Brotherhood Saga 03: Death

by Kody Boye

  “What kind of animals will we have to worry about?”

  “They say there’s werewolves and bears in this area—which, to be quite honest, wouldn’t surprise me—and there’s always a chance the Harpies will come out in search of stray deer or elk. We’ll just have to be careful in this area for the next several days.”

  “How much longer do you think we’ll be in the Divide for?”

  “A week, if not more.”

  Odin closed his eyes.

  A shred of unease traveled down his spine.

  It seemed there would be much to worry about in the coming days.

  As the sun rose into the sky, arcing across the horizon and lighting the way it appeared as though their journey would only continue to get progressively worse.

  Directly on the side of the road, where it seemed nobody except animals travelled during times cold and when the road was shadowed over, a trail of blood painted the passage in violent splatters for several hundred feet before the corpse of a deer with half its side torn out appeared to their eyes. The sight, foreboding enough to elicit fear within Odin’s heart, made it appear as though something of great and enormous strength had to have attacked it, but the stench was what truly began to overwhelm him. Already birds had begun to gather—as well as smaller, woodland animals, those of which Odin found almost impossible to gauge because he’d never seen such creatures eating meat, much less the fleshy insides of creatures.

  “What did it?” Odin asked.

  They came to a complete stop directly before the poor creature. A crow, busily thrusting its beak into the bloodied creature’s eye, raised its head and squawked at them.

  “I’m… not sure,” Virgin said, making a move to dismount, but stopping before he could do so.

  “What’s wrong?” Odin asked.

  “We should leave. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “Whatever did this is in the area.”

  “How do you—“

  Every hair on Odin’s body rose.

  Shit, he thought, gesturing his horse into a fast trot.

  Never did such things happen without some form of fear, without some result of anxiety that came from the sensation of being watched or stalked. For that Odin pushed his horse into a slight run, which disturbed the snow beneath the horse’s hooves so much it created a mist, displaying their mounts as magical creatures using the currents to guide them. While that did little to console the fear lacing his heart, it did secure the knowledge that they were moving at more than just a brisk pace.

  “Odin,” Virgin said, whipping his horse’s reins in an attempt to catch up. “Slow down.”

  “You said—“

  “We should be fine. We—“

  A deafening roar echoed across the horizon.

  Slowly, both of them turned.

  No.

  It stood near the corpse of the creature with its bloodied muzzle bowed and its teeth distended with flesh. Braced on all fours, but gargantuan in size, it looked about the size of a small carriage that stood content with both the coach and the horses intact. Some ten feet it must have been from nose to tail, and when it attempted to rise on its hindquarters, it had to have been able to stand at least some twelve feet high. Its chest broad, its face short, its teeth bared in a violent snarl and its claws stained with the blood of innocents—its grotesque tongue spilled out over its mouth and its harsh yellow eyes stared the two of them down as if it could kill them by will alone. The lone, pale-yellow V that crossed its eyes and stretched down to the end of its pure-brown snout spoke of evil, of violence in nature and terror in sight.

  “Odin,” Virgin said, reaching to grab for the dagger in his jerkin. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”

  “I’m not,” he whispered.

  The horse whinnied and pawed at the ground, kicking up snow.

  The werebear dropped to all fours and roared.

  KILL! a voice screamed.

  Odin lashed out with both hands to claw at the sides of his head.

  No.

  It couldn’t have.

  “What’s wrong?” Virgin asked.

  “It’s… in my head,” he said, raising his eyes to regard the creature that stood above the corpse, pawing at the ground with its massive outstretched paw.

  “You can hear it?”

  “Yes.”

  Kill.

  “Kill,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It’s saying kill.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Virgin said, turning the horse and beginning to lead it up the road.

  When Odin made move to follow, the breath shot directly from his lungs.

  Behind them, the bear screamed.

  Footfalls could be heard.

  Virgin whipped his reins and kicked his horse into a full-out run.

  In an attempt to recover his lost breath, Odin opened his mouth and tried desperately to inhale the cold winter air as he reached with his free hand and fumbled for his sword. Much to his disadvantage, the desperate pace the horse kept jostled him to the point where he could barely keep his fingers around the hilt, much less reach for the switch. Panic strummed through his chest and lit his mind anew with pain that could only have come from the struggle of trying to outpace something that was ever so quickly catching up with them.

  No more than ten or twelve feet away, Virgin threw a glance over his shoulder and opened his mouth. What he screamed Odin couldn’t tell, but when he felt a brush of air fly past the back of his head, he tugged the reins toward his chest, held on for dear life as the horse bucked, then oriented the creature to face the monstrosity.

  The werebear stood no more than a few feet away, pressed onto its back legs and standing at its full twelve feet in height.

  Odin freed his blade from its sheath.

  The creature growled.

  “Come and get me,” he said.

  The thing lunged.

  Odin flipped his sword around the flat of his palm and thrust the blade toward the creature’s face.

  Blood sprayed the air, coating Odin’s face.

  Through the haze of red that covered his vision he could see that he’d struck the creature in the chest—not a fatal blow, but enough to where it could be seen despite the blindness he suffered.

  After momentarily letting go of the reins and swiping his free hand over his eyes, Odin reached back down and tightened his hold on his sword.

  Grunting, the werebear took a few steps back, raised itself up onto its back legs, then swiped at the air with its gigantic paws.

  Claws came forward.

