Immortal Darkness: Shadow Across the Land (13 page)

After a pause, the human replied, “Well—we’re
going to tell Carpla about this so he’ll pick you up.” After
another pause did he make depart from the saddened griffin.

As the sound of the human’s footsteps slowly
faded into silence, Molar realized now just what kind of a place he
was in.
What? A prison? I don’t belong in this pit of thieves
and murderers! Who thought this was a good idea?

Molar looked to his left, and then took a
look to his right. All around him were creatures who were accused
of either rebellion or withholding a corrupted mind. To his
surprise, most of the prisoners surrounding him were regular
Mocranians instead of former slaves.

Many of the Mocranian prisoners locked up in
this cruel place acted as if they hadn’t eaten in days. The slaves
here, however, didn’t give off such a thin appearance as did the
ones outside of the prison. Such a sight confused Molar.
Why
aren’t the slaves as sad as the Mocranians?

While many prisoners mourned for their
freedom, there were very few who would risk their lives to escape
from the jail. The human prisoners would often reach their hands in
between the bars of the cells to reach the outside of their cells
to grab hold of whoever was walking through the prison hallway.

After glancing at the many prisoners
surrounding him, Molar started thinking of what Carpla would think
of him when he heard the words concerning his arrest. What worried
him more was what his own grandfather would have thought of the
recent acts he had done. It hurt Molar merely thinking about such
consequences.

I may as well finish myself!
Molar
whined through his mind.
If I had kept my beak shut, none of
this would have ever happened!

Had he been made of flesh rather than
strictly bone, tears would have streamed from Molar’s two eagle
eyes. Before breathing in the scent this prison had to offer, Molar
held a belief—a belief that the rest of his life would come by
easily. Before the first day he ventured from his home, not a
single soul had ever questioned him. After all this, what was there
to question now with him named a Mocranian traitor?

While Molar remained locked in this tiny
cell, an idea came into his mind. He remembered having learned an
old trick from his grandfather when he was still a flightless
griffin. Such was a trick he hoped would help him escape

Guessing the ground beneath his paws was made
of tin, Molar pecked at the ground repeatedly—finally until he
received a large enough sample. He then tried sticking his piece of
tin into the keyhole while carefully scratching around the rock’s
edges, gradually making it fit through the hole. As he carved the
edges of his tin rock, Molar constantly looked over his own
shoulders, hoping to ensure his work was hidden from the other
prisoners who had wanted out for the first time in what seemed to
them to be millennia.

Some of Molar’s nails grew filthy in the
process of trying to make a shape just perfect for the keyhole.
Over and over again did he try to stick his tin into the keyhole,
but only to find failure’s face brought upon him almost every time.
It was rather hard for him to get a good grip on his stone, as he
would often have to stand on his hind legs, carefully slip his paws
through the bars while having a loop he had created on one of his
nails, and sway the stone enough for its teeth to make their way
into the keyhole.

Molar would often poke his beak through an
opening between two bars when he needed to see the keyhole. Such a
task proved tedious with the fact that his head was just the right
size where it would barely squeeze through the bars. Oftentimes
would he find two bars’ metal grasps squeezing up against his beak,
causing irritation to cloud his head.

--

Days and days had passed since Molar started
working on his tin project. All he had to eat were terrible-tasting
sardines—but it was all worth it when he found his project nearing
its completion.

Although it had taken many long days of hard
work, Molar soon found a perfectly-shaped key in his paws.
At
last
, a voice echoed in his head.
It’s time for me to get
out of here.

With another quick look over his own
shoulders, Molar made extra precautions—the purpose of which to
ensure everybody around him was either sleeping or unconscious.
Upon confirming this occurrence, he made an attempt at poking the
key into the hole—but was stopped when a completely unexpected
shadow stood over him.

Slowly, Molar’s head tilted upwards to notice
the tall figure of his father standing in front of his cell.
Oh
no!
he thought, shuddering in fear.

Judging by the way Carpla gripped his sword,
Molar was able to tell his wanted to give his son a great
punishment not only for becoming a traitor to Mocrano, but for
also
trying to escape from a prison. Molar felt as if he
lost count of all the rules he’d broken in the course of these past
few days.

As the sight of Carpla came into his eyes,
Molar stammered, “H-hi father.”
Please don’t hurt me! I can’t
stand any more punishment!

Carpla shook his head when he mumbled, “You
disgrace me.”

Pondering these words, Molar took a shameful
look down at his paws. Thoughts of

his father spread through his mind—along with
thoughts of his father being on the correct side of their conflict.
What if he’s been right this whole time; what if I really
am
a disgrace?

As his father started a talk with the human
prison-guard, Molar began to think of how much his life had turned
upside-down in a matter of days. He could only imagine how much his
life would have changed—had a year gone by.

Remorse still pounding in the depths of his
head, Molar overheard Carpla speaking to the prison-guard. They
were both on the subject of whether or not he should have been
given a fair trial.

“Are you sure?” Molar heard the human mumble.
“Because with him being your son and all—I think you should give
him a trial at the least.”

“I’m still thinking about it, though,”
responded Carpla.

Molar couldn’t believe what he was hearing!
His father was actually contemplating on whether or not to give him
a fair trial! Who within reach of the world would even need to
think about protecting their child? Even at his young age, Molar
knew very well
that
was his father’s duty.

While aware of Molar’s youth, Carpla had
never expected something so unpredictable to pass from his beak—so
undeniable as to think the slaves didn’t deserve their laborious
torment. As much foolery Carpla believed his son withheld, he gave
Molar a chance by having Yofel give him a trial. “I’ll let him have
his own trial—and my father will be the judge.”

