This was it! Though not true footprints, I could see how a weary traveler—reaching this location—might mistake them for such. The invented story of the Survivor himself—bleeding from his spear wound and stopping here to drink—made sense.
The place was accoutred with koloss tattoo designs traced on the rocks and had their leatherwork wrapping some of the tree trunks. This was obviously a holy place for them, which explained both the reason I had never heard of this oasis, and the reason men had vanished in this area. Any who stumbled across this spot were murdered for having witnessed what they should not.
What did it say for my future that they had brought me here?*
There were more koloss here, of course. Some were so ancient that they had burst their skin completely; these sat wrapped in leather to contain the slow seeping of blood from their flesh. If you have never seen a koloss ancient, consider yourself lucky. Their immensity of size is only matched by the strangeness of their features, lacking noses or lips, their eyes bulging from faces of red flesh. Most koloss die of heart attacks before reaching this state. These would continue to grow, even after losing their skin, until that fate claimed them.
In ancient times, ones such as these would be killed. In modern days, however, elderly koloss are revered—or so I had learned, but only through stories.† I suspect that the locations where all tribes keep their elders are as holy as this one.
My guards deposited me before the ancients. I climbed to my knees, wary.
“You have come,” said one of the ancients.
“You are not human,” another said.
“You have bested our leader and killed all challengers,” said the third.
“What will you do with me?” I demanded, forcing myself to my feet. Sodden and dazed though I was, I would meet my fate head-on.*
“You will be killed,” one said.
“It will be according to the will of the daughter of the one who challenged you,” said another.
“You must join us,” said another.
“Join you?” I demanded. “How?”
“All koloss were once human,” said one of the ancients.
I had heard such statements before. And, dear readers, I realize that I disparaged them to you. I considered them silly and fanciful.
It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I was wrong. So very wrong. I have since learned the terrible truth. The ancients are right.
Koloss are people.
The process is terrible. To initiate a man into their ranks, they take him and pin him with small spikes of metal. This creates a mystical transformation, during which the man’s mind and identity are savagely weakened. In the end, the person becomes as dull and simple as the koloss.
Koloss are not born. Koloss are made. Their barbarity exists inside of all of us. Perhaps this was what dear Handerwym was trying to tell me.†
They said that I had to join them. Was this to be my final end? To live my life as a brute in a distant village, my mind lost?‡
“You spoke of the daughter of the one who challenged me,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Me,” said a soft, familiar voice.
I turned and found Elizandra Dramali emerging from behind some trees nearby. She no longer wore her dress, and instead was wrapped in leathers that only just covered up her most intimate parts. Indeed, a full description of her figure would be too shocking for my more sensitive readers, and so I will forbear.*
She still wore her spectacles, and her golden hair was pulled back into its customary tail, but her skin … her skin was now a shade of blue, such as I had never before seen.
Elizandra, fair Elizandra, was koloss-blooded.†
“This can’t be!” I exclaimed, staring at my beautiful Elizandra. The woman I had grown to love and cherish above all others. The woman who had somehow hidden her true nature from me all this time.
Elizandra was koloss-blooded.
I wish I did not have to write these words to you, my stalwart readers. But they are true, true as my poor heart bleeds. True as the ink on this page.
“Makeup,” Elizandra said, demure eyes downcast. “As you can see, the blue cast to my skin is light, compared to some koloss-blooded. Clever use of powders and gloves have allowed me to hide what I am.”
“But your mind!” I said, stepping toward her. “You think and have wit, unlike these beasts!”‡
I moved to reach toward her, but hesitated. Everything I knew about this woman was a lie. She was a monster. Not my fair, wonderful noblewoman, but a creature of the wilds, a murderer and a savage.
“Jak,” she said. “I am still me. I was born to koloss, but have not accepted the transformation. My mind is as keen as that of any human. Please, my dear one, see past this skin and look into my heart.”§
I could resist no longer. She might have lied, but she was still my Elizandra. I stepped into her embrace, and felt her sweet warmth in this time of confusion.
“You are in grave danger, loved one,” she whispered into my ear. “They will make you one of them.”
“Why?”
“You frightened away their chief,” Elizandra whispered. “And ruled the clan despite the challenges we provided. Finally, you killed their greatest champion. My mother.”
“The champion was a woman?” I asked.
“Of course. Didn’t you notice?”
I glanced at the gathered koloss, who wore loincloths, but generally no tops. If there was a way to distinguish the males from the females other than … ahem … peeking, I did not know it. In fact, I’d rather not have known that some of them were women. My crusty, wind-weathered cheeks did no longer often blush, for the things I’ve seen would rub your delicate minds raw. But if I’d been capable of a blush, I might have given one at that moment.
“I am sorry, then, for killing her,” I said, looking back to Elizandra, who still held me.
“She chose her own course in life,” Elizandra said. “And it was one of brutality and murder. I do not mourn her, but I will mourn you, should you be taken into their embrace, dear one. They speak of this being my will, but it is certainly not, though they will not listen to my protests.”*
“Why did they lock me away to die in that cavern?” I asked.
