CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Talas returned the tome to his waist, basking in the aftermath of Atlazar's power. Kaligan, in particular, was unable to wrestle his eyes from leatherbound aboration. Witnessing its metamorphosis at the hands of its master was incomprehensible. Mere moments earlier it had been a handful of tattered sheets, now transformed into a beautifully tailored tome, the light of its golden spine tinted pink by the crimson velvet that enveloped the cover. Although obscured by the Pirate-King's arm, the emblem was unmistakable; a skull over crossed blades. The symbol that had ushered in the birth of piracy had returned to witness its victory.
Observing him in the flesh was surreal, a legend torn from the pages of a fable walked amongst them. The swift defeat of the Admirals was seconded to marveling at his appearance, a mythological aura swelling in his wake.
He knelt over the still white-hot remains of Volka, grabbing what little there was of his disciple and pulling him close. Smoldering metal hissed as it met Talas’s embrace. His touch extinguished the embers so that his friend could finally rest. Khan stared longingly. His brother was finally where he had always dreamt of being, in the arms of his King. Knowing he would never taste the sweet nectar of their victory weighed heavy on a heart that had long stopped beating.
Talas stood and handed the body to Khan.
“We will honor him once our work here is done. All who breathe will know his name and deeds.” Talas said mournfully, placing a hand on the android's shoulder.
“What you both became, what you sacrificed in my name will not go unrewarded.” As he lifted his hand, the metallic shell of Khan’s body tore away to reveal a layer of fresh skin beneath. Khan trembled as the carapace peeled back. The machinery retreated, chased by a blossoming tide of flesh. In moments, he was returned to the body of his birth. Khan was human once again.
His fingers glanced over his cheeks and nose, gently brushing across his lips and through his hair. Tears fell from sandy-colored eyes, guilty for reveling in pleasure his brother so longed for but would never be permitted to savor. The other Lords stared in amazement. His olive skin was contrasted by long dark hair, slicked back to show thick sideburns that met in a drooping mustache. Narrow eyes with a feline sharpness stared back at them, riddled with sadness. The Lords -- having never met either of the Cybel before their Transference -- had only ever known the brothers as androids. Seeing Khan as flesh and blood was almost as striking as watching the miracle itself. They had expected their King to be beyond their understanding, but what they had witnessed was the impossible.
“My king, your Lords await your command.” With the grinding cadence of internal machinery removed, Khan spoke with an old colonial accent, foreign to this sector of the galaxy. He knelt before his King and, without hesitation, unsheathed an ankle blade. Gripping it tightly in both hands, he bore its tip into the palm of his hand and began to carve two crossed lines, eager to demonstrate his loyalty in the most visceral manner imaginable. Malig was amused by the display, ardently plotting ways to worm into good favor with his King. Eternity would be a long time to spend anywhere other than the top, and his peers would be acceptable collateral to his ascent.
“Thane, leaving so soon?” Talas spoke with his back turned to the fleeing pair. Ranna froze in place, Soran’s arm in the tight grip of his blood-stained hands. The hunters pivoted to face the gathering, accepting their escape attempt had been at best, unlikely. Talas was upon them before they could even move. The pair were swallowed by his mighty shadow. As it descended, the intricately woven fabric pooled at his feet, miniature daggers patterning the surface.
The very presence of the man had Ranna drenched in fear, rivulets of cold sweat pouring from his brow. After witnessing the dispiteous dispatch of the Admirals, he was petrified. Looking down at the bleak, hopeless gaze of the young boy beside him, he knew the burden of courage would be his to bear.
“Let the boy walk, he's not involved in this,” Ranna said, unaware of how he managed to coax the defiant words; clenching his fists to preclude the terror from exhibiting itself too openly.
“How mistaken you are Thane. Young Soran here is most certainly involved. He will assist us on our journey to Elyssia. A more pivotal role there is not.” The deep rasp of his voice stained his convictions with certainty.
“I’ll never help you!” Soran yelled. Immediately, he was set upon by Ranna, the Captain's hand clasped firmly over his mouth. Ranna was stunned by the boy's brazen outburst. Soran's naive rebellion was met with a chorus of laughter from the Lords, Talas himself contributing a chuckle of pity. Despite the sneers, Soran refused to accept the futility of his situation. Jeers of mockery filled the air as the pirates celebrated their victory, eager to exact their revenge on the traitor in their midst. Ranna had accepted his fate. Striking a bargain with nothing on the table was a position of unenviable misfortune.
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“Let’s show the boy to his new quarters. His assistance will require some persuasion.” Khan acted upon the command immediately. Ranna attempted to shield the boy but was thrown to the ground with little effort, his body still weak from his ordeal. Soran was hoisted from the ground by the scruff of his neck, trashing around in a desperate panic. Despite being returned to his biological form, Khan was a formidable man. Tempered through years of strife, he wore a thick skin that might as well have been steel. He tossed the boy into the now empty glass cylinder and the dormant restraints sprang to life. The mechanized hydra clasped his extremities and pulled tight around his waist. The sudden binding winded him and he gasped fiercely to reclaim his stolen breath. The Lords gathered around with a morbid curiosity, eager to witness the imprisonment process for themselves. Ranna was held back by Malig and Neraka, knifes at his throat as they forced him to watch. Soran's eyes darted around, desperately looking for a way out but distracted by the encroaching tubes. He tilted his head to avoid their intrusion but to no avail. Coated in a gelatinous film of sterilizing gels, the black tendrils forced their way into his body. His nose and mouth were overtaken by the invasive metal vipers, burrowing deep into his lungs and filling them with rich oxygen. An anesthetic mist settled in his skull. The chemicals made quick work of narcotizing his brain and a nauseating serenity took over. Talas produced a silken handkerchief from his breast pocket. He approached the boy and tied it tightly over his eyes, plunging Soran into a world devoid of light. All he could do now was listen as Talas spoke the final words he would ever hear.
“Sarchogoroth." He whispered the name quickly, scared the word would burn his mouth if it lingered for too long. “A vile name for a vile contraption. Thought within its confines, you are the one to fear. The punishment it will inflict upon you will be of your own design, that which disturbs you the most. Those buried fears will be exhumed and will set upon you with a ferocity most unpleasant. It's that tribulation you will be doomed to endure. Endlessly relived until it finally breaks you. And you can believe me when I say that it will break you. Only then, when death is a sweet melody that you long to hear, will you be ready to impose my will. Prepared for a task only you and those like you are destined to fulfill.”
As his terrible sentence was handed down, liquefied fear poured from the boy's eyes. Tears fell over his cheeks and onto the cold metal bindings that crushed him into ceaseless suffocation. A viscous liquid crawled down his esophagus, filling his stomach with a freezing substance. Violently, his body began to convulse. His eyes rolled back, plunging him into unconsciousness.
Soran had been condemned to roam the dark recesses of his mind, unable to quell the visions of misery that slithered below the surface of his subconscious. Cries for help, forever trapped in a mouth that was unable to scream.
Ranna’s face streamed with tears. The lump in his throat was immovable and the strength to fight back extinguished. Khan and Kaligan turned the wheels at either side of the chamber and the glass plating descended, returning to its sealed state. As they turned, the sand-filled gourd was maneuvered to the tank's summit where it proceeded to dispense its torrent of desert, burying Soran alive in a gravelly tomb. Ranna could imagine no crueler fate, cursing the name of whoever had constructed such a hideous contraption.
The final grain dropped from the gourd. Through the veil of motionless sands, not a shred of the boy remained visible. A silence fell upon the chamber. Talas pressed his hand against the glass, wondering if the boy would come out of the ordeal with enough wherewithal to be of any use. He had been spared the horrors of the Sarchogoroth. Reading aloud from Atlazar had allowed him to store his essence within Volka before his unfortunate capture, the tome's obscure power granting its wielder peculiar abilities that were beyond explanation. Soran would have no such reprieve and the full extent of the machine's cruelties would be unleashed upon him.
Khan stepped forward and took a knee.
“Galneus awaits you in orbit, my King.” As his subordinate spoke, Talas’s face was illuminated with relief.
“I imagined her destroyed. She sails?” He asked expectantly.
“She sails my King.” The pride in his voice unmistakable.
Before taking his leave, Talas took one last look at the chamber, a final goodbye to the place he imagined would be his tomb.
As they retreated, the whirring of machinery quieted, the holo-screens dimmed, and the lights turned themselves out; stillness was left in their wake. The distant roar of the churning magma below the only disruption to complete silence. The sand in the tank drifted ever so slightly with each twinge of the boy's body. The visions had begun.