The Fight

Underland and the Forehidden Kingdom, Chapter 29

Underland and the Forehidden Kingdom is a serialised, young adult, fantasy novel about an overconfident bookworm who finds himself in a parallel world where words are weapons, ideologies form fortresses, and intelligence without integrity may just cost you everything. If you’re new here, you can start from the beginning or check out the index.

RECAP: The Millionth and Fifth take it in turns to teach Keon about Gifts, Sanctions and Forging. He learns that Sanctions are special, temporary empowerments given by the King that work via obedience, and that Kai, Dawit and Jonas possess the gifts of discernment, patience and hospitality. These manifest as double-sight, invulnerability, and healing. When Keon asks about combat and how they learn to fight, Zahara tells him that they learn by sparring.

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“You want me to fight you?” said Keon.

Zahara paced around him, stalking like she was ready to pounce.

“Why, you scared?” she said with a mischievous grin.

“Did you forget how we met?” he replied, cocky.

“You never said you won.”

“Nah, but seriously. What if one of us gets hurt?”

She pursed her lips, head bobbing.

“Oh, we will. But that’s why he’s here,” she said, nodding to Jonas. “His gift is generosity. His presence has a healing effect on all those around him.”

“For real?” Keon said, turning to Jonas. He shrugged and nodded.

“Wounds inflicted by forged weapons leave an imprint on your heart. Whatever’s written on the weapon gets copied into your Codex,” she continued.

“No way…” he clutched his upper arm, fingering the tear where Aslan’s sword had sliced through. So that’s what that was. “What happens if you’re cut by a Moonlamp?”

“Without treatment, what you believe could be corrupted,” she said.

He nodded in thought. The Scribe had healed him using a leaf from the trees on the Empyrean. That feeling, when Aslan had sliced his arm, it was like a foreign thought infecting his mind. Everything you think you know is a lie; far be it from him to have an heir. The words held no power now, but he remembered them.

“Alright,” he said. “So, we gonna do this? I need to learn quick, so don’t go easy on me.”

“You’re in good hands,” she said with a wink.

She swung the satchel round, pulled a page from her Codex, and forged a sword.

He was still too slow. Fingers fumbling for the strap, he twisted into a roll to avoid a downward swing of her sword. He bent backwards, narrowly missing a deadly backhanded swipe, but lost his balance. Crap! He needed to make an opening, to give himself enough time to forge. She was really good. Not as fast as Aslan, but good.

Rather than regain his balance, he allowed himself to spin into a crouch and swept her feet out from under her. She landed hard on her backside, and instantly he felt bad.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” She said.

“Sorry,” he chuckled.

That brief reprieve was all he needed. Yanking on the harness, he pulled the Codex out of the satchel, flicked through to Knowledge, and ripped out the earmarked page. This time, he wouldn’t use what he’d stolen from Shem. He’d do it properly. The problem? Zahara was already back on her feet, and he’d barely even started.

“Don’t trust in yourself!”

She spin-kicked his hands apart and sliced the paper in half, then spun and twisted into an overhead slash. The blade cut through his forearm, right where the bracers exposed his flesh. He clasped the back of his arm as a needle of pain shot down his wrist. It wasn’t deep. Just a scratch. Not only was Zahara fast, she was precise; timing and aiming her strikes so as to inflict pain but not deeply wound. It had barely begun to bleed when the cut appeared to dry up. The pain faded to a dull ache. He looked up in shock at Jonas, leaning against a tree with his arms folded.

“See what I mean?” said Zahara.

“Whoa…”

Jonas signed something from his perch against the tree.

“What’s he saying?” asked Keon.

“He said to try it again and watch what happens.”

They backed off a few paces from each other. Zahara tossed the sword she’d forged to the ground. Was she starting from scratch?

“You ready?” she said.

“Eh,” he shrugged.

