This short story has a rating of T.
It may not be appropriate for very young readers.
Open Office 2.0 has been used for its composition.

Disclaimer – Makai Kingdom is, like several TBRPGs, the property of the good people at Nippon Ichi Software. The story itself is the property of the Samuraiter and may not be posted at any web site but his private web page and FFN without his permission. This fanfic has not been posted for gain or profit in any way, shape, or form. Special thanks to NIS America for bringing Makai Kingdom, in all of its light-hearted weirdness, to North America.

I Abibde / The Samuraiter Presents
A Sankakukei Studio Production
Of A Giftfic For Heavenly Pearl
Formatted For FFN

Makai Kingdom:
Dross
Part 1 / 7

It had been three years since there had been any reports of banditry on the roads linking Marlberg and Prierport, and Marko had thought that those reports had been little more than stories made up by the constables to scare the citizenry into good behavior. From where he was sitting, though, it was obvious that every lie contained a grain of truth, and he found himself cursing the constables in his head for being right. In turn, he blamed himself for his complacency, but it was too late for that to make any difference.

His wagon, one of four in his small caravan, had been turned on its side and set afire, and the smell of smoke was thick in his nostrils, but he did not have the strength to move a single muscle. As it was, he was only sitting up because that was how he had collapsed, and he could still feel the hard wood of what had been the bed of his wagon at his back. He was curious as to what had become of his fellow merchants, but he could not turn his head to see what was happening, and all sound was swiftly becoming a dull roar in his ears, dominated by the crackling of the fire that was surrounding him.

There had been pain, but it had disappeared after a little while. Marko was aware that he had been shot full of arrows, and, through a reddish haze, he could see the long shafts protruding from his chest, but they no longer hurt, and the immediacy of his situation was starting to recede from the front of his mind as his concentration gradually failed him. His thoughts started to wander as his field of vision faded from red to black and all sound tapered off into silence. The panic of being shot changed to complete exhaustion and a resignation to the fact that he was powerless to do anything at all.

Marko thought, briefly, of his companions in the caravan, one merchant to each wagon, one assistant and two guardsmen to each merchant, as the standards of the guild had directed. They had all been good friends to him, and he had been a part of at least seventy-two caravans in which they had played a role. His assistant, Peter, popular in the guild for sharp eyes and a quick wit, had been the one to spot the bandits among the trees to one side of the main road, and he had bought a little time for the caravan with his life, calling out to Marko to crack the reins as the arrows pierced his body.

Young Peter had once invited Marko and his wife to dinner at the small house he shared with one of his many brothers in Marlberg. The main course had been ham, and the meat had been very juicy. There had been cold beer, too, and that had set Peter, his face flushed, to discussing his plans for the day on which he was promoted. He was to have bought a house for himself alone, as well as a white horse and birthday presents for his whole family. That had been a very good dinner, one full of positive memories.

Marko recalled the face of his wife, Lisabeth, as it had been at that dinner, apple-like cheeks, eyes like dark chocolates, all framed by light brown curls, the gray of her years barely touching her roots. She had been laughing at the jokes that Peter had been cracking between different facets of his plans, not caring that she had already listened to them many times. Indeed, she had always been quick to laugh, quick to smile. That had endeared her to Marko in the youth that they had once shared, and he found himself drifting towards those days, the best of a life that had spanned forty-three years.

He smelled the bread that his mother used to bake for the picnics that he and Lisabeth enjoyed, and his ears warmed to the tune that she always hummed as she busied herself at her clay oven, his father whistling along outside as he beat old rugs against the side of his home to win his ongoing war against dirt and dust. The name of that village – Salado – rested on the tip of his tongue, though he could not force it past his lips. He and Lisabeth had grown up there, blessed by the rustic values of the countryside.

A chill passed through his bones as he thought of how his wife had never been able to bear a child. The guild doctor, one of the best friends that the couple had in the world, had blamed the series of miscarriages on a defect in her womb, and he was certainly able to offer that diagnosis on good authority, but Marko felt guilt in his heart. He had a strong belief in the gods, and he felt that they always had their eyes on their children. The gods, then, had seen his weakness, and, for that, they had denied him the right to bring a baby into the world. That had gnawed at him for most of his life, yet, as he revisited his life in its entirety, that gnawing became devouring.

One caravan had gone to the borders of the kingdom, and it had been away from Marlberg for a very long time. Marko, dispirited at a hard argument that he had with Lisabeth prior to his departure, had found himself in the care of a young woman, a maid at the inn where he was staying. He had instantly regretted his decision, yet that did not change the fact it had been his decision, and it stayed with him, a black stain on his soul, smothering and indelible. His memory of Lisabeth vanished as he almost relived that night, his guilt filling him up, making him feel cold, as if the disapproving stares of the gods had the power to push all of the warmth out of his body.

The coldness had a certain finality to it, and Marko felt himself taking leave of both his body and his memory. For one second, he thought that he could see the stretch of road on which he and his caravan had been ambushed, four pillars of black smoke rising from what had been the four wagons, marking the blue depths of the sky as if a four-fingered hand had raked the heavens. Then, he found himself floating in blackness, unable to tell up from down, left from right. The face of his wife might have lingered at the edges of his vision, but, every time he tried to glance in her direction, she was gone, and he was left alone in place that seemed to be no place at all.

Stars then filled the void as if they were drops of water from a bottomless pitcher, and he drifted among them, lost in the vastness. Time seemed to pass very quickly while not passing at all, and he felt as though he was asleep, barely aware of his surroundings, barely aware of anything, save for the black stain of guilt, though, as he drifted, he started to forget why it was that he was guilty, who it was he had betrayed, if only once, in the course of his life. All of his memories melted together like many-colored ice.

In the midst of that limbo, everything came to a stop for a single instant, and Marko found himself face-to-face – if he had a face – with what seemed to be a very young woman, her long hair white as new snow, her large eyes the color of blood. She regarded him as if he was a painting, studying him, occasionally using one small, black-nailed hand to toy with a lock of her hair, revealing pointed ears, matched perfectly to the fangs that almost peeked over her thin lips. Stories had been told of monsters like her, and the fear that Marko had shed in death returned to him. He had a strong desire to escape from her, to move his limbs, but he could do nothing.

The child-like demon said, her voice strangely human and innocent, “Yes, this one'll do. It's fresh. He'll like that.” She reached out to touch him, and he did all that he could to raise his voice at her, to tell her to leave him be, but he had no mouth to open, no voice to raise, and he was unable to protest as she pushed on what used to be his chest. The stars all became lines as he fell down from where she was hovering, the void replaced by a sense that he was being pulled, rather than pushed, towards a new destination.

There was a hoarse voice, rasping as if it was metal scraping against stone: “Very well, Lord Zetta. Per your request, my wish is to confine a spirit in this sapling for the sake of increasing the rank-and-file. By you will, then, it shall be done.” Then, there was the sound of a quill pen scratching its way across paper, but every movement of that feather seemed to make everything lurch, as if the motion of a planet was attached to it. The scratching stopped, and that was when Marko knew, for certain, that he was in the power of another being. Instead of looking up at the child-like demon who had pushed him, he found himself looking downwards as his descent from above gained speed, the stars around him becoming a red sky.

A single tree, dying and almost leafless, was the focus of his attention, and he did not know why. He fell towards it, and its thin, crooked branches reached out to him, drawing him into the trunk of the tree, stretching his legs until the tips of his toes matched the ends of the roots. Discovering that he was able to move his limbs again, he reached for the heavens in a final attempt at requesting succor, but he only succeeded in stretching his arms until he felt his fingers at the tips of the branches. He bent double, and the tree bent with him, conforming itself to what used to be his body.

Unconsciousness claimed him for what felt like eternity, but, before he knew it, he was opening his eyes, taking the first breath of a new life, pins and needles prickling his extremities as feeling returned to them. Though he had felt himself being drawn into the sapling, he had the sense that it had reworked itself to become a new body for him. After all, he had feet, not roots, and he had hands, not branches. The ground on which he had come to a rest was not unlike a paved courtyard, slightly warm to the touch due to the hot, humid air around him, and he slowly rose to his feet.

What Marko beheld might have been the subject of a painting by a madman. He had been consigned to the depths of a castle of impossible size, and, all around him, monsters from his nightmares – two legs, four legs, all shapes, all sizes – were hard at work, some carrying wood and stone for buildings, some putting their hands to tools, some standing at attention with weapons too outlandish to have been made by mortal hands. From that crowd emerged a man, a human man, almost too old to have been truly alive, his beady, yellowed eyes boring into Marko from above a thick, white mustache as he brushed the dust of construction from his shabby, pinkish robes.

“I don't know what need we'll have of a sprout like you,” the old man said, his hoarse voice matching the one that Marko had heard during his descent, “but, for now, it's always good to have another warm body to throw to the wolves. Come, now! D'you see all the tools around you? Pick one up and get to work. There's plenty to be done!” That was all he had to say before he disappeared into the mob, growling orders at his underlings, many of whom responded to him with cursing, howling, and spitting.

Marko had many questions for the old man, but, apart from a hiss of shapeless air, no sound came out of his mouth, and it occurred to him that his new body might be very different from that which he longer had. He first looked at his hands, and he saw that they were but leather gloves stuffed with straw. His arms, in turn, were made of sawed-off wood, not unlike that which might be used in the frame of a house, though he found that he could bend and flex them as if they were real. Panic started to build as he saw that his legs were also wooden, while his feet were only old boots stuffed with dead leaves. He felt his heart beating, yet it was beating in a cage of squared wood, concealed only by a stuffed shirt and ragged pants.

Horror set in as he placed his hands on his new face, feeling the strange grooves of what was a very large head. It was a pumpkin, albeit one with two holes bored in it for his eyes and a stake through its bottom to attach it to the rest of his makeshift body. He wanted to scream, but he could not, as he had no mouth. As if sensing his discomfort, the old man resurfaced, handing him a shovel and giving him, from beneath heavy eyebrows, a look that might have been sympathetic had it not been accompanied by a simple statement that confirmed all of the fears that Marko had felt:

“It's the Netherworld, son. You'll get used to it.”

End, Part 1
To Be Continued