Mt. Ohm - God Slayer - K. van Marshall (books recommended by bts txt) 📗

orange tattered jumpsuit barely covering his slim athletic frame - his abused pale blue skin pokes through the tears of his sprigger uniform; Zweek's normally vibrant blue skin had taken a grey tinge during his incarceration, a reaction to the lack of sunlight.  

 

His cell mates sleep scattered about, snoring, completely knackered from yesterday's trials. With a few thin scraps of material for beds - most are huddled together, desperate for warmth and comfort. However, for the guilt riddled Zweek, the sweet embrace of sleep never lasts long; the beasts will not allow him to rest in peace. Instead, he ponders the coming day, readying his mind for the struggles.

 

As usual, his mind rapidly wanders from thought to thought, racing, stressing and then finally slowing, and regaining inner peace - only to repeat the riot of processes over and over until satisfied, or forced to cease. It was a non-stop battle, and this morning was harder than most to quell the beast. The sight of Hector’s lifeless swinging body, and the recurring thoughts of Novus and Igo being tortured had kept him up all night.

 

I should have forced the rest to escape - more than half of Niisarm have died since entering this torture hole. Even if I was to survive, how can I face Novus. Then his mind briefly slipped back to better times, before they flew too close to the sun, before they were blinded by the damning light and crushed by the tremendous gravity.

 

At just 18 cycles I had the world my feet, but now look - dast brain. Zweek exhaled, today his mind was more unruly then usual, as if his subconscious had turned feral. I need to focus on surviving. Novus is fine, I know it. Zweek exhaled, then took in a deep breathe. Anyway, what will today be? Hopefully, anything but another decathlon - defo don’t want to deal with another water trial - sea creatures are scary... It was good seeing Xena and Stow, they ended the wet-trial exhausted, but alive - it was almost like old times.

 

Outside the cell, footsteps stomped loudly, as a heavy patrol of guards clattered down the corridor. Through the tiny hatch in the door, the dim flickering light grew brighter; more torches are lit.

 

This was the signal. Zweek stood and started stretching - a ritual he has picked-up since entering the Drill. It is best to be warmed up, having his body in peak condition could be the difference between life and death today. Standing to the side of the cell in his orange jumpsuit, the sleeves stop short just above his biceps, he holds his arms up over his head and starts spinning them like windmills - easily rotating each in the opposite direction to the other - after a few quick rotations he stops and starts moving each in the opposite direction; each time starting slowly before speeding up. He stops the odd stretch and keeps his arms held out in front of him. Looking up and down them, slowly analysing the scars scribbled along his skin; a few were from old battles, but the Drill has scratched on its fare share. Before he could continue his routine, the footsteps stopped outside the cell; the guards were much quicker today.

 

“Good-day sprigg's”, said a guard. Standing the other side of the door, he waits as another struggles to open the thick heavy metal door.

 

“Better get eatin, yahahahaha”, bellowed another guard by the cell opposite.

 

Mindful as always, Zweek immediately started to suspect something was up. The sadistic cheeriness of the guards was very peculiar. Before long, all the cells were open. Another sign something was off. It’s abnormal for all the inmates to be released at once. As a rule, only a few cell mates were ever authorized to leave together; a basic ploy to avoid revolts and riots. This change in routine made Zweek danger sense pang. It was like they were broadcasting that today would be much harder than any other.

 

Zweek was the first of his cell to step into the zombie filled corridor, and saw the third sign of strangeness. The hallway was flooded with dozy spriggers, and more then five times the usual amount of guards. With their cone hoods and metal boots the guards formed a forest of steel footed fools at the bottom of the stairs. Something was definitely up. Not the dozy spriggers, most woke like this, but the gaggle of guards; they were all stood around, laughing and joking. The only time Zweek has heard them laugh, was when dishing out punishment.

 

“Eat up spriggs”, ordered the head jailer, as he watched the spriggers spill from the cells. Stood in front of the only exit and entrance to this floor. There are many more floors with hundreds of more cells - all accessible from the stairway behind him. “You are going to need your strength”.

 

With the brief statement finished, all the guards turned and made a swift exit up the stairs, leaving the packed corridor to the inmates. Soon the complete silence was broken by a storm of conversations, every last sprigger realised the same thing as Zweek; something was up.

 

However the introvert Zweek - dove inwards. It is his way and what made him a key part of Niisarm. His ability to decipher, theorize the impossible. Zweek contemplates everything, from the meaning of the word meaning, to why certain birds migrate. Have the limits been released, if so the guards will be on killing. Or maybe survival of the fittest, no a battle royal. Zweek’s mind went into overdrive, while his body moved on instinct. Slipping through the sea of orange jumpsuits and guiding him up the stairs and through the door. The spiral stairway was full, although carved out of the earth and reinforced with stone slabs the sheer mass of spriggers threatened to buckle the narrow stairway inwards; it seemed every last sprigger in the Drill is currently making their way up. As Zweek shuffled along with a thousand other uncertain spriggers, he was certain of one thing; what came next would be the hardest test any of them had faced so far.