She flicked her Codex open, tore a page and forged. He peeled his open, ripped out a page and fumbled it. Too damn slow! She charged ahead, feet pounding the ground, and swung the sword in a downward arc. Instinctively, he turned his back, pivoting on his foot. The paper still in his hand, he kicked out, catching Zahara in her rear. She stumbled but quickly regained her balance. Then came the backswing. He leaned back again, but not as far. This was it! He’d done it! Stretching out his arm, he braced his wrist to flick—and she spin-kicked his hands apart, knocking the small origami sword out of his grasp. Crap! What now? Then he saw it. Behind her. The sword she’d tossed aside.

She was coming in for the overhead swipe. He dived into a roll, grabbed the sword, and spun on his heel just as she reached him. Her blade caught in the middle of his. With a grunt, he shoved her back, spun and twisted into an overhead slash. The blade cut through her forearm, right where the bracers exposed her flesh.

“Oh my days!” he said, instinctively dropping the sword.

She tackled him, clasped the sword mid-fall, and held it about an inch from his neck.

“That was good,” she huffed, “but you let your guard down.”

He didn’t even care. All he saw were her eyes staring back at him. This was it. This was the moment. What moment, he wasn’t sure; but whatever it was, this was it. Should he say something? Should he do something? Were her eyes drawing nearer or had he hit his head? Were they always this wide? Or bright? This was way too long. He was taking too long. But Jonas was watching!

Zahara blinked and withdrew, smoothing her clothes as though scraping off dirt. She cleared her throat and held the blade behind her back, bouncing on her heels.

“Um, how was that?” she said to Jonas.

The two sat perched on the edges of two stone seats. More like boulders really. Keon smiled to himself, thinking about the last time they were sat like this. The familiar smells of Wellworn’s out-of-this-world cooking wafted over the air. The others were making a ruckus waiting for the Feast. Well, Kai, Dawit and Shem were making a ruckus. Jonas stood silent (obviously) observing. Avana wasn’t bothering to get involved, her focus instead on Asya. Keon was glad. She was getting a much warmer reception than he ever did. But hey, she’d already proven herself by abandoning her whole family to join them.

He looked down at the gap between him and Zahara, a gap that had slowly but steadily grown smaller, their pinky fingers but a few centimetres away. Another reason to smile to himself.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, suddenly, staring at her feet.

“Yeah!” he squealed, then cleared his throat, “Ahem! Yeaah.”

Did that sound too sleazy?

“How come I don’t remember you?”

His brow knotted.

“How do you mean?”

“Like, at school. I don’t ever remember seeing you.”

He smirked.

“I mean, you are a bit older than me…”

“Keon,” she said. “We’re in the same year.”

He gaped; eyebrows raised in shock. She smiled to herself and shrugged a shoulder.

Feet slowly swinging beneath him, he weighed his next words carefully. He closed his eyes, breathing in then out through his nose.

“I ain’t always been at McClintons,” he said.

She turned to him.

“Were you expelled?” she said with a roguish grin.

“Nah.”

“You moved?”

“Not exactly,” he said, shrugging his eyebrows.

“Well, that’s cryptic.”

He kissed his teeth.

“It’s not something I like to talk about…”

She peered at him with concern. Waiting.

“I was homeschooled,” he said.

“Oh!” she blinked, “Sorry?”

His shoulders shook with laughter.

“Naaah, it’s not that…I was homeschooled. Past tense. Before I came to McClintons. Until a year and a half ago.”

“Oh…”

He bit his lip, wincing.

“I have to tell you something…about me…about why I was in detention.”

She shuffled in her seat, inching ever closer with intrigue.

“Ok.”

“It ain’t like…a good thing. I ain’t a good guy…”

“I mean, if it was good, you wouldn’t have been in detention…” she said, brows raised.

He shook his head.

“I just…I don’t want you to think I’m some cool guy ‘cause I know how to fight, and…”

“Keon…”

Her hand covered his—and it was electric. She was looking in his eyes again. He had to breathe through his nose because his breath felt like it was catching in his throat. If he said something, he would literally croak.

