from leaving Firaska.

Free from the claustrophobic labyrinth of the city, both boys were glad to enter a huge, green, open world of Southern wilderness. The air was so fresh there! Kosta even tried to draw a deep breath but regretted it right away: his cough returned.

He could not stop coughing for a long time. Kneeled on the grass, he pressed his hands against his chest and patiently waited for the coughing fit to pass. When Kosta stood up, he had no voice and a horrible wheezy sound accompanied his every breath now.

“I should’ve done it a week ago,” he thought as he saw pity in Bala’s eyes. “It may be already too late.”

“Let’s go,” he said in a wheezy whisper. “We have a long way ahead of us.”

They followed the main road at first but left it after an hour. Their pace was slow but Kosta already breathed heavily and could not go any faster no matter how much he wanted to. Moving forward in a steady, non-stopping pace was the best he could do now, and he did. Hours passed but they had not stopped to rest even once. Had not exchanged a single word either.

Finally, they reached the Firaskian forest, a dark, ominous mass of ancient cedars.

Despite being so close to the city, the forest seemed wild and untouched by people. There were plenty of cedar cones scattered under the trees; every glade was full of berries. Obviously, no one picked local nature's candy – that alone should have made Bala suspicious but it didn’t. He enjoyed the forest too much for his own good. He picked herbs, nuts, and berries along the way, stuffed the herbs into his pockets, gorged on the forest gifts himself and fed them to Kosta.

For the first time in weeks, Kosta didn’t refuse food, knowing that he needed all his strength to meet what he was going to meet.

But strength was what he had not. Four hours after entering the forest, Kosta had to stop to rest and catch his breath. He resumed his journey shortly, as stubborn and methodical as ever in his efforts, but his next “sprint” lasted barely three hours. Then and only then, it dawned on his careless companion that they would not be able to return to the city before dark.

“Kosta,” he said in a terrified, hushed voice, “we have to go back, now!”

Young Ollardian, sprawled on the ground, opened his eyes, bloodshot and watering because of his endless cough, then made an effort to get up and leaned against the nearest cedar tree for support. His wheezy breath was painful to hear.

“Of course…” he whispered. “We will go… it doesn’t matter where to now… Please, sit with me… I have to tell you…”

But he didn’t have the chance… A terrified, wailing cry interrupted him mid-phrase. It must have belonged to a young child scared out of their wits.

“Stay here,” pleaded Bala, torn between his helpless friend and the helpless little stranger. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t…” wheezed Kosta, trying to grab his sleeve, but Bala was too quick for him.

“Late once again,” he thought bitterly. And then he got up and tried to run after his friend.

Two seconds into the run, Kosta started to cough again. His lungs could not take it anymore. His heart was close to its limit as well; it pounded so fast in a desperate attempt to keep up with the sick body’s demands that Kosta felt close to blacking out. His vision dimmed, blurred, overcast with dancing green specks. He had to slow his pace to stay conscious but didn’t dare to stop, knowing that any delay could cost Bala everything.

“Breathe… breathe… breathe…” the boy chanted in his thoughts.

Bala was running through the forest in the direction he had heard the child’s cry from. The undergrowth was thick there; that made Bala’s long sword a real burden that slowed him a great deal. Luckily, the child, a little boy, jumped out of the bushes right in front of Bala.

Marascaran went down on one knee and tried to calm down the kid and learn what had happened to him. The boy looked about five years old: he seemed younger than Jarmin. He was scrawny, dirty, and dressed in filthy rags; his arms and cheeks were red with scratches that running through the undergrowth had left him. The boy’s little face was a mask of utter terror; it made all the horrors of the No Man’s Land that Bala had heard of from his teammates flash before his mind’s eye in a split second.

“What happened to you?” he asked, trying to sound as calm and confident as he could.

“They killed mommy…” whispered the child, his voice gone, probably from crying so loudly.

“Who?”

“They’re scary, evil! With long teeth! There!” the boy pointed his finger somewhere beyond Bala’s back.

“Stay here and be very quiet,” said Bala. He stood up and unsheathed his sword. “I’ll go have a look…”

“NO!!! Bala, don’t!!!” That was Kosta’s cry. One could only guess what that kind of effort it had cost him. “Step away from it!!!”

Surprised and startled, Bala turned back to the child. And recoiled instantly in horror, with his sword in front of him…

The mask of the human child now thrown away, the creature that had lured Bala here started to change into its real form. The eyes, blue and teary the second before, turned glassy and black. A heavy brow overhung them now. The nose sunk into the skull and turned into a narrow slit. The corners of the mouth stretched almost to the ears, revealing two rows of pointy teeth bending inward – a deathly trap for any prey. The “kid’s” arms lost their gentle appearance, they stretched and twisted, turning into grabby paws with long, clawed fingers.

The only thing that remained unchanged was the former boy’s ruffled fair hair that now crowned the creature’s ugly head.

A recent memory flashed in Bala’s mind, answering his silently screaming question: morok. That was all he had managed to think of before a wave of horror paralysed him. Now, he could not even run away.

Bala had no idea what had bought him and Kosta those several precious seconds that changed everything; why the monster hadn’t jumped at the paralysed prey right away: it was the sword. Bala still clutched his katana in his hands, he hadn’t dropped it even in the face of the No Man’s Land horror. Moroks are not stupid, they know well how dangerous human weapons can be. So the monster hesitated, just a moment, but that was enough for Kosta to reach Bala and stand between him and the shapeshifter.

In an attempt to buy himself some time to catch his breath, Kosta looked into the monster’s eyes, sending it an unspoken challenge. His heart pounded so fast he could hear it over all other sounds. His hands trembled. But he felt no fear. The fear that had been torturing Kosta for weeks, was gone now. Young Ollardian felt more confident than ever now when everything fell into place. And he was ready.

Furious with the little human’s challenge, the morok answered with another wave of horror that washed over Kosta without any harm but made Bala lose his mind, drop his sword and fall to his knees crying.

Kosta stood his ground. Between his friend and the monster. He deliberately kept his hands off his sword to send a message: I’m ill, I’m weak, I’m unarmed, come and get me. But the morok was old and experienced enough not to fall for this trick. Instead of jumping at Kosta, he threw another horror wave at him, perfectly aware of Kosta’s immunity to it: the monster’s target was Bala.

Kosta didn’t see what was happening to his friend but he heard Bala’s cry. That cry no longer resembled a sound of a human being, that cry was a primal, animal signal of agony. It was as clear as day: Bala would not survive another wave. So Kosta had to make the first move and the morok was ready…

Bala saw only the end of the battle, only then his sanity returned to him along with his ability to control himself. The morok had no armour on it but still took Kosta three precise hits to kill the monster. Even mortally wounded, it was strong, aggressive and dangerous. Every time Bala thought that it was dead, the monster attacked again.

All Kosta’s training, all his talent, all his ambasiath’s power went into that battle, fitted into mere seconds that seemed as long as life. Everyone knew Kosta Ollardian as a shy, sickly kid who would never hurt a fly. Now, Bala had a glimpse of a very different Kosta: a methodical, merciless monster slayer. He played the role to the end, for after the battle was over, he didn’t fall to his knees exhausted and terrified, no. He proceeded with destroying the morok completely by cutting its heart out of its chest and trampling it on the ground until it stopped beating. And then Kosta’s coughing returned with redoubled strength.