“It was a test,” Elizandra said. “A final challenge. They would have freed you after three days, if you had not escaped—but as you managed to, you have proven worthy to join their ranks and become their new chief in full. But to do so, you must undergo the transformation! You will lose most of your self, instead becoming one of them, a creature of instinct.”†
I had to escape, then. This fate would be worse than death—it would be a death of the mind. Though I have gained a great respect for the koloss savages,* I had no intention of ever joining them.
“You steered me here,” I realized, looking toward Elizandra. “Ever since we found you in these Roughs, you have been guiding me toward this tribe. You knew of this pool.”
“I suspected, from your descriptions of what you sought, this was the location of the treasure,” said my fairest one. “But I did not know for certain. I had never been to the holy pool. Jak … once they transform you, they plan to do the same to me, against my will. I have resisted this all of my life. I would not let them take my mind as a youth—I will not allow it now!”
“Enough talk!” said one of the elders. “You will be transformed!”
The other koloss began to clap in unison. One of the ancients reached out a trembling, bloody hand, holding in his palm a handful of small spikes.
“No!” I exclaimed. “There is no need! For I am already one of you!”
Elizandra’s hand tightened on my arm. “What?” she whispered.
“It is the only plan I can think of,” I whispered back. Then, more loudly, I proclaimed. “I am koloss!”
“Not possible,” said one of the ancients.
“You are not blue,” said another.
“You have not the way,” said the third.
“I slew your champion!” I declared. “What more proof do you need! Would an ordinary human be strong enough to do this?”
“Gun,” said one of the ancients. “It takes not strength to use the gun.”
Rust and Ruin! “Well then,” I declared, “I will prove it in a final test. For I will bring you the treasure of the Survivor!”
The koloss grew silent. Their clapping stopped.
“Not possible,” said one of the ancients. “Even strongest koloss have failed.”
“Then if I succeed, you will know I have told the truth,” I said to the beasts.
I was setting myself up for certain death. I wish I could tell you that bravery steered my lips that day, but it was truly just desperation. I spoke of the only thing that occurred to me, the only thing that would let me delay.
If the legends were true, then the treasure was hidden “opposite the sky, raised only by life itself.” Opposite the sky must mean at the bottom of the pool—so far down, I could not see it. I would have to dive in and recover the treasure.
“Not possible,” said another ancient.
“I will prove it possible!” I declared.
“Jak!” Elizandra said, hand on my arm. “You’re a fool!”
“A fool I might be,” I said, “but I will not let them take me to be a koloss.”
She pulled me to her, suddenly, and kissed me. Very little in life shocks me, dear readers, but that moment achieved the impossible. She had been so cold toward me at times that I was certain my affection would go unrequited.
But this kiss … this kiss! As deep as the pool beside us, as true as the Survivor’s own teachings. As powerful as a bullet in flight, and as incredible as a bull’s-eye at three hundred yards. The passion in it warmed me, casting off the chill of my sodden clothing and the fear of a trembling heart.
When she finished, metal flared to life inside of me. Though not an Allomancer, she’d poured some tin dust in her mouth, passing it to me in the kiss!
I pulled back, marveling. “You’re amazing,” I whispered.
“Well damn, Jak,” she whispered back. “You’ve finally gone and said something smart, for once.”*
The koloss started to clap again. I picked the largest rock I could carry, then—taking a deep breath—leaped into the pool and allowed the rock to pull me downward.
It was deep. Unfathomably deep.*
The darkness soon swallowed me. Dear readers, you must imagine this complete darkness, for I do not believe I can do it justice. To be consumed by the blackness is itself a remarkable experience, but to be in the waters as light flees … there is something incredibly horrifying about such an experience. Even my steel nerves gave way to trembling as my descent continued.
A terrible pain struck my ears, though whether this was from my wound, I know not. I dropped for what seemed like forever, until my lungs were burning, my mind growing numb. I nearly let go of my rock.
I could not think. My wound threatened to overwhelm me, and though I could not see, I knew that my vision was growing cloudy. My body was failing me as I plummeted toward unconsciousness. I knew that I would die in these unseen depths.
At that moment, I thought of Elizandra being turned into a koloss, losing the beautiful wit that so charmed me. This thought gave me strength, and I flared my tin.
Flared tin brings clarity of mind, as I have said before. I have never welcomed it as much as I did then; those moments of lucidity forced away the shadow upon my mind.
I felt the coldness of the water, and the pain in my head seemed incredible, but I was alive.
I hit the bottom. Not daring to release my rock weight, I felt about me with one hand, frantic. My lungs burned like flared metals. Was it here?
Yes! It was. Something square and unnatural, a box of metal. A strongbox?
I tried to lift it, and managed to make it budge, but it was as heavy as my rock. With dismay, I realized that I could never carry this up to the surface. My body was too weak; swimming with such a weight was more than I could accomplish.
