Gift of Gold (The Year of Churning Bloods) (4 page)

              “Shuuuuuckooo...”

              We wouldn’t be scared though, because at fifteen years old, you’re supposed to be an adult and adults are never scared. The thought of the two of us being adults made me calm. In fact I was so calm I almost didn’t hear the loud wail of the rising siren, signaling the start of the day. I crawled out of my scratchy cot and joined all the sleepy people lumbering towards the large building at the edge of the Clog. Silently though, very silently, I was still making ocean noises.

In
The Clog’s
chapel, the
t
housand odd
Ickle-Bit
eyes all
drifted sleepily past their surroundings, while
I sat
in silence.
Rows and rows of sturdy wooden seats sa
t huddled together,
each elevating slightly
as they stretched back
. Scenes of graphic deaths were carved into the wall with no variation in color. I found
it quite disturbing that the man who made those carvings probably had a better life than even I. This thought though was interrupted by the loud predominant footsteps of the Chaplin. As he slowly advanced, he made it a deliberate point to keep his chin as high as possible. Only when he had finally perched himself on his throne did he glance down at the notes in front of him.

              “Let us be thankful for life
,”
h
e began nobly. “
a
nd see that those who desire power will live on, but those who are too weak to grasp the concept will perish alongside the evils contained in the forest.”
I shifted my weight uncomfortably, suddenly aware
of the hot air which was gently suffocating me
.
“To look into your heart and drink the blood of those we spite is the greatest thing you can do for the gods.” Nodding to his right and to his left,
the chaplin
raised his hands and we rose
. Without emotion I made my way to the front of the room like everyone around me and
qui
ckly
dipped my goblet into the large stone vat
,
filled to the brim with
pungent
red
blood. I drank quickly, and stumbled
back to my seat feeling like I had just swallowed
poison
.

              Another crucial point I forgot to mention about the Grimlars is that they feed mage blood to all of the Ickle-Bits with the idea that it promotes growth in anti-magical abilities. Does it help? Damned if I know. I’d been drinking the stuff for five years and nothing’s happened. I suppose if the first Grimlars ate with their feet then I’d be doing it too.

              ***

              I scoured my surroundings and saw mounds of un-chopped coal lay scattered around the hundreds of Ickle-Bit feet, waiting to be smashed and hauled back to the outside world.  Someone nearly half my size, completely smothered in a fine black powder began to cough violently. The child obviously didn’t know he should have wrapped some cloth around his face to keep himself from breathing in the dust. He vomited dramatically before painfully convulsing as his soot covered face writhed in agony. He fell to the ground and lay without breath for moments longer than any I had gone. I stared for a moment in a respectful silence before receiving a sharp kick to the back of my leg and a horrible comment from the passing elder.

I threw my pick down in aggravation, shattering a small clump of dense black rock. It was five years since I had last seen Preston. five years since I had made my vow to find him, and not only had I failed, but I’d failed in the worst possible way. Of course, I told Professor Wenchenberg all about Preston long ago. The adventures we had, the time we spent together. Three days later the professor confirmed that Preston was alive and living in the school. I remember weeping from sheer relief, but as time went on I remembered that he would never see me as long as I was an Ickle-bit.

Preston would make other friends. He would grow up without me and be shaped into that model Grimlar the elders wanted. I was sure he had forgotten me, yet I had no way to find out. I paused to wipe the sweat from my forehead. It felt syrupy, as if the cold was causing it to thicken.

Even though Preston lived, I had failed him. Why did I even care? I should have forgotten about this person long ago. What made him so different anyways? Preston was my only connection with the outside world, but did that make him special? My mind strained to find a word that could summarise this empathy I was feeling, however the lack of one left me aggravated and confused. I looked up to the sky and resisted the temptation to cry.

             
***

A few hours later, I found myself sitting at a desk in a large cave like room with nothing in front of me but piles of paper and a quill with deep black ink. It may have surprised a lot of people in the normal world to know that nearly all of the books at the time were written by Ickle-Bits deep within the concentration camp. Everything from medical guides to children’s stories is what we copied. Just as long as it made the Grimlars a bit of coin, it didn’t matter what the book was, or  how it was produced. The written word was becoming quite popular at the time.

Since I could now read what I was writing, I began to learn at a furious rate. I swallowed book after book like a sponge takes in water. Unbeknownst to the Grimlars, I was learning about places like “Ocean,” and I was learning about wars and creatures and horrible things that have happened and will probably happen again. Professor Wenchenberg had done this for me and for that I was always quite thankful.

One of the boys in the front raised his hand, signalling he was finished with his copy. The thin lipped elder beside him opened to a page of his copy at random and squinted at it with disdain. “There are smudges everywhere,” he informed the boy while slowly withdrawing a thick leather belt from his coat pocket. The boy’s earnest protest was silenced immediately after the crack of the whip that followed. My panic returned: this time asking me if I would scream when I died. I didn’t answer it and instead diverted my entire attention to what it was I was writing. Today, we were copying a book bound in black leather, with a remarkable looking reptile on the front of it. Winged, four legged, and coiled; the sleek figure of the beast almost seemed to move on its own. I flipped open the book and began to scrawl.