As Molar heard these words of mercy, he
heaved a great sigh of relief. He wished to thank
somebody—anybody—for this miraculous moment. His short moment of
peace ended when the startling sound of heavy footsteps echoed into
his head.

“Okay Molar—Carpla is going to let you out so
you can have a trial in three days,” snorted the prison-guard as he
unlocked the barred door—the very same door in which Molar had done
so much work on trying to open, but only to fail in the end. The
door creaking, yowls of jealousy spilled out from of the other
prisoners’ mouths and beaks—extending all throughout the
prison.

The prisoners’ begging came to an end when
the prison guard’s hoarse voice sounded through the small land of
anguish, “Shut up!” Just as the command sounded, however, Molar and
Carpla were already on their way to the prison’s exit.

As they exited the prison, Molar began to
come up with an idea to regain his father’s respect. His plan
seemed a very simple and classic to anybody with common sense.
Maybe if I act like the
perfect little griffin
, my father
will appreciate me!

Hope flaring in his head, Molar placed a
smile on his face as he kept a safe distance away from his father.
As the father and son made their way to their castle in the sand,
Molar kept his beak sealed, ensuring he would not say anything
wrong. Even the utterance of a single word, he feared, could spill
a blow from Carpla’s sword.

Unfortunately, Molar’s plan quickly proved a
failure. No concerns of misfortune occurred through their trip at
all, giving him no reason to speak out or even
defend
his
father. And with the silence between the two, not a single spark of
sympathy could have possibly lit up in Carpla’s mind.

--

Once at their castle, Carpla carried Molar up
to a room at the top floor of the castle—just to lock his son up
once again. Unfortunately for Carpla, he only had two sets of
shackles for his son—which meant he had to move to drastic
measures.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Molar wondered as
Carpla lifted his blade up from the ground. Without a moment’s
worth of hesitation, the father swung his sword down and lopped off
the son’s two rear feet.

Feeling his own feet retract from the rest of
his body, Molar released a great howl of pain. Never before had he
screeched as loud as he had at that moment—and for a good reason.
While completely unaware, Molar’s screams ended up causing a crack
in one of Carpla’s glass-based artifacts.

As Molar’s screams came to their end, Carpla
hastily placed his son in shackles. Now with two sets of
shackles—one per each of Molar’s remaining feet—Carpla explained
through a growl, “I’m going to keep you here. If I hear so much as
the tiniest creak of either the door or any of the windows opening,
I will personally put you back in the prison.”

A look of both fear and anger spreading out
on his face, Molar watched as his father left the room leaving the
door wide open. All the while did Molar desperately try to keep his
cries of anguish under control.
I can’t believe that—that—I
hate
my father! And he hates me too!

With the trial being held in only three days,
Molar begged himself to do the best he could to prove his innocence
to Mocrano and his father. Now in the midst of this prison of a
room, Molar grimly thought,
I hope grandfather doesn’t cut my
head off!

If he wanted to win this trial, Molar had to
receive help before he became executed; he needed somebody to put
his feet back on the ground. There was only one problem: who on
Mocrano would ever help him in his current state? It seemed as if
all the help he could have received was either taken away from him
or burned into a pile of ash.

For the longest time now, Molar hadn’t done
anything but insipidly hang from the duo of shackles. At many
points during this time would his screams of anger release
themselves throughout the castle.
Okay,
he would always tell
himself after a series of screams,
just be thankful that father
had the mercy to let me have a trial!

Although Molar agreed that his father was
very merciful to give him a trial, he still thought it was unfair
for the Mocranians to have ever put a griffin of his age in a
prison. Having much youth surging through his bones, he had never
before been to a trial. He had never been sure on how a trial would
work, no matter what his action had been.

The only thing Molar knew about trials was
how they gave Mocranians a second chance if they had done something
wrong. Of course, slaves never had the chance to a fair trial—as
they were simply thrown into a prison once they had made a mistake.
At least that was what Molar had heard.

A storm of thoughts concerning facts of what
he could say at the trial in his defense buzzed through his mind.
Although many of these ideas seemed to prove brilliant at first
thought, time gradually made him realize how foolish he had first
been.

When he came on the brink of finding a
perfect idea, he heard a small
tick
coming from outside.
Oh no,
Molar screamed silently.
I forgot!

Almost instantly, he jerked his head over to
the room’s window—only to see all three of his friends vandalizing
his father’s castle by scratching negative comments into the walls.
Shock and utter disbelief coursed through Molar’s mind at this
moment.
They were my friends one day—and now they want me
dead!

Fighting back all thoughts of resentment,
Molar asked of his former friends, “What are you all doing?”

“Don’t talk to us, you traitor!” called a
coarse voice.

For a split-second did Molar wonder who had
uttered these words. Where could they have possibly sprung from?
With further investigation was Molar able to discover these words
were expelled by none other than Mesd.

“We don’t want you here!” the usually mute
griffin called. “You call yourself a griffin? You call yourself a
Mocranian
? I’ve met hundreds of slaves who were more of a
Mocranian than you are, Molar!”

Even with chains holding him back, Molar held
enough view within his eyes to take sight of Mesd’s angered stare.
Such was a sight he thought he’d never come to witness within the
span of a hundred centuries.

Terribly injured and sick of all his torment,
Molar decided to rest for his trial day. If he were going to win
such an important decision over his life, than he would need to
think as well as he could. If he were going to think as well as he
could, he would need all the sleep he could receive. Completely
ignoring all the hatred from outside, he allowed his mind to drift
into listlessness.

Chapter VI

The Trial

As the next morning drew ever-nearer, Molar’s
fear for the outcome of his trial grew ever-stronger. It had been
exactly three days since his father had taken him from that
prison—three days since the beginning of his gradual demise.