“…I don’t think you’re a cool guy,” she said.

“Wait, what?”

“I actually think you’re a bit of a neek,” she continued.

“Hey!”

“You know all this random stuff no one has any business knowing!” she chuckled, throwing her hands in the air.

“My heart,” he said, gripping his chest in jest.

She placed her hand gently back on his.

“But I feel safe when I’m around you…and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.”

He scanned her face, mouth dry and brows bunching.

“Zahara…why don’t you feel safe? What about Wellworn? Don’t you feel safe around Wellworn?”

“That’s different, it’s like…” she licked her lips. “I don’t have anyone—back home—who’ll look out for me like that.”

Keon frowned again, shifting in misunderstanding.

“But I thought—don’t you live with your parents? Your dad?”

She rolled her eyes in mockery, huffing.

“You have a good dad, Keon…Not everyone has a good dad.”

He blinked rapidly, looking away.

“Had.”

Zahara looked up, aghast. She turned to face him, her knee knocking against his thigh. He didn’t mind it. He wanted her close for what was coming next.

“Keon…what do you mean?”

“Like I said, I have something I need to tell you…”

Newham Hospital, London - Then

Keon sat slouched in one of the waiting areas inside the Oncology Ward, his legs outstretched as far as physics would allow. He overturned his phone between his fingers, again and again, blowing a hissing breath through pursed lips.

He tossed the phone upwards then snatched it from the air. This was so long. He didn’t want to do this. Better to get it over and done with though. Just rip off the band-aid. He tapped the smooth glass of his phone with his fingernails—then forced himself out of the chair, walking towards the door opposite.

He leant his ear against it, eyes closing, then knocked gently. The door handle was ice cold, even more so because his palms were hot and sweaty. With a final lurch of dread, he pushed the door open. Immediately the beeps flooded his senses, the brightness of the room making him wince.

The nurse on duty turned at the sound of the door opening, greeting him with a smile.

“Hey Keon,” she said, jovially. “I’ll give you two a few minutes.”

He forced a quick smile, shifting from side to side and waited for her to pass.

“Just buzz if you need anything,” she said.

The door closed behind her, and he stood rooted to the spot, staring at a random smudge on the otherwise glistening floor. His eyes lifted to the bed then dropped back down. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Laboured, wheezing breaths reached his ears. When Keon finally looked up, he clamped his eyes shut, a stuttered, heaving gasp rushing up his nose then out his mouth. He’d lost so much weight.

“Keon?”

He sniffed, wiped his face with the back of his blazer arm then sniffed again, blinking away any lingering tears.

“Hey Dad,” he whispered.

Dad shifted, slowly, in the bed; moving to push himself up. Keon moved swiftly to the bedside.

“Dad, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to, mate. I want to…It’s good to see you.”

Keon bit his lip again, unable to keep eye contact.

“I know I ain’t been in awhile,” he said.

“It’s alright. You’re ‘ere now.”

With that, his eyes met his dad’s. They were tired but bright, still glowing with a warmth Keon longed to bathe in.

“You know why I’m here though, init? She told you,” Keon said.

“I want you to tell me,” Dad rasped.

Keon stepped away, turning his back. He sighed at the ceiling.

“There’s this Dominican boy at school. Gabriel Reid. He was tryna get this year seven boy to shine his shoe. To lick it clean. Like, proper forcing his head down.”

“You what?” said Dad, shifting in his bed.

“He said it was for ‘reparations.’”

Dad closed his eyes, his chin dropping to his chest. He shook his head.

“So, you hit ‘im?”

“Nah, not yet,” Keon said. “I mean, I may have pushed him off a bit, but…I did what you always taught me, init. I tried talkin’”

“And?”

“He said some stuff I can’t repeat here,” he said, motioning to the room. “Told me to go find myself and called me a flossin’ mop-head…only he didn’t say ‘find’ or ‘flossin’”

“So, then you hit ‘im?”

“Nah Dad, come on…” he shuffled on the spot again, hesitant. “He goes, ‘You really gonna defend them against your own, bruv? Oh wait. You’re a half-breed init, so you only give half a crap.’…Only, he didn’t say ‘crap’” Keon paused, taking a deep breath. “He said, ‘If your dad was here, don’t think I wouldn’t get him to shine my shoes too.’”

Dad didn’t say anything. He just clamped his lips together and nodded, slowly.

“That’s when I hit him.”

“How many times?”

“Til I couldn’t feel anything…or they pulled me off. I dunno which.”

Dad sighed.

“What was I ‘sposed to do, Dad?” he shrugged.

“How many times is this now, Key?”

“Somebody needed to stop him!”

“Mum said you probably broke his nose, mate…you might’ve fractured his cheekbone…I don’t need you to do that for me. Throw away everything you’ve worked for…”

“Why?” he shrieked, his voice breaking, unable to hold the tears back any longer. “Why am I the only one willing to fight for you?!”

“Keon…come on…”

“Nah! I-i-i-it’s like you’ve just given up! You—you—you’re just letting it take you! I’m fighting, yeah, but I’m fighting ‘cause I want you to live!”

Dad shook his head, what was left of his voice cracking.

“Your fists can’t save me, mate.”

“Well, at least they can save your honour or…or something…!”

“You think that’s what I wanna leave behind? My honour?”

“It’s all I’m gonna have left! You’re leavin’ me! You’re not leavin’ me with anything else!”

“I’m not leavin’ you, Keon…”

“Well, you ain’t tryna stay!”

Dad eased himself up again.

“Are you sayin’ this is my fault?”

“Yeah I am!…You should’ve taken better care of yourself! You…maybe…maybe this wouldn’t have happened to you!…”

“Keon…I ran three miles a day. I ate a balanced diet. Sometimes these things just happen…”

“Well, they shouldn’t! Not to people like you! Take anyone! Anyone else! Take Gabriel Reid! Why you?!”

“Listen to me, Keon...I need you, mate. I need you to take care of your mum. To look out for your sister...”

“Nah Dad, that ain’t my job! That’s you! You’re meant to do that!...”

“Listen to me. Please, just listen to me…I know you’re in pain…I get that he was an absolute mug...that what he said feels unforgivable but holding on to that anger…that resentment. It’s like poison, Key…it’s not…there’s…you can’t just punish someone ‘cause you’re in pain…”

“Why not if it makes me feel better?”

“Was this about helping this kid…or makin’ yourself feel better?…We didn’t raise you to be this selfish. How can I go in peace, knowing this is how you’re carryin’ on?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Dad,” he said, flapping his arms. “Did you have somewhere else you’d rather be?”

“Don’t do that…You’re just making excuses…”

Keon scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Excuses for what?”

“For acting like a child…” Silence descended. “Is that what you are Keon? Is that what you wanna be? ‘Cause you can’t make ‘big man’ decisions and not have ‘big man’ consequences…”

Keon kissed his teeth and shook his head, walking away.

“Am I wrong?” said Dad.

Keon stopped.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Keon stood biting his lip, fists clenched so hard his nails dug into his skin. He was trembling from head to toe, a bottle-cork of turmoil ready to pop.

“Keon look at me,” Dad whispered.

He turned slowly. Reluctantly. The warmth in Dad’s eyes was still there, but they looked so dim.

“The last thing I wanna do…is leave you lot behind. It’s the last thing I want…but I’m tired, mate…” he huffed.

Keon sniffed.

“So, let me ask you…what do you want for me?”

Keon looked his dad over from head to toe. His eyebrows and curly brown hair had started to grow back, though he needed a shave. His skin looked thin and jaundiced.

“I just want you to be alright, Dad.”