 

Since arriving in the Drill, the guards have only killed the most troublesome, majority have gotten away with a heavy beating. The sprigger’s are precious commodities after all, but sprigger’s that went too far usually didn’t survive. The worst crime is to try escaping - once caught the perpetrators are heinously and inhuemanly tortured in public. At least five failed escape attempts resulted in horrific shows - the scenes of burning and mutilation made most present instantly compliant. These soul churning scenes did nothing to sway Zweek, his plan was still in motion. Having everyone out together could only mean one thing, graduation day was here, and therefore time to escape.

 

For the past five months, Zweek had been developing a plan to take revenge on the Royal family of Youllo, it was all centred around the moment they were to be taken out through the main gates. A synchronized attack on the narrow bridge over the moat could give himself and the fellow captives a chance to break free of their grim situation. Zweek then hopes to follow up the daring escape with a straight assassination of the Prince and all royals; if done correctly they may even rescue Novus.

 

The plan is sketchy at best, but the only real plan we got, stewed Zweek. He hated not having contingencies, but without more knowledge of their surroundings, it would have to work. Three of the five caught and tortured for trying to escape, were those who had volunteered to search for information. Sadly, their sacrifices were for naught with none able to return or relay any useful information after their capture.

 

Having been in the underground prison for so long, Zweek had almost lost count of the days, almost. It had been 250 days, 5 months or half a year. Regardless, Zweek was itching to get a taste of fresh air, despite whatever he may have to go through, this made his anxiety rise. The air at the bottom of the Drill was forever stale and foul. A strong mix of excrement and vomit inducing body odour, and actual puke waft around constantly. Toilets are scarce or out of order; the toilet-pits were filled quickly within the first month. Oddly a faint damp smell crept around the Drill. Even more oddly, considering the first two smells, Zweek noticed the damp more than anything else; it was strange as the basement cells of the pits are bone dry. Not a bath or shower, just the shallow toilet holes.

 

All the unknowns continued to flood Zweek’s mind as he exited the stairway into the canteen. This rare communal breakfast had him doubting his plans effectiveness; they may not even reach the bridge with enough numbers.

 

If their planning a cull, that would be bad, thought Zweek. We need all the numbers we can get. Looking around Zweek began to look for and count trusted spriggers; only few were down to rebel. Walking among the crowd he counted at least 12 he could rely on. From a previous count, including surviving spriggers, he estimated a total of 40. Broken by the physical trials and the over the top compliance lessons, most were already ready to die for their eventual master.  

 

While Zweek was counting, the line for food grew, others had obviously taken the head jailers warning very seriously. Having a full belly is also important, thought Zweek, as he rubbed his sunken gut and the scars running across perfectly shaped abdominal muscles; the life threatening the trials have given him to a new level of strength.

 

Scanning the breakfast line, Zweek looked to the front for someone that would allow him to cut the fast growing line. Luckily, he spots Stow near the front of the cue and heads towards him. Stow stands out awkwardly, as he towers over the rest of the line - his big frame was a beacon amongst the average sized spriggers. Zweek side shuffled down the line, excusing himself as he went along. Most in the camp had grown to respect Zweek, and nod politely as he passes. He has saved many lives during their time together. His reputation, speed of thought and fair leadership have made him a popular figure amongst majority of spriggers.

 

Stow stood oblivious to the quickly approaching Zweek. This disgusting nutrient filled gruel, he originally refused to eat - has now become a necessity for him. He even has two bowls in hand, and is known to come back for seconds. Stow is a huge lump of a man and needs every bit of food he can get. Bald, with no visible neck, his head resembles a rock on top of a boulder - trunk sized arms and even stockier legs support his massive build; he definitely needs all the sustenance he can get. His usual azure skin has been replaced by dim, dull, dingy blue; these months have taken a huge toll on him both mentally and physically.

 

Zweek got to Stow's shoulder as silent as a ninja. But before he could launch his surprise attack, a warm hand clasps around his wrist.

 

“No pushing!”, shouted a stern, but familiar voice. Instantly a sunshine like warmth filled Zweek’s heart as he turned to see Xena’s smiling face.

 

“Did - didn’t think we would get to meet again so soon”, beamed Zweek.

 

“Me too, what d’you thinks going on?”.

 

Before he could explain his theory, Stow turned abruptly and gestured for them to join the cue - behind him, obviously. Laughing the two join the line where instructed. After collecting their diarrhoea inducing grolscho, they found an empty spot away from prying ears. Others slowly joined the subtle meeting. Before long the group around the trio of Niisarm grew to over a dozen people. Everyone gathered, linked by their urge and will to fight for freedom. They all knew the lifespan of a Sprigger was short and once