Chapter Three

  Devoid of tumult or blinding eruption, the near-impenetrable barrier met its end as a pool of boiling decay. An odorous puddle of liquid metal oozed out over the blackened sandy ground, devoured by hungry fissures bore deep into the earth. Nuqxug stood back from his work. The Ngangrul wore a satisfied smile, the slits of its mouth vibrating behind the mask.

  Consumed in a stagnant haze thickening for the better part of a decade, silence dominated the nighted chamber. Locked to all except the Pirate King himself, slumbering security consoles watched impassively at the sanctum’s invasion. Haunted was a word of which his race had no conception, but the foul aura the Accran felt as he peered within the cell was that of lingering death, of mournful souls still trapped within the sepulchral dome.

  "Saith, time to earn your keep." Said Sheng-Vei, hesitant to pass the ghoulish threshold. The sentient cloud activated the extraction vents that ran along its spine, exiting the confines of the suit in plumes of glistening steam. Slithering through the torrid air, it ventured within the vast array of computing equipment that busied the sloping walls. Fusing its essence with circuitry, the Holo-screens blinked to life, displaying a waterfall of coded instructions that jolted the inanimate functions of the prison to life. It was the work of moments before a dim azure light filled the area, bathing everything in its clinical radiance and revealing the hideous contraption that clung to the rear wall.

  The letters engraved above the sand-locked chamber filled all present with a sadness they could not describe. Sarchogoroth, a word imbued with the endless torment it was forged to inflict. Although the culmination of an arduous and unforgiving journey, the Accran backed away from the vile cage like an animal would a hunter's trap, instinct begging him to flee.

  Sheng-Vei pressed his palm against the chamber, examining the grains of misery that shrouded whatever pour soul they entombed.

  "I pray what we find inside is merciful, for I see regret in our future." He said backing away.

  A grinding of archaic gears shrieked from within the walls, signaling the activation of the cogs that flanked the chamber. The Accran stared at the spoked wheel, hesitation curdling into a novel phobia, a terror-bordering darkness he feared would consume him. Seven years inside a glass tomb would do unthinkable things to a man's soul. Untold shards of desert compacting your body into nothing more than a suffering machine with death a distant dream, the single ember of hope that somehow your body would fail, freeing your mind from the tormenting sands. In spite of his disabling fear, he had to know.

  The Accran grabbed the ivory spokes of the right cog, and Sheng took the left. With a labored push, the spoked wheel shed a layer of rust and began churning, initiating the chain links' rise. A trickle of sand escaped the faucet at the base of the chamber. As the pair endured their toil, that trickle matured into a torrent of shimmering grains. Through the transparent panels underfoot, they watched the gourd greedily swallow the offering. As the sands escaped, a figure emerged inside the chamber. The Accran averted his eyes, churning the great cog with all the strength he could muster.

  Thud.

  The chain clicked into place. With the ravenous gourd satiated, it flopped onto its back, spilling its contents onto a scale. Accepting the payment with glee, the scale sank, granting the glass boundary permission to rise and reveal its unfortunate occupant. Still refusing to look, the Accran kept his hands fixed to the ivory spoke, a glue of apprehension welding him to the machine.

  "This is… unexpected," Sheng-Vei commented. His tone conveyed no fear or disgust, just the confused intrigue of a man witnessing the bizarre.

  With hesitant steps, the Accran approached Sheng, stealing a glance from the corner of his eyes. Unexpected was indeed the word.

  The chamber was a fountain of fungal life — a mossy cocoon punctured by tendrils of black tubing. Tiny roots wrapped their green fingers around electrical wires, climbing the walls to the chamber's heights. Spores floated free, and the scent of a dew-speckled forest battled with the sulfur from the churning magma below.

  All this time, he had expected to confront a nightmare, a vision so heinous he would fall dead at its sight. But here, something beautiful had bloomed, a cradle of flora protecting something precious to the Accran.

  He reached forward, running his oily fingers through the moss and over the tops of toadstools. Suddenly, in reaction to his probing, the emerald barrier erupted in a plume of spores, rising in a pungent cloud before escaping through the ceiling vents.