Was I to fail, then? If I reached the surface without the treasure, perhaps they would simply kill me, or perhaps they would make me like them—either way I would be finished.
I worked again to lift the box, but could swim only a few feet. I had no air, no strength. It was useless!
And then, I remembered the poem. Opposite the sky you shall find it, and it shall be raised only by life itself.*
Life itself. What was life down here?
Air.
I fumbled at the sides of the box and found a latch, which released some kind of object. It felt leathery, like a waterskin. I breathed into it, giving up all of the air in my lungs, air which no longer sustained me—but which might still serve me.† Then, I kicked off of the bottom, my metal spent, my air expended.
Eternity.
I burst from the surface of the pool as my vision clouded again. I saw only a moment of light before darkness snatched me back, but soft hands grabbed me and hauled me free of the water before I could sink to my doom. I smelled Elizandra’s perfume, and recovered to the sight of her concerned face, cradling my head in her lap. The view of her leather costume from beneath was not particularly proper, but also not unappreciated.
“You fool,” she whispered as I rolled over and coughed water from my lungs.
“He has failed!” exclaimed the koloss elders.
At that very moment, something bobbed to the surface of the pool—it appeared to be an inflated bladder of some sort, perhaps from a sheep. I reached into the water and grabbed the strongbox that floated underneath.*
The koloss crowded around as I knelt beside the box and worked at the lock. Elizandra produced the key we had found in Maelstrom’s mine, and it fitted† exactly. I turned it with a click, and opened the top.
Inside were spikes.
The koloss shouts first worried me, but they turned out to be shouts of joy. I looked to Elizandra, confused.
“New spikes,” she said. “Many of them. With these, the tribe can grow. They were losing the wars with those nearby; my tribe has always been the smallest of those in the area. This will grow them by the dozens. It is a true treasure to them.”
I sat back on my heels. I will express some regret to you, dear readers. I travel not for wealth, but for the joy of discovery and the opportunity to share the world with you—but still, this was not the treasure I had hoped to discover. A handful of small spikes? This was what I had searched for months upon months to find? This was the fabled wealth left by the Survivor himself?
“Do not look so morose, dear one,” Elizandra said, dumping the spikes for the ancients to take. She pulled back with me as they gathered around. It appeared that the two of us had been forgotten in the excitement. “It seems we have our lives restored to us.”
Indeed, the koloss did not stop us as we fled. We quickly left the small oasis valley, making toward the river and—hopefully—the rest of our caravan.‡
I still found myself disappointed. It was then that I noticed something. The box Elizandra carried hadn’t tarnished much from what had undoubtedly been over three centuries spent under the waters. I gestured for her to hand it to me, and I buffed at the surface of the lid. Then, I blinked in surprise.
“What?” she asked, stopping in the path.
I grinned. “Pure aluminum, my dear—worth thousands. We have found our treasure after all.”
She laughed and favored me with another kiss.
And it is here, my readers, that I must end the account of my travels in the Pits of Eltania. The treasure found, our lives lost—and then recovered—I had fulfilled the dying wish of dear, fallen Mikaff.
It was my grandest adventure yet, and I believe I will rest for a short time before striking out again. I have been hearing of strange lights in the southern skies that can only hide another mystery.
Until then, adventure on!*
POSTSCRIPT
This is the second of the stories I wrote for Craf
ty Games, this one to be published in their Alloy of Law supplement.
I took a different direction on this story. Since I’d done the first one as more of a showpiece to new readers, I wanted this one to be something deep and interesting for established readers. Revealing how the koloss are made and exist in the second era of Scadrial’s sequence seemed the kind of secret that would be intriguing to people.
Many years ago, my brother Jordan came to me wanting to do a radio drama as a podcast. He wanted it to be scripted, written by me—but I just didn’t have time. (Writing Excuses was born out of this, though I believe he eventually went to Dan Wells to do some episodes of something more scripted.) He pitched it as the story of an old-time adventurer/explorer. Though I couldn’t do the piece, I did spend years thinking about what I might have done, had I had the time.
Allomancer Jak is a direct response to this. The gentleman adventurer, over the top, based off old pulp stories. Writing only that, however, seemed like it wouldn’t work. In the Wax and Wayne books, I was already telling stories that were a more authentic evolution of pulp stories, with more solid characterization and less melodrama.
Jak, then, had to be about contrast—a way to highlight the old against the new. Whether he is actually the blowhard that his “faithful steward” implies he is, or whether he’s more of a quixotic adventurer with boundless optimism, he is supposed to present a certain level of inauthenticity. A contrast to Wax, in the way that you might contrast the newer incarnations of Batman with the old Adam West Batman. (Note that I love both.)
As an aside, writing Handerwym’s annotations was one of the most amusing things I’ve ever done as a writer.
MISTBORN: SECRET HISTORY
This novella contains major spoilers for the original Mistborn Trilogy and minor spoilers for The Bands of Mourning.