74. Hungry Hungry Zacko

  “Miss Serac, what’s hell like?”

  The cheerful question came from Petter Svensen, he of the pale-yellow face and dark-blue stripes around his head and neck (typed after a mackerel, as Serac had since learned). Presently, he skipped ahead of the freshly ascended Wayfarers, as he led them deeper into a forest at the edge of town.

  “Uh, let’s see…” Serac tried to give her local guide his due attention, as was her nature. It didn’t come as naturally to her as usual, however, what with her empty stomach making its impatient demands. “Well, it’s certainly a lot hotter and a lot smellier. Not as much color, either. Mostly just black or different shades of red. I’m used to it, but it might come as a shock for anyone that grew up around so many… trees and rivers. Or is it one big tree and one big river? I’m still not too clear on how—”

  “It’s both, miss!” Petter declared happily, clearly delighted to be of use to the Wayfarers. “The one big Sanzu River flows down the one big Realmtree through its three strata. There’s Krongard—the Crown—at the top, with King Tyr and his palace. Stamgard—the Trunk—which is where we are, by the way, where the common folk live and ply their trades and whatnot. Then there’s Rotgard—the Roots—below us, which is where all the thieves and ne’er-do-wells wash up. I’ve never been myself, of course, and I’d also suggest you two to keep away, Miss Serac and Mr Zacko—”

  “Zacarias.”

  “—ahem, right. Mr Zacarias. Well, as I was saying, Miss Serac, it’s both. The Sanzu River breaks off into hundreds if not thousands of branches on its way down to the Netherpool. That’s what we call the collection of water at the bottom of the Realmtree—not that I’ve seen it myself. And the Realmtree itself is covered with its own vegetation—like the forest we’re in now.”

  Serac, who’d been side-eyeing Zacko since his earlier interruption, turned back to Petter at the end of his spiel.

  “This… Netherpool,” she said with some trepidation. “You say it’s at the very bottom of Pretjord? You wouldn’t know anything about it sucking Wayfarers in and spitting them back out a ways up the tree, would you?”

  “No, Miss!” Petter’s round eyes went even rounder. “As far as I’m aware, you two are the first Wayfarers to come up from Naraka in a hot minute. Even if the Netherpool really did what you describe, Miss, we Stammers wouldn’t have a clue about it. How could we?”

  “Alright, enough babbling about things you’ve no clue about,” Zacko cut in, irritation coarsening his every word. “How about you focus on your job, hey? You better not be leading us on a wild goose chase.”

  “A wild guppy chase? I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr Zacarias!”

  “Yeah, Zacko, what’s your problem?” Serac finally snapped, scowling at her partner. “You keep having a go at Petey when he’s been nothing but helpful! Did you wake up on the wrong side of the lotus or something?”

  “My problem is I haven’t had a proper meal in—oh, what is it?—half a year now? And now this joke of a Realm expects me to eat for sustenance. If Fish Boy here really wants to help us out, maybe he could let us fillet and grill him? I’ve heard mackerels go really nice with salt and—”

  That was when Serac slapped Zacko, open-handed and right across his face.

  [24!]

  The Manusya reeled, but only for a moment before he snapped upright and let out a seething snarl. He glared back at his assailant, wild-eyed. The open aggression that emanated from Zacko now surprised Serac even more than the fact she’d slapped him in the first place.

  Such was the ferocity of a NINEFOLD master’s rage that, for a brief Ksana, Serac was nearly cowed into submission. But she gritted her teeth and stood her ground, sensing that neither of them were feeling nor acting like their normal selves.

  “Enough!” Her shout echoed into the forest. “Not another word out of you unless it’s an apology to Petey! Something’s off about you, and maybe it’s this [Hunger] messing with your head, but that’s no excuse to be a giant asshole!”

  Zacko stopped his seething then, but his expression didn’t soften one bit. As the Wayfarers squared off for an angry staring contest, it was their local guide who broke the stalemate.

  “If… if it’s any help, Mr Zacarias,” Petter spoke timidly, bereft of his earlier cheer, “I should still have some rabbit jerky on me. I was saving it for dinner, but you… you could probably do with the topping up more than me.”

  Petter rummaged around inside his linen tunic before pulling out a tightly held fist. He then unfurled it to reveal grayish, stringy morsels of an unidentifiable meat product.

  It was a truly pitiful sight. Not even a hell bumpkin on an empty stomach could find it appetizing. Yet, judging from Petter’s wistful gaze, he was clearly parting with something precious to him.

  Zacko stared at the sadness jerky for a second or two, then let out a deep sigh. With it, the tension in the air deflated in an instant.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Keep your dinner, Pete,” he spoke in a low, defeated mumble, “and I’m sorry for the awful things I said. Mama always scolded me for getting too cranky when I’m hungry. But Serac’s right, that’s no excuse for acting the way I did. Let’s just… get this thing over with so we can all go eat.”

  Petter looked to Serac as if for confirmation. She gave it with a strained smile and a curt nod. The mackerel man didn’t seem to mind her brusque manners, however, as he smiled from earhole to earhole and stuffed the jerky back inside his tunic.

  “Of course, Mr Zacarias! Come on, follow me. We shouldn’t be too far now.”

  With that, he turned and bounded into a pine thicket, hopping over the gnarly undergrowth as if it wasn’t there. Serac and Zacko, weakened and distracted by [Hunger], followed at a somewhat sluggish pace.