“Dragons are a fantastic species, known mostly for the strength of their physical bodies, their immense amounts of sorcery, and their outstanding intellect. If perfection of a life could ever be achieved, the dragons will have come closer than any other magical being or any other human for that matter.

One thing often underrated about dragons is their monarchy, of which scholars have studied for decades. The dragon pups, or “drakes” are hatched from their eggs after an extensive ten year incubation period, and are taught how to hunt and cook their own meat shortly after. Two-hundred years later when the drakes reach adulthood, They begin to compete for positions of power. Those who have mates already, tend to fight together, giving them a greater advantage than those who don’t. The dragons, or in some rare cases the one dragon who emerges victor will be crowned king or queen.

It is the responsibility of these dragon lords, to conduct battle plans against other dragon clans, or humans. In return, the members of the clan bring the king of the dragons a small share of their gold as compensation for the service. Gold is of value to humans due to it’s luster. For a dragon however, gold is their very life essence. A dragon who consumes lots of gold will essentially be immortal. It is for this reason that dragons hide their hoards and fight to the death to keep control over it.

Dragon kings and queens can exist as royalty for as long as a half milena, until they are eventually overpowered by a fierce drake. When this happens, the dragon takes his or her remaining gold, and flees, before going into an incredibly long hibernation period, anywhere from one to two hundred centuries. It is here after the dragon re-awakens that they are the most dangerous. We call these variations of dragons the “Corrupted kings.” The Corrupted kings at this point are exhausted of gold and incredibly strong. These dragons will rampage human towns in search of new gold, and will often times put humans to the brink of extinction.

When any adult dragon eventually dies, it’s magical energy is often the last thing that decomposes. Rhetorically, one can remove this essence, and drink it to greatly enhance their sorcery for the rest of their lives. The chance of survival though is slim. Those that do live the ordeal, become a part of the dragon itself. Those that drink, become an incredible breed of warriors, known as the Quenched, or those who have mastered the energy of the dragon.

             
I was just about to finish the book when suddenly the clang of a bell rang out through the cavern, signaling the end of the day’s work. The mass of Ickle-bits around me let loose with a unanimous sigh before quickly darting out of the room, leaving me to think about exams. Examinations this year would start at dusk, fortunately giving me enough time to see Professor Wenchenberg. As I slowly eased my way into his office and silently began to mill about, the professor eyed me carefully.

              “Do you want to talk?” he asked while trying not to look worried. I shook my head. “Do you want to talk strategy?” he tried a second time. I shrugged, and threw myself into a warm leather chair near the fire. Taking this as a yes, Professor Wenchenberg began to probe further. “Do you want to go over the rules of the examination?”

To be honest, I knew the rules off by heart, however I bobbed my head, thinking that the professor might know something that I didn’t. Professor Wenchenberg clasped his hands together, and began to review: “Trainees will start from various points, around the perimeter of The Forest, and try to make their way to the highest point called the Podium. You will be given a key and it is your job to carry your key from the start to the top of the podium where you will unlock a flag with your name on it. The flag carries an enchantment which will allow you to leave the forest. You must carry the flag all the way down the mountainside to the opening where you can leave. The flag will burn up after seven days, so seven days is all you get.” Professor Wenchenberg cocked his head to one side. “Anyone and everyone can survive if they only keep their wits about them.”

              The professor paused, and I swear I could almost see a hint of a smile playing on his shadowed face. “Let me be the last to tell you that surviving in the forest will be easily more difficult than anything you have done yet, not just by physical capability, but by mental. Hunger and thirst are just as much killers as are the beasts inside the forest.” He turned his gaze away and began to pace the room. “You will be confronted with detrimental amounts of stress. It seems impossible for an ickle-bit. Some would say you need outside help.”

              Professor Wenchenburg briskly shut the blinds behind him when something twisted painfully in my head. I hunched over and held my skull like it could tear apart at any moment. The room flashed a deep yellow colour but as quickly as it came, the migraine left. I shook my head a little and found myself staring in shock at the remaining light flooding
through the window panes
.

“Jacob, are you alright?” My eyes flickered around like tiny animals startled by the concerned voice. Professor Wenchenberg was standing next to me, looking worried and slightly curious. I nodded quickly.

“I’m sorry sir, I must have just drifted off.” I lifted my lips in a poor attempt to show positivity, however as I was stepping out of my seat, my foot slipped and I tumbled terribly to the floor.

              “Good gods Jacob! Get ahold of yourself,” Professor Wenchenberg exclaimed like this was a reasonable request. “You know just as well as I do that nerves before an exam is completely normal but this? This is too much.”

I stared at him deeply and balled my fists. “I don’t want to go,” I told him, holding back a sob. “I want to stay here and live with you.”

Professor Wenchenberg took a step back as if he was not expecting this. He wet his lips and considered his next few words very carefully. “You’re going to live,” he said calmly.

“But what if--”

“You’re going to live,” he repeated, holding up a hand to stop me from further interrupting.

I didn’t question him. I only nodded in reluctant agreement and shuffled out of the room. I slowly walked beside professor Wenchenberg and through the dirty Clog of the camp. The bunkers soon vanished out of sight, followed by the School as the lumbering wall of the forest approached us in ominous greeting. I was stopped by an official looking elder, whose tightly woven moustache whiskers suggested a large amount of maintenance. He glanced at his scroll, smirking as he did so.