The Last Hope

[Author's Note: This is yet another "Yolun" story. Originally published in February of 2002 on my LiveJournal literary community, indiefiction. It was meant to be the introduction to a story about a young boy who goes on a mission to save his town, and quite possibly, the entire world.]

On the planet Yolun there existed a sad state of affairs. The Magician Vonne's Doom Machine had made the terrain a desolate wasteland that could hardly sustain the indigenous life forms present, and could not keep this sustenance going for much longer. The Lokut had carved the life off of a fraction of the planet. Their ravenous appetites had cleared out entire small colonies. The curse keeping Ronk at bay vanished, and he awoke to reign terror once again, practically unstoppable.
In his palace in the secluded uncharted area of Yolun, Yolu, the essence of the world, sat on his throne and watched the happenings slowly drain the life of his world, and eventually him.

"Three points. All detrimental. What can I do but nothing?"

A lone tear streaked across his blue face, and struck the floor.

***

A small village, somewhat untouched by the three plagues, stood along a riverside. A small boy was fetching water from the river. He carted it back to a small cabin. Inside the cabin, an old man was hunched over an old tome. As he read, he would occasionally jot things into another book with his quill.

"Grandfather, I got the water today."

"Thank you, lad."

"Have you seen mother? I would like to ask if I may go out and play today."

"She is at the marketplace, right now. We needed more items, apparently."

"Grandfather," said the boy, glancing at a new volume on the shelf, "What is that?"

"That one?" said the grandfather, pointing, "That's a manifestation novel. It was given to me by a dearly departed friend. May his soul rest."

"What does it do?"

"It writes a story based on the wishes and desires of the carrier. It is still fairly new, and has much story left in it. It is but a trinket in these sad days. I suppose you may have it when you come of age."

"Thank you, Grandfather. I am going to find mother now."

"All right, boy."

***

As he walked towards the marketplace, the boy thought about the way of life. Was it always this way? We live in constant desolation, but was there ever a high life? Were we always in fear of the plagues? Was there a time before them?

He spotted his mother. She was examining the sparse selection of fruit. He ran up to her, and wrapped his arms around her waste.

The fruit vendor looked at the boy and said, jokingly, "Another suitor, Kani?"

"I believe this one already belongs to me, thanks." She said, smiling. She then looked at her son, still smiling, "Shen, are you done doing chores for your grandfather?"

"Yes mother, I just wondered if I could play today."

"Well, it has been calm for a while now. I suppose you may, just do not stray too far."

"Thank you, mother." said Shen as he ran back up to the house.

***

A cluster of horses rested on the edge of a wasteland. Several men stood among the horses. They all were covered in rags, typical of any group of desert marauders. One, the apparent leader, spied through a telescope at some of the nearby edge towns. He located and edge town that was ripe for the plucking. They would strike at dawn. He spread the plan to all of his herd. They would eat soon.

***

The sun set, and came back to the opposite horizon shortly afterwards. The first fruits were brought out into the market to be sold. As one keeper set up his shop, he peered across towards the wasteland. He saw a smoke cloud rising in the distance.

His mind raced quickly. Where had he heard things like this before. He recalled the newest rumor. Then he recalled the implications if this new rumor were true, and were happening to his village today. Quickly he shouted.

"The Lokut!" He hollered. "The Lokut!"

The town was in uproar. They saw the dust clouds, and suspected the worse. All ran for cover, but soon they were overtaken. The raiding marauders conquered with sword and bow. After sufficient raping and pillaging had occurred, the looting began.

One man stumbled out of his fallen shop hut. He was fairly wounded, but managed to stagger up to the leader. He bore a small knife, but bore it with all his heart. He tried to stab the leader, but the leader was too swift, and quickly stopped the man's hand from causing damage.

He took the knife from the man's hand, and pressed it to his throat. Grinning down on him, he sneered. "The last man to sneak up on me wasn't as lucky. He's still alive."

"Before you kill me," the man wheezed, "Please tell me who you are."

"I am not the Lokut, as you people might have suspected. They call me Azra."

"May you rot in the flames, Azra." cursed the man, as he spat his last upon the face of his killer.

Azra drew the knife across his throat, and drained the man of his life.

"Be sure to save a spot for me there, old man."

As the man bled his last, a bald man with an eye patch came up behind Azra.

"I had mercy this time, Belk."

The man just grunted, then surveyed the collateral damage, exposing a deep scar across his throat.

***

Meanwhile, the Lokut were busy ravaging a distant forest.