  Sheng and the Accran hovered over what remained. Clutched in the fetal position lay the prize they sought. The face that had occupied the Accran's dreams for the last seven cycles looked up. Hidden behind curtains of auburn curls and sunken into the emaciated hollows of a prisoner, relief permeated a pair of mottled brown eyes. In a panic-stricken spasm, the young man pawed at his face, his atrophied limbs desperate to remove the tubes from his nose and throat. The Accran grabbed the ribbed tendrils, gently extracting them from the panicked man. As the tube slid from his throat, with it came a deluge of watery black vomit; the torment of his extended imprisonment ejected in an inky puddle. Gasping at the oxygen-poor atmosphere, his body shook violently, lungs struggling to adjust to the change. The Accran pulled a breathing mask from his belt, strapping it to a newly bearded face. With his suit a tattered ruin and hair an unruly mass of wild curls, the prisoner appeared a hermit, an unpleasant odor completing the ensemble. The young man struggled to keep his eyes ajar. Having been abstracted from his senses for so long, it would take time to acclimatize to the world of the living.

  "I hope he was worth it," said Sheng-Vei, examining the spindly, malnourished prisoner with a dispassionate eye. "Our agreement remains incomplete. Remember your end of the bargain." He stood up, eager to remove himself and his crew from the presence of the Sarchogoroth. With two taps on the main computer terminal, he summoned Saith. Emerging as a violet mist, it spiraled back into its suit. The glassy, humanoid shell rose to its feet, once again coruscating with the vital energy within.

  The bearded young man reached out an arm, running his shivering fingers over the shimmering skin of the Accran's face.

  "Tugg," He whispered in a single, raspy breath. His lips attempted a smile but lacked the strength to convey his feelings. Soran pulled his gaze down to his clasped fist. Unfurling his deconditioned fingers, he revealed the source of the verdant shelter. A small bean with a sprout poking from one end sat in the center of his shaking palm.

  "They saved me." The words creaked from Soran's timeworn throat, wonder woven through the pain. Though Tugg had no idea who they were or exactly what the unassuming vegetable had saved his young friend from, Soran's seemingly intact sanity dissolved the guilt he harbored over his delayed rescue.

  Seven years ago, Tugg lingered on death’s edge until a band of scavenging pirates circumvented his demise. Dragged from that perishing dungeon and sold into slavery, He Hesitated to brand his rescue as luck.

  For all those cycles he had lived with the knowledge that his crew were dead and the end of all things lurked in the not-too-distant future. That was until he met Sheng-Vei. Freed from captivity, his new Captain welcomed Tugg into his crew. It was then he learned of the Golgotha. Sheng knew everything. He told tales of the Awakened boy entombed within the confines of the Sarchogoroth, of the Vrell girl enslaved to the Pirate-Lord Neraka, and of the once revered Captain Ranna, outed as the Trickster-Lord Marick Thane, kept on a leash in the highest tower of the Fallonark. Though they had not perished in the culmination of the great work, each member of the Horizon crew had endured their own personal death at the hands of the Pirate King and his minions. Now, dwelling in a hell from which there was no escape, their only hope was rescue. On his life, Tugg refused to let that hope die.

  Tugg lifted Soran to his feet. The young man's legs quaked in an attempt to support his weight, though in his malnourished state, unattended traversal remained impossible. Tugg placed Soran over his shoulder with a delicate heave and departed the cursed cell. Before he could free them of the chamber, Tugg felt an odd pressure building behind him. Soran's glare burned with an inferno of hatred. Staring directly at the Sarchogoroth, his palms were placed an inch apart, his fingertips barely touching. He was whispering something under his breath. What started as a creak grew in volume until a thunderous crunch echoed throughout the dome. The sound blasted them with a shock wave, almost removing Tugg from his feet. As if crushed by the hands of a god, the Sarchogoroth crumpled in on itself. Wires, glass, and metal fused in a sparking ruin, falling into the yawning abyss below.

  The ruinous affair was over as fast as it had begun. Soran's hands rumbled with crackling energy, heat waves passing between his palms. Drained and exhausted, his body fell limp, draped over the shoulder of the awestruck Accran.

  Whatever the Awakened were, the display had been more volatile than any weapon Tugg had ever seen. Something had changed within him, and Tugg feared it was a change for the worst.