Dad nodded, small vigorous nods.

“And I will be, mate…I will be…Better than you can imagine. ‘Cause this ain’t it. You know that, right?”

“Dad, stop…”

“When the Eighth Day dawns…it’ll all be brand new...”

Keon turned, wiped his eyes with his sleeve and walked to the door, hoisting his backpack on his shoulder. He slowed to a stop.

“What about us?...You’ll be ok, but what about us?”

The Eastern Monument - Now

“He’d never been sick before. Not even once. He was always so strong. Like… I always thought he was invincible. It’s just the way think that about your parents, init? You can’t imagine anything different. Then he got sick…and he was so weak. Always tired. And I just couldn’t bring myself to see it. I didn’t wanna see him that way…He’d be throwin’ up and…and I’d close my door so I wouldn’t hear it. He’d go chemo and I’d never go with him…Am I a bad son, Zahara?”

Keon turned to Zahara. Wait, was she even listening?

She was staring ahead into nothingness, every muscle on her face seemed to quiver. Her eyes flared; her jaw hung open. The beautiful olive tint of her skin seemed to drain away.

“Zahara?” he said.

She pushed herself off the rock making a beeline for where Wellworn was still cooking. Ragged breaths hissed from her body, her shoulders still and stiff.

“Zahara!”

Wellworn had his back to them, but when Zahara approached, he straightened as though sensing her presence. His shoulders seemed to sink. He put down the knife he’d been cutting with and set the onions aside.

“Zahara…” he breathed.

“His dad’s dyin’!” she exclaimed. Loud. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

Keon skidded to a halt a few paces behind her, glancing round at the others. They all looked to him, then to her. Avana was first to move, rushing over to Zahara. Asya’s hand rose to her mouth then dropped. Keon looked over his shoulder and their eyes met. He tore his gaze away, looking to the ground.

Wellworn turned, heavy as though his entire body had been turned to stone. His coffee-black eyes looked broken.

“Yes,” he said.

Zahara straightened, blinking away her disbelief.

“You’re not gonna do anything, are you?”

“Zahara…” he said, taking a step towards her as she took one back.

“So, you won’t save his dad…and you won’t get rid of mine?” she said, pained bewilderment marring her face.

Keon’s petrified gaze darted from Wellworn to Zahara. What did she mean? What the hell was happening?

Avana reached her, trying to grasp her hands as Zahara swatted them away.

“Zahara!”

“No! No! No! Don’t flippin’ touch me!”

She shoved Avana aside then wrung her fingers through her hair, wide eyes boring into the ground.

“Is that what you do?” she sneered, turning back to Wellworn, “You just sit there and watch?! Did you like it? WAS IT FUN?”

She pulled at her golden locks, wails wracking her body.

“Zahara, that’s enough,” said Shem, grabbing her right upper arm. She turned and glared up at him slowly.

“Don’t flippin’ touch me,” she hissed.

Whatever he saw in her eyes made him drop her arm and step back.

“Guys…” he said.

Then she turned. She turned to Keon, and he saw it for himself. Deep in her pupils. A flickering white light.

“I’m sorry, Keon,” she gasped, shaking her head. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Zahara,” said Wellworn, calm but pained. “I want you to consider what you are doing…”

“And you…” she said, her gaze pivoting round to face him. She closed her eyes, lips shut tight yet quivering. When she opened them, fresh glistening tears cut across her cheeks. “You don’t deserve my loyalty.”

Her fingers crawled over her shoulder, reaching for the back of her shawl.

“Zahara don’t!” yelled Avana, eyes wild and wide.

Kai and Dawit stood rooted to the ground. Asya beside Keon. Only Jonas moved. Running. Running for Zahara.

The embroidered King’s signet, sparkling in iridescent light, scrunched between her fingers—and she pulled.

“Underland has no King…!” she whispered.

A sickening rip tore through the silence—and hell followed close behind it.

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