by S L Matthews
“Alright, Tar. We’ve got chainmail. Looks like it’s in pretty good shape.” Cooper pulled Taryn around to get a look, though he knew his younger brother was playing no part in whatever came next.
“An’ looks like a longsword, a couple daggers across his shoulders, and a kris tucked into his belt.” Cooper’s words began to trail off, taking stock of his foe. “We may be a little outgunned here, little brother.”
Once again, Cooper’s tone changed to one Taryn would remember. “I’d say the odds are in our favor.”
Vengeance burned within Cooper’s soul, yet as he plotted his revenge, he felt a gentle squeeze of his arm. His eyes softened while his helpless brother looked to him. Taryn didn’t speak, but it was clear he was calling for help.
With a final glance to Rowan and their feeble wooden raft, Cooper kicked toward Wyvern’s Rest. “I’m changing my promise slightly, Tar, but only because you can’t argue back.” Cooper rolled to his back and pulled Taryn alongside, scanning the waves for something that could serve as a raft. “First, we get you back to Ava.” He spun as Rowan flung a civilian into the icy water. “Then, we kick his ass!”
Taryn groaned, drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Yep, exactly,” Cooper added, unable to contain himself.
He swam away from the ships, his younger brother in tow, conserving his energy while a high-pitched whistle echoed across the sea. It grew in pitch and intensity, quickly drowning out the chaos before them. Cooper turned to his old ship as a rainbow of sparks flew from the crippled vessel.
His pulse raced, and panic took hold.
“Hold on, Tar!”
The morning sky erupted in hues of red and orange while fragments of wood and cinder shot to the heavens. Cooper grabbed Taryn and dove under the waves as a molten blast rippled across the water. The sea ignited in a resounding boom.
Cooper reemerged to smoldering embers and smoking debris landing all around. His ship had dissolved, save for the skeletal image of a hull, quickly diving into the abyss. Raining down as far as he could see were remnants of his old vessel, along with bits of the Orcus, he imagined, most no larger than a plank of wood or a scrap of burned sail.
“Tar, next time I tell Jorel to torch my own ship, remind me of the stockpile of alchemist’s fire I keep in the hold, would ya?”
An object splashed just beyond Cooper’s reach: a large, broken door. Its edges smoldered, but the familiar hunk of wood was otherwise intact. A small smile etched across Cooper’s face as he clutched Taryn’s vest and pulled him to the makeshift raft.
“You see, little brother. Had it under control all along. Now, let’s get you home.”
Cooper pulled Taryn back onto the door while his vision began to blur. An icy numbness overtook his arms and legs, yet his face remained warm. He tapped against his forehead, pulling away a blood-soaked hand.
His vision darkened as he gave Taryn’s raft a mighty heave toward the coast. An icy chill crept up Cooper’s body, and his world grew dark. He paddled after the broken door, but his limbs would not respond. The waves folded over his body as Taryn’s raft drifted from view.
Cooper shouted one last time before his vision failed and his body succumbed to the icy darkness of the Abyssal Sea.
Amoran felt helpless, lost for words as he helped the Cambrian Lieutenant to the top of the slope. Before them stood the old highway, and what remained of their caravan. Neither mustered the courage to speak. But in the end, there wasn’t really anything to be said.
The magnificent dragon statue at the heart of Tindera Square lay in ruin, shattered upon the abandoned, cobblestone street. Withered, lifeless creatures lay crumpled beneath piles of broken stone as Camille’s voice haunted Amoran’s thoughts. He replayed her enthusiastic questions in her mind and found himself laughing along with her, only to have the stark reality return. Distant screams cried out from a distance, shattering the silence, bringing the pair out of their solemn thoughts.
Amoran’s gaze fell to the shattered statue and the darkened alleys that encompassed the square. Devilish red eyes emerged from the shadows. They peeked around cautiously until they settled upon the pair of men, stranded along the edge of the highway. More and more eyes appeared, from the alleys, from the streets, from within broken buildings. Dozens moved in unison, their sights aligned, their hunger focused.
Amoran gasped. “Lieutenant.” He clutched at Anduin’s shoulder, forgetting the grievous wounds to his legs. “Anduin, we have to go. Now.”
Anduin fell to the rocks and flung his arm to wretch it free of Amoran’s grasp.
“I will not leave my daughter!” he screamed through a blend of blood and tears.
Amoran winced, his focus fixed on the creatures filtering in from the shadows. “I understand, but,” He knelt, meeting the mourning father’s gaze. “Anduin, we must go. Now!”
Anduin’s anger swelled, rolling back to his wounded knees. “I said I’m not leaving until I find…”
“Damn you! You’re leaving right now, Lieutenant!” Amoran grabbed the back of Lieutenant Celaera’s armor, twisting his body to face the old square.
Anduin’s eyes softened, then widened in horror. “By all the Old Gods…what is…”
Amoran ducked under the lieutenant, wrapping Anduin’s arm around his shoulder. “They’ve returned, Lieutenant. And they appear to have unfinished business.”
The pair hobbled across broken boulders. Both grimaced through the pain, but the wounded soldier took the brunt of it. They limped across the old highway while screeches of terror echoed from the street.
Amoran pushed harder. His knees screamed and his old body resisted every step. He supported the Cambrian Lieutenant as far as he could, but simply could not bear the load. Anduin pulled up just short of a broken wagon. Claw marks gouged the elaborate paint and gaping wounds ripped into the luxurious interior.
Two large oxen lay before the shattered carriage, their hides shredded, eaten from the inside out. Blood pooled across the highway as dozens of small, red footprints fled in all directions. Amoran pressed forward while the young soldier faltered, staring at the crippled carriage, and the dead soldiers stretched before it.
“I’ve failed them, Davilla. My men, the caravan.” Anduin took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the golden necklace, still clutched in his hand. “My wife, my daughter,” he continued, his words trailing to nothing.
“We can avenge them together, Lieutenant.” The horde of ravenous creatures leapt over the shattered statue of Tindera and sprinted across the old square. Their screams reached a frenzy with fresh blood so near. “But now…we must run!”
Anduin steadied himself, turned to the pack, and spread his arms wide. He cursed the creatures, like a drunken fool after a long night of drinking. “What are you waiting for?! Send us back to the Hell from which you came!”
The golden chain fell from Anduin’s palm, swinging in the breeze as a blast of cold air ripped through Tindera Square. Amoran darted forward. He grabbed the soldier’s arm, bent under his waist, and lifted. His legs buckled and his knees weakened, but Amoran fought to carry his friend beyond the inner-city gates.
“No!” Anduin screamed while the creatures galloped across the highway, their claws scraping against broken cobblestone. “You will not keep me from Camille!”
The screams intensified, and Amoran sensed the hunger that drove the horde forward. He staggered, leaning toward the inner city gate and the gaping maw of the city walls. He lunged forward, flinging himself and Lieutenant Celaera under the shadow of the city wall. Amoran reached up and grabbed a rusted lever.
It wouldn’t budge.
He grabbed with two hands and yanked as teeth and claws bore down upon them. Amoran heaved, placing a foot against the stone wall. He pulled with all his might, cursing to every god within earshot. “Damn you!”
| Chapter VIII
The Mist
A giant gust erupted against the ridge, showering the Caro Expedition in a cloud of a
sh. The huddled factions broke down camp and prepared for their final journey through the forest. Expedition members were cold, hungry, and silent. Giant skeletal forms lay across the bluff, eerie reminders of their early morning wake up.
“Is she alright?” Marina whispered, nodding in the direction of the Kurodai warrior. Syndra knelt in silence before the great sabre, her flaming sword still lodged in its skull. She had not spoken since the battle, and as far as Celien could tell, hadn’t moved a muscle since the final blow.
“I would hope so,” Celien said, folding the last of the blankets and tucking it into her pack. “If she’s not, then I suspect neither are we.” Celien sealed the last button and flipped the straps, tying off her daughter’s pack and setting it next to hers.
She looked to her husband, who also stared in silence at the solemn warrior, frozen in her moment of reverie. Disbelief in his eyes, he stumbled to come up with the words. “She—knew that animal, in life, and death.”
Eramus continued to grasp for words, and Celien watched while he worked it out in his mind. “But, she can’t know that creature. That’s…isn’t it?” He shook his head, reason winning over speculation. “There’s no way. She’d have to be four, five hundred years old?”
Celien continued to watch her husband’s expression twist from confusion to denial, back to confusion. She grabbed Marina’s shoulder and turned her slightly, bringing her mouth to a subtle curl.
“Marina, dear. Will you please stay here and help your father work out this puzzle?” she said, with a wink toward Eramus.
Marina looked up in surprise, then back to her father. “Well, okay…but where are you going?”
Celien spun away and walked to Syndra, turning her head back to her family. “I’m going to ask her.”
She could tell Eramus was going to object. He adjusted his glasses and his mouth fell open, but before the words spilled out, Celien spun and resumed her course.
The female warrior remained stoic before the fallen beast, a statue of flesh kneeling before a mountain of bone. Celien heard whispers as she neared Syndra. Is she praying? Is this magic? Celien approached as quietly as possible, not knowing the answer to either question and not sure she wanted to.
Her feet sank to the knee with each step, like trudging through snow as light as air. She exaggerated each step, leaving no more than a whisper against the howling wind upon the bluff.
“I’m sure you have questions,” came a fluid, heavily accented voice. Syndra’s common tongue was broken, yet her words flowed like lyrics of a song.
The question shocked Celien, who was sure she hadn’t made a sound. She spun, expecting someone behind her, yet no one else had approached. Though she noticed the camp had stopped, all gathered around to watch the exchange.
“Uh, y…yes Sentinel Ki…Cay…”
“Caitori,” the warrior interjected. “Call me Syndra.”
“Yes, Syndra,” Celien said, a little embarrassed.
How did she even hear me? She wondered, pulling up behind the warrior.
“Because you’re louder than you think,” Syndra added before resuming her whispers.
Celien froze. She planted her feet in the ash, then glanced to her family. Eramus stood at a distance, encouraging her forward with a gentle wave of his hands. She rolled her eyes and turned, staring at the back of the warrior’s head.
Can you understand me? Celien thought, terrified of the response.
The whispers stopped. Syndra raised her head and paused. “No, I cannot read your thoughts.”
Celien gasped, “But you…then…”
Syndra leaned, a subtle grin etched into her face. “That being said, I’ve become very skilled at anticipating…questions.”
Celien chuckled under her breath, though she remained unconvinced. “Yes, I suppose you have then.” She hoped not to sound uneasy, then eased closer to the hunter, ever aware of the enormous beast mere feet away.
The sabre nestled into the ash, its lower limbs concealed in a blanket of waste, as was its mighty jaw and the tips of the sinister weapons flanking each side of its mouth. A shadow crept across Celien as she inched closer to the great cat, along with the subtle hint of rot and decay.
Even with its lower half-submerged in ash, the creature was incredible in size, towering higher than any horse in Port Corcyra, or any antelope gracing the Highlands of Ventera. It was stunning in every way.
“It’s dead?” Celien asked unconsciously, ashamed as the last word fell from her mouth. “I’m sorry, it’s just. It was, but now it’s…”
“Yes,” Syndra interjected in her frosty, fluid tone. “It was.”
A moment of silence saturated the edge of the bluff as Celien weighed the correct usage of Syndra’s words.
Was?
“You mean…” Celien paused, hoping to reassure herself. “It is dead. Right?”
Syndra sighed and narrowed her gaze. A small cloud of frozen mist escaped her lips. Celien examined the warrior’s form, kneeling rigid in the brisk morning air. A maze of thin scars etched their way across her arms and legs, an untold list of wounds over untold years of fighting.
Her muscles were tensed, chiseled into her bronzed flesh. Celien studied her armor, an intricate weave of interlocking bone that formed a plate across her chest and back, flowing into a skirt to her knees—knees that rested atop the airy pile of dust and ash.
Celien gasped, realizing she was knee-deep in the pile, and the creature had sunk deep into the dune of dust, yet the Kurodai warrior rested atop, leaving only a hint of impression upon the airy soil.
She opened her mouth to speak, “but how…”
“There are things about your world I do not understand, Professor Caro.” Syndra opened her eyes and turned. “Things I would not presume to understand.” Her eyes caught the morning sun, reflecting their silver hue. Her face turned stoic, glancing to Celien’s family. “There are things about my world you will not understand. And many more things that are better left unknown.”
Syndra’s eyes held their gaze for a long moment, her warning echoing in Celien’s ears. In time, Celien broke the silence, extending a hand toward the great beast before them.
“Vasha, is it?”
Syndra shot to her feet, sinking slightly into the ashen bluff. She stared down at Celien in disbelief, not willing to speak.
“My husband,” Celien began, hoping to break the nervous tension. “It’s…well, it’s his life to understand. I guess I absorbed some of it on accident.” Celien stood, stroking against rough, matted patches of fur. She could see through the sabre’s skull, into the empty cavity of its body. Celien fought back the hair that bristled on her neck and suspended the disbelief in her heart.
“I heard you talking to…her,” she said, rubbing her hand across the cat’s brow. “She was yours, wasn’t she?” Celien said, more of an educated guess.
A subtle hint of emotion flickered across Syndra’s eyes while her body relaxed. She knelt and joined Celien’s hand across the sabre’s patched coat.
“No, that is not the way of things.” Syndra’s fluid tone returned to her voice, pausing in reflection. “She was not mine…nor I hers. We were bound to one another. So I suppose you would think she was mine.”
Celien continued stroking the thick, broken patches of fur, hoping the warrior did not notice her staring into the empty body of her sabre.
“So then, you lost her? Vasha—You lost Vasha?” Celien said, cursing her lack of composure. “It must have been difficult.”
“Do not probe too deep, Professor,” Syndra interrupted. “I will tell you what you are seeking, and deflect that which will unravel your beliefs.” Her face remained firm, her expression unyielding. “The Vasha I knew was lost long ago. But yes, our bond was broken.” She tugged against the hilt of her blade. A dull echo reverberated through the sabre’s body as the weapon broke free. “We tracked a gathering in the mist, deep within Valshyr. Yet another prophecy to be fulfilled.” She paused for a moment, appeari
ng to collect herself before proceeding. “One of a hundred such prophecies for the rats within its sewers.”
Syndra’s tone changed. Anger gripped her words, and her broken accent lost its fluid pitch. “We found them, crawling from the bowels of the city, like slugs after a fresh rain.” She traced the blade’s edge with her fingertip, and the blue flame extinguished. Her gaze narrowed and her jaw clenched. “Then, we saw her.”
Celien gasped. “Her?” Her mouth begged to ask questions, but none were forthcoming.
“A creature of smoke and shadow, elegant, beautiful, and evil to its core.” Syndra cleaned the blade and returned it to its sheathe, folding leather wrapped in red and yellow feathers across the warrior’s waist.
“We attacked…”
Syndra paused, her silver eyes locking onto Celien. A wave of embarrassment flushed across Celien, diverting her eyes from the hunter’s gaze.
“We chased the rats from the city, but many of my sisters fell,” Syndra resumed, stepping toward the fire pit, still lit with pale blue embers. “My master and I confronted the creature, to end it before it began.” She grabbed a log and waved it across the horizon, a blue streak mirroring the shape of the ashen dunes.
“I was young,” Syndra said, stepping toward the giant sabre’s body. “And stupid. I made a mistake, and it cost—everything.” Syndra’s words faltered while she gripped the end of the emblazoned torch. She thrust the fire against Vasha’s coat, sending a torrent of blue flames into the air. Celien jumped, stumbling across the loose piles of ash and dust. The flames outlined Syndra’s form, a sleek statue before the blue pyre.
“I fell in battle,” she said, favoring her side and the scars bisecting the lines of her armor. She turned away from Vasha, stepping toward the rest of the expedition, who all stared wordlessly at the Kurodai warrior.
Syndra looked back to Celien, offering a hand to help her out of the dune. “My master fell as well. But she is strong, and the only reason I stand before you today.” She pointed to the far, darkened horizon, kneeling to meet Celien’s gaze. “She continued the chase without us. West—to your home.”