Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four

They set out to the mines early the next morning, with the thin light of dusk creeping through the mist. Joe’s nights in the wasteland offered only broken sleep but in the warm safety of Petraya’s home he slept deeply. He woke to hear food spitting in a pan and soon they were eating a piled breakfast of fat yolked eggs, peppery beans and tough toasted bread. After breakfast Kinga sat alone and practised her chants, twisting her fingers into a repeated pattern of shapes, Petraya whispering words in her ear. Reece, thankfully in one of his brighter moods, sat with his back to the hut, practising his control of Majia. He was probably hiding it from Petraya. He practised for a while before bed, but after the third time of losing control and scattering her books and baskets across the floor, she banned him from continuing. Joe went over to see how he was getting on and Reece hunched up, glancing over his shoulder at Joe with a guilty look on his face. He stuffed his hand in his pocket, probably stashing some bread for their journey. Petraya would have let him have it if he’d asked, but Reece was used to fighting for leftovers; mealtimes in the Shipley household were a battlefield.

For a while Joe felt better than he had in days and managed part of the journey unaided, though soon the familiar ache woke in his muscles. Kinga walked beside him, repeating strange movements with her hands and chanting in a whisper to hold her Majia inside. It was working; barely a flicker of the power could be seen on her skin. Reece trailed behind, making hand shapes of his own and copying her words until she whirled round and chased him into the mist. It was strange to see her happy. She didn’t laugh out loud of course, that would be ridiculous, but she was definitely sniping and cursing less. Reece caught them up again once she gave up the chase, but she glanced round at him and Joe caught a flicker of a smile on her face. He coughed, stumbling a little, and immediately she was at his side, offering him support. Reece snorted behind them but he ignored him.

Their journey through the cold swamps was uneventful and Petraya blew her horn to keep their path clear. If Maven’s wound was bothering him he showed no sign, though he did complain he had run out of crisps and was down to his last bar of chocolate. Joe would have asked them to stop more often than he did, but the thought of reaching his father gave strength to his legs. He could sense hope in the group again as they neared their destination. When they finally decided to rest for a while, Maven was ecstatic to have found a hidden bag of Monster Munch in the lining of his coat. He sat on a twisting thick root curving up out of the ground and shared them with Reece.

“If Joe gives the power to the King, will he be able to win?” Reece asked. Kinga gave a derisory snort,

“King not control it like Joe. Joe has better chance.” Joe let his gaze drop to the floor. He didn’t want this argument again.

“No-one achieves anything without believing they can,” Maven said. Reece grinned at him,

“Now that sounded like a wizard. Say something else.” Maven pinched him and he squealed, leaping up, “You really should grow a beard,” he said laughing. Even Kinga smirked. But Joe’s face was blank. Kinga was right. He was the only one who could control the Majiak. Maybe his father could win once the power was returned to him. But what if he couldn’t? What if Joe was Antigol’s only hope?

By midday Petraya told them they were close to the mines, and they pressed on, the world around them growing eerily quiet. The rotten smell faded, and the land became colder still. Leaves glistened with frost and thin crusts of ice drifted across the water. The mist thickened, though Petraya never lost her way, and by early afternoon the lakes had all but vanished.

A sudden cry overhead made them stop. Kinga pulled Joe into a crouch, eyes searching the trees, and a tiny shape fell from the sky, catching the leaves, until it hit ground with a soft thud. It was Avis, her tiny body crackling with Majia and thin curls of smoke rising from her burning feathers. Maven rushed over to the struggling bird, but there was nothing he could do to help and he cradled her in his hands until her body stopped moving.

“She came to warn us,” he said, “She must have seen something dangerous beyond the Wastelands. It’s the only reason she would do this.” Petraya turned her head, listening carefully,

“Stay here,” she said and slipped silently into the mist. Joe let himself fall to the ground, his face angry,

“I hate it here,” he said, “As soon as we find my father I want to get rid of this stupid power; I want to go home.” Kinga glared at him, looking much more like her old self. “Don’t you care she’s dead?” he said, “What’s wrong with you!” A dark shadow fell over her face,

“Died for you,” she said, “Died for all of us.” Joe shook his head and let out a frustrated moan,

“Everything dies here.” Kinga stalked over to him, the Majia clearly visible dancing across her hands and neck.

“Get bacon from trees at home? Grow hamburgers?” Joe’s body shook with anger,

“At least they die for food. She died for nothing. Why don’t you thank her and eat her too?”

Maven intervened, warning Kinga away with a look,

“She didn’t die for nothing Joe. She died to warn us. It was her choice.” He was right but it didn’t make Joe feel any better. Who would be next? Reece? Kinga? Maven?

“I should make a deal with Avarat. Give him the damn power if he wants it so much. I bet he’d leave Earth alone to get it.”

“He won’t,” Maven said, “Too many of his allies support him because they fear your world. You cannot trust him.”

“You’re always fighting!,” Joe said, “The letter said you’re always at war. Always killing each other. Maybe it would be better with one person in charge.” Maven was about to answer when Petraya came back from the swamps.

“Lower your voices,” she said, “The whole of Antigol can hear your noise!” Maven helped Joe to his feet, nodding at Reece to help him. Kinga fell behind them, glaring angrily and Petraya gave her a questioning look, but she turned away.

“What did you see?” Maven asked.

“I think you need to see it yourself,” she said.

They followed Petraya through the trees; Reece and Kinga supporting Joe, weaker than ever and hanging between them as if he were asleep. Eventually they stopped before a rise of rock jutting from the thinning vegetation into open sky. Copying Petraya, they dropped to their bellies and slid forward, emerging onto a precipice overlooking a wide valley of dry land. A few thorny roots snaked from the ground in places, but mostly the land was barren, save for a sparse scattering of weak grass. Majia broke from long cracks in the earth, flashing wildly before sinking back into the shadows and small fires flared where the dry brushwood was caught by the sparks.

Across the valley a wall of stark, white rock rose to the sky, shadows dancing across it as clouds drew over the pale sun. At the cliff’s base a jagged cave spilled mist like a dying breath, coiling across crumbled pillars and stone blocks scattered across the ground. Hundreds of grey vines bled from the lip of the cave, crisscrossing the white rock like veins, and sparkling with Majia.

Joe looked down and his stomach lurched. Across the barren ground before the cave massed an army of creatures. Three bone Wytches strode through the gathered forces letting out their horrible wails, eyes tracing the swampland’s edge and enormous spiders with horrible beast-like creatures on their backs, picked their way through the soldiers, long pincers clicking hungrily. A low wail made Joe flatten himself to the ground and a swarm of dragons passed overhead.

By the cave’s entrance two figures were talking. One of them he knew, Beil Flint, the Scavenger King, but the other was a stranger; a tall bald man, dressed in a long dark robe, with deep red scars across his scalp. Maven slipped back from rock’s edge and flipped over onto his back.

“Well,” he said briskly, “this should be interesting.”