  The Wayfarers were—for the lack of a better word—on a quest.

  It’d been assigned to them by none other than the erstwhile whiskered man, a catfish-typed Yaksha called Palmr Jorgensen. Large, bossy, and more than a little haughty, he’d been the one to take charge of the ‘welcoming committee’ and help the Wayfarers get their initial bearings.

  Despite Palmr’s minimalist answers and borderline derisive attitude, Serac managed to learn a lot from him. Like, for example, that the water in which she’d nearly drowned was the main body of the Sanzu River that flowed through the heart of Stamgard. That she and Zacko had landed in the middle of the Town Market, complete with a Hubstation and busy with townspeople shopping for food.

  Food, as it turned out, was the name of the game here in Pretjord. The way Palmr told it, all souls in this Realm—Wayfaring, Anchored, Aberrant, or otherwise—were subject to [Hunger] and its endlessly draining hourglass. Pretjordians didn’t eat or drink for pleasure (though it certainly couldn’t hurt for the food to taste good); they did it for survival—pure and simple.

  When the Wayfarers became aware of their own [Satiety] gauge (a creamy orange bar that also ticked down rather than up), Serac’s was already down to its last third, which certainly explained the rumbling of her stomach. Zacko had it even worse, with only about a tenth of his bar left, which explained (but didn’t excuse!) his foul mood.

  The locals had tried to offer a possible reason for the stark difference—something about body types, biological differences, and ‘basal metabolic rates’. It was all a bit too jargony for Serac’s hell bumpkin head, but she did understand the important part, which was that both she and Zacko needed to eat—and they needed to do it soon.

  “Don’t be absurd, Wayfarer!” Palmr Jorgensen’s whiskers had billowed with laughter when Serac asked if the townspeople might spare a little of their food, just to tide things over. “There are no handouts here! We Stamgardians take pride in the bartering traditions the great King Tyr has upheld for centuries. Do not presume yourselves and your precious Path to be above the law of the land. You will earn your keep like everyone else… and indeed, I’ve just the task in mind to get you started.”

  The ‘task’ pointed them into the nearby Hevnerskog, a pine forest home to all manner of wildlife—including Aberrants that fed on Yaksha flesh, among other assorted delicacies. The Wayfarers were to exterminate a pack of the Aberrants that had recently taken residence, and in exchange, they were promised a hearty meal upon their return.

  Palmr, being the meticulous business-catfish that he was, also demanded that the Wayfarers bring along (and protect) a ‘witness’ who’d corroborate their smiting. Petter the mackerel was the only (but highly eager) volunteer, and—after a moment’s sneering consideration—Palmr okayed the arrangement.

  That was how the unlikely trio ended up wading into the forest together—Petter with his skips and hops, and the Wayfarers with their trudging steps weighed down by [Hunger]. And it was only after several more minutes of silent marching that Serac suddenly thought to ask what now seemed like an obvious question.

  “Hey, wait a second,” she wrung out her words, strained by fatigue, “I get that this [Hunger] thing is a big deal. But… what actually happens to us if we just don’t eat? Like, say I let this orange bar run down… then what?”

  “Don’t know anything about no orange bar, Miss Serac, though that does sound delicious! All I can tell you is if I don’t eat, then I starve, and if I starve for too long, then I’d be as cooked as the jerky in my pocket.”

  “Okay, does that mean, like, death? Turning into Souldust? Have you seen anyone ‘starve for too long’, Petey?”

  Petter stopped in his tracks and looked back at Serac, suddenly dead serious.

  “Oh, yes, Miss,” he spoke in a hushed murmur, “I’ve seen it, alright. And it ain’t pretty, I’ll tell you that for free.”

  Serac frowned at this, still not quite comprehending. That was when the voice in her head stepped in to supplement the discussion.

  “Do you remember, Wayfarer, what the Manusya once said, back when First Hope was still called Last Sorrow?” Trippy spoke in his measured monotone. “That every Realm contains a certain theme that dominates the collective consciousness of its resident souls. In Naraka, it was the idea of penitence. Here in Pretjord, the ‘theme’ is arguably even simpler, it being—”

  “Hunger,” Serac stated the obvious, then added, “Are you trying to say that the effects of [Hunger] on Pretjordians would be similar to how Narakites were shaped and influenced by penitence? But then, that would mean…”

  The mention of ‘Last Sorrow’ took Serac back—back to a time before the Hopers had anything to hope for. She remembered their dire ‘prayer’ circles and their self-inflicted torture. Pazu bashing his head in until his horns shattered—and if he were left alone, he would’ve kept destroying himself until…

  Serac gasped as realization dawned.

  “Frenzy,” it was Zacko who voiced the answer, having come to the same understanding. “This joke of a Realm can’t be satisfied just starving us to death. They have to turn us into zombies instead! Just wonderful. I don’t think I’d ever want to leave.”

  Serac’s brow furrowed with genuine concern as she eyed her companion. Even now, the Manusya had a kind of faraway look to him as he swayed in place, looking very much vulnerable despite his sturdy frame. How much time did he have left? How much time before—

  “Enough!” Serac tried to keep her voice steady. “Not another word out of you unless it’s to celebrate our victory. Petey, lead the way, and hurry. Let’s get this thing over with so we can all go eat.”

  Patreon |

  STAT SHEETS: