by Kody Boye
“Does it really matter?” he whispered.
In his mind it didn’t, as he had already taken part of the blame for the situation at hand, but when he looked upon the scene before him, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for the atrocity that had taken place no more than two weeks ago.
Not yet picked apart by animals, insects, birds or other creatures deviant and hidden among the horizon, the bodies of the Ornalan boys and men, Orcs, Ogres, the occasional Elf, Dwarf and even Drow lay scattered about the plains as though marbles tossed and left among the grass. Their armor sparkling, their eyes open yet glazed, mouths open in silent screams or pursed in open prayer, they looked to be the charming artifacts left behind after a horrendous search for the grand jewel amongst a treasure of stones. Once, Odin thought he saw within the face of one man a maggot gorging on the flesh between his pursed lips, though whether or not it was true he couldn’t be sure. His eyes had since crossed, tortured to the sights and the reality of it all, and it seemed impossible to tear his gaze away.
For respect, for need, for honor and, most importantly, dignity, he forced himself to turn his attention toward the horizon and swallowed the lump that had developed in his throat.
It could’ve been you, Odin. It could’ve been—
The horse grunted.
The sound jarred him from the visage and thoughts of horror and forced his attention back to the matter beforehand.
“It’s all right,” he whispered not only to himself, but the stallion that walked blind and guided only by his hand. “It won’t be much longer now.”
In complete honesty, he could not say that such pursuits would be over anytime soon. Upon the horizon—so dark, dreary and lit only by the moon—bodies seemed to extend forever across the expanse of lowlands, marking progress that could very well extend toward the outskirts of Ke’Tarka and surrounding provinces before the Denyon Passage. Human, Elf and Dwarf alike had made it a point to drive their enemy back as far as possible, but had they succeeded in their goal? Had they really, truly driven their enemy back?
With doubt plaguing his conscience and his heart thundering in his chest, he decided to make a decision that would ultimately and, hopefully, free them from the surrounding chaos.
Turning his horse to the east—toward the eventual highlands of Bohren and the slanting slopes that made up the area near Sylina—Odin closed his eyes and led his horse across plains that seemed less crowded by bodies and more accessible to a horse’s four hooves.
This madness couldn’t go on forever, could it?
He took it upon himself in the early hours of the morning to grant his troubled conscience a moment of silence at the site of Blaine and Jordan’s deaths. Reins held steady, the horse shivering at his side, Odin reached up to clasp his hand over his chest and threatened himself with persecution were he to cry in such an open environment. While no one would be able to see such tears, save the Sprites and those whose souls they carried, he couldn’t reveal himself in a moment of weakness, not in the forgotten presence of two great men.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything for you,” he said, crouching down to test the dampened grass that had no more than a few days ago been stained with blood. “I trained my best—my hardest—to do whatever I could to make sure that the both of you were safe. I…” He paused. “I guess, in the end, it wasn’t enough.”
A whisper of wind skirted along the sloping hills and echoed across the horizon.
Odin raised his eyes.
Though the bodies from this location had since been removed and burned to prevent Necromancers from creating additional flesh summons, it seemed as though each and every man and boy still dwelled within this very spot—cold, alone, and rotting amongst the grass.
“Well, friend,” Odin said, standing and mounting his stallion. “I guess this is it then. Off we go.”
He turned his mount and began to lead him toward the east.
In the breaking hours of dawn—in a time which the sun’s ebbing rays could slowly be seen making their way over the distant Hornblaris Mountains—Odin stabbed a nail into the ground to keep his horse in place and prepared to make camp. A fire magicked and glowing before him, a few scant biscuits and water his only breakfast, he crossed his legs and stared into the white flames as though they would do something to take his pain away.
You’re doing just fine, he thought, sliding a biscuit into his mouth and taking a slow bite out of it. You’ve made it this far without having to worry about anything.
Not once had he considered the fact that he’d abandoned his friends and left them in terror for his safety, nor had he considered what Ournul would say once word got out that his champion had fled in an emotional stupor to the very place that could kill him. To anyone’s recollection, and to his own intimate fascination with the way his thoughts seemed to be constantly plaguing him, he seemed perfectly fine—capable, even, of handling his own emotions despite the odds pressed against him.
At his side, his horse whinnied and pawed at the ground.
Odin took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shifting the pail of water beneath the creature’s extended neck and sighing when it leaned forward to take a drink. “There isn’t any more water.”
To think that they could go for such an extended period of time without moisture was truly beyond him. Though it had rained quite a lot over the past two weeks, that didn’t matter when watering holes this far south were scant and few beyond compare. Most of it would run downhill, just like rain when pressed to a slanted piece of glass, and though he could have easily filled his skeins earlier in their journey within the watering holes outside Dwaydor, he did not fancy the idea of drinking his fallen comrades’ blood.
In the trees shifting in the slight wind beside him, Odin thought he heard a faint coo.
A frown painted his lips.
It’d been the first bird he’d heard since he started on this endeavor.
Is it, he thought.
No. It couldn’t be.
Raising his head, Odin trained his eyes on the distant trees.
Seated directly atop a branch gnarled and twisted beyond compare, a lone, albino dove watched him in the trembling light fading off the magicked fire with a pair of beady red eyes.
At first, Odin wasn’t able to speak, such was his fascination and horror of seeing such a creature that he remained shocked in place and dumbfounded by any and all means. His heart thundered, his mind swam, his thoughts jumbled to and fro about the inside of his head and threatened to shoot out his eyes and into the expanse of darkness beyond him.
It’s, he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him to death. It’s a—
“Dove,” he whispered.
The creature cooed.
His eyes began to water.
As the memory came burning back into his brain, ingraining itself there much like hot wax does when dripped upon the poor flesh of the sorry man, his sense of self began to disintegrate and in turn swallowed him whole in a maw that he could not begin to imagine. Dark, unholy, threatening in its entirety and barbed with sharp metal teeth—he imagined steel sinking into his flesh and tearing him to pieces while his mind absorbed each and every instinctive throb of pain that echoed throughout his being.
He could barely believe it.
The last creature of its kind he saw had been nestled in a gilded, silver-lined cage.
“Just after you died,” Odin whispered.
The dove shifted its snow-white wings and fully opened them for him to see.
Does it really end after you’re gone? he thought, watching the bird first stretch, then arrange its feathers along its side. Is this life the only one that exists even after you die?
A soft coo echoed from the tree line and stabbed directly into his ears.
Tears staining his eyes, blurring his vision and burning down his face, he turned his attention back to the white fire and closed his eyes.
Behind him, the b
ranch the creature should have been on shifted, snapping in the low wind that rose from the west.
Odin grimaced.
The bird cooed.
He bowed his head and threatened to singe his hair as his brow nearly touched the mouth of the fire.
A rustle of feathers and one moment later the bird was gone.
“I miss you,” he whispered.
The wind continued on.
Morning came light and honorably cloudy when he rose that midafternoon and began to arrange his meager pack of supplies back into his bag and into the saddle atop his stallion’s back. The thoughts in his head humbled, scattered and feeling as though they would simply cease to exist, he kicked himself onto his mount and prepared for the day’s worth of travel without bothering to turn his head and look at the distance they’d just crossed.
Were he to glance back over his shoulder, he would very likely see Dwaydor on the horizon. Such a sight wasn’t necessary so early in the morning, especially not after what had happened last night.
Why did it come to me? he thought, brushing a hand through his hair and tucking it behind his ear.
What reason would a bird—alone, albino and strange in all respects—have to visit him on a cold, lonely night after a day of nonstop traveling? Had it bore a message he was meant to take and wasn’t explicitly delivered, sent from Ournul, a mage, the capital or Dwaydor itself, or had it simply been a living entity following the path of a lone traveler much like himself?
It could be possible.
Weren’t some birds intelligent and capable enough to speak words, say phrases, follow paths and even individual people? He knew of falconers who trained birds of prey to do their bidding—to deliver messages across wide distances and expanses of land and then return in kind—but never had he heard of a dove following a person.
“Could I have conjured it?”
In the twilight of the new day, which began to pool over the horizon as though spilt from a great, overflowing cup, Odin closed his eyes and tried to imagine a time when, without reason, his magic had backfired on him. There’d been a moment during his childhood when his father had been teaching him to spar that a flame had expelled from his hand, then there had been choice times when summons and constructs had developed a will of their own, but not once since he was a child had he done something without purpose. He had far too much control over his magic and too many hours of training for such a thing to have occurred without his control.
They said in moments of weakness that sometimes, the mind could forget things in order to better protect itself.
Could it let me forget an entire summoning, he thought. An entire moment when I couldn’t remember conjuring a bird?
The bird had not seemed magical in the least—summoned not by will, the Ether or even individual thought. With that instilled in his mind, he could easily discount it, but what could he say about a creature who for no reason had come to land on his horse’s head and watch him with its beady eyes?
Without the direct knowledge, he had no way to distinguish just what was going on or why the bird had come to him.
Sighing, Odin raised his eyes and looked to the dark horizon.
Though it would be at least one or two weeks until he made it to Sylina, he could at least try and regain his spirits by that time.
The day eclipsed into evening with rain showers and isolated spots of cover. So far into the open plains that there seemed to be little to no trees under which to take shelter, Odin bowed his head in an attempt to shield his eyes from the massive downpour and continued to lead his horse along the distant grasslands to Sylina, trying his hardest to resist the urge to stop for the night and try to assemble the tent he’d managed to snag from the stable’s storage shed back in Dwaydor.
You can keep going, he thought, taking a slow, deep breath, then expelling it just as slowly as he’d taken it in. Don’t you worry.
He was no stranger to these sorts of weather conditions, these forms of tragedy. Were someone to question him in that regard, he would say that the best and safest thing to do during a rainstorm was to continue on and not be trapped in the open. Lightning, they said, struck targets lone and solitary, and though he knew he was highly unlikely to be hit by one of the daggers of light without any tall objects or figures around, he didn’t want to test it.
Beneath his weight, the horse grunted and shook its head, flipping beads of moisture from its mane and into Odin’s face.
“It’s all right,” he said, stroking the stallion’s neck and leaning forward to press his lips to the top of the creature’s head. “I’m sorry, friend, but we have to keep going.”
At the very least, the creature might be able to capture moisture between its lips. Maybe they might even stumble across a wayward watering hole replenished by the storm.
I can only hope.
Chest once more alight with fire, he closed his eyes, steeled himself for the emotions likely readying to attack him, then opened his eyes.
Directly before him stood three figures, all of which lay shrouded in dark cloaks and bearing swords.
“I should have known,” he mumbled.
“Give us everything you have,” the lead figure said, stepping forward just in time for Odin to draw his sword from his side, “and we won’t do a thing to you.”
“Stay back,” Odin replied, “and maybe I won’t kill you.”
“We outnumber you three to one. What makes you think you’ll be able to kill us?”
“You have no idea who you’re messing with.”
Odin propelled his right arm forward and shot a pressurized burst of water gained from the rain falling down around him.
One of the figure’s necks snapped up just before he fell to the ground.
“A mage,” the man said, laughing as he eased his way toward Odin’s stallion.
“Get away from me,” Odin said. “I mean it.”
“You must be the one they’ve been talking about.”
“That who’s been talking about?”
“The one who ran away,” the man said. “The one who abandoned his king.”
Despite the chill from the rain, it seemed as though a different form of deterioration was making its way along the curve of his back. Tangling through his hair, skirting down his neck, sinking into his skin, then further into his body—vertebrae froze within his spine to meld together as one and his entire body seemed to be flushing in accordance to the very notion of which the man had spoken.
To the kingdom, he’d been told, he was a deserter—a man whom, by all respects, had abandoned not only the one he’d been sworn to protect, but his country as well.
“Get away from here,” Odin said, “and I’ll spare your lives.”
“You’ll kill us anyway.”
Odin snapped the neck of the man standing before him. “I said,” he growled, “get away from me!”
The leader of the troop of shadowed men raised his sword and attempted to strike him where he stood.
Odin brought his sword down on top of the man’s head.
The force of his blow was enough to crack his skull.
Odin pushed his horse into a full-out run the moment his sword was back in his sheath.
They ran through what could only be described as hell on their very earth. The rain hammering in his face, the likely chance of hail threatening to swallow him whole, the idea and notion that he could very well be in bandit territory and completely open to the threat of arrows and even possibly mages more than present—his horse grunted and began to pant through the stress currently being asserted upon it and Odin, terrified as he was, barely took a moment to consider that he could possibly kill the very creature he’d been tasked to protect.
Not too much longer now, his conscience whispered. Keep going.
Why his thoughts conspired to run him down was beyond him. Maybe it was the gilded thing whispering in his ear, stroking his shoulders with its armored hands, or maybe this was something worse—something more deviant
, evil, vile and cruel than he could ever begin to imagine.
Maybe, possibly, he was not being compelled by anyone but himself.
No. That’s ridiculous.
Was it, though? He couldn’t say without a doubt in his mind that he’d slowly been on the verge of losing his sanity since Miko’s death, nor could he deny that his thoughts, as erratic as they were, had compelled him to do just what it was he’d set out to do. Here he was, riding through the rain, running his horse to the ground and looking to do the one thing that could get himself killed or imprisoned for the rest of his life.
“Stop.”
Odin pulled on the reins.
The horse bucked, kicking its feet up in the air.
He only managed to hold on because his wrist was tied within the straps of leather.
“We’re stopping,” he said, training his eyes on a crop of trees that lay in the near distance. “Keep going, boy. Come on. I promise we’ll be stopping soon.”
The fruits of the horse’s labor could be heard within its heavy breathing. One breath in, one breath out, one here, then one there—they came and went like the rain bearing down upon them. Thankfully, though, it would be over soon.
If only the bandits hadn’t attacked him.
Damn them.
Damn those men and their words of hate, for their stupidity and their ignorant, false hoods. They could have run away and lived to see another day, maybe even another year or ten or twenty, but what would that have accomplished? Had they lived, they would have simply gone on to rob, possibly even kill another man, rape a woman and abduct a child.
In the end, it didn’t necessarily matter if three lives were lost.
What does that mean for me though?
In that form of thought, so soft and subtle it could hardly be noticed, did that mean that Blaine, Jordan and even Miko’s death meant nothing?
“Of course not. Stop thinking that way.”
Somehow, though, he couldn’t. Instead, the thoughts of death and just how much it was worth began to overwhelm his mind.