  Odin ducked.

  The horse screamed as blood splattered onto its snout.

  “Come on you bastard,” Odin growled, leveling the sword at the creature’s chest. “See what you can do to me!”

  He fired a concentrated shot of air out the tip of his sword.

  The werebear stumbled, then settled down on four legs.

  “Odin,” Virgin said.

  “I’ve got this,” he replied.

  At least, he thought, mind throbbing, head ready to explode, I think I do.

  Even the slightest use of magic seemed to summon the most immense pain.

  Unable to control the razors that spiraled through his head but more than sure he could take this creature in hand-to-hand combat, he flourished, gripped his sword as tightly as he could, then threw a slash toward the downed creature.

  The bear screamed.

  Odin screamed back.

  When it lunged forward, he brought his sword down onto its shoulder as hard as he could.

  A paw came forward.

  It struck the horse’s chest.

  The creature bucked and struck the werebear directly in the face.

  Blood exploded from the bear’s nose and coated the air before them.

  With his horse freshly injured and his body alight with fear, Odin threw himself from the creature’s back and drew his father’s silver-bladed sword.

  Both weapons humm
ed simultaneously.

  Behind him, Virgin lashed out and grabbed Odin’s horse before it could run into the distance.

  “Are you sure you can handle this?” Virgin asked.

  “I was born for this,” Odin replied.

  The bear thrust itself up and attempted to strike with both paws.

  Odin ducked.

  The massive claws sailed over his head.

  He slung both swords forward in an x-shaped formation.

  Two fresh wounds appeared on the creature’s abdomen.

  A roar escaped the monster’s chest.

  As deafened as he was, and as harsh the ringing in his ears happened to be, Odin knew he could take this.

  After taking a quick jump back, he lunged and thrust his sword toward the creature’s stomach.

  The hit connected.

  The bear screamed.

  Odin threw himself from the creature just as fresh blood began to spray from its stomach.

  “ODIN!” Virgin screamed. “ODIN!”

  He pumped his legs as fast as he could, spun his swords around in his hands, then thrust each of them into their sheaths before launching himself onto the horse.

  Together, they turned and threw themselves into a full-out run.

  The bear moaned.

  Odin bowed his head.

  It was only when he reached back to feel the back of his skull when he realized he’d been grazed by the creature’s claws.

  “It might come back,” Odin said.

  “I know,” Virgin replied.

  Though his flesh wound no longer bothered him to the extent it had earlier, the fact that he had escaped with such minor injuries did little to settle him. Braced before his horse’s chest, his palm alight in magical fire, he trailed his hand over the flesh wound and did his best to sew the skin as carefully as he could despite the pain that throbbed within his skull like a hammer repeatedly striking the flesh of some exposed melon.

  “Is he all right?” Virgin asked.

  “He’s fine,” Odin said, sealing the last of the horse’s wounds. “He should be, anyway.”

  “I thought he was dead when the bear lunged at you like that.”

  “So did I.”

  Neither of them needed to ride atop one horse, especially not after what he and Nova had endured last year upon the back of one single mount.

  “Is your head all right?” Virgin asked, edging around the packs lying out in front of them.

  “I’m fine,” Odin said. “Really, Virgin—don’t worry about me.”

  “I didn’t even know you were hurt until you mentioned something about it.”

  “I only got grazed. I hardly even lost any hair.”

  “Which is good for you,” the Halfling replied, “because you wouldn’t look good bald.”

  With a slight laugh, Odin accepted one of the premade biscuits his companion offered and bit into the soft, if somewhat-cold piece of bread before turning his attention to the vacant horizon. “Do you think it’ll come back?” he asked, turning his eyes on Virgin.

  “If that didn’t kill it, I don’t know what will.”

  “I got it in the stomach, didn’t I?”

  “I think you did. It shouldn’t come back, though—at least, I don’t see how it can, considering it’s got a gaping hole in its gut.”

  Hopefully, Odin thought.

  It’d happened too fast for him to have seen anyway. So far as he could remember, he’d struck the creature with his silver-bladed sword and had torn a decent-sized hole into its abdomen. Surely something couldn’t continue in pursuit with such a wound, could it?

  No. Of course not.

  If he believed long and hard enough, it was possible his feelings would manifest into reality and the creature would stay away. Wasn’t it said that enough concentrated thought could become physical? Wasn’t that, in the end, what magic was?

  Maybe.

  Sighing, Odin finished the biscuit, spread his bedroll out, then seated himself atop it, thankful for the lack of snow.

  “Do you want me to,” he started.

  “I will,” Virgin said. “Get some rest. You’ve had a rough day.”

  No kidding.

  With that, he slid into the bedroll and closed his eyes, more than ready for today to end and tomorrow to begin.

  In the days following their encounter with the werebear, they continued through the Great Divide as swiftly as possible to avoid not only the persecution the mountains held, but the dark entities that seemed to linger overhead. Constantly, it felt, they were being watched, by figures in the scopes of the trees and debris to their left and right, and always it appeared that in a moment’s notice they would encounter yet another nightmarish creature. It was for this reason that when nights came and Odin was tasked to take watch that he always held his black sword ready, its clasp undone and its blade partially unsheathed. With that, he felt he could be safe, if only because his weapon was near.

  However, it wasn’t just the nights that made him uncomfortable.

  It was anything but.

  During the daylight hours—first at dawn, when the world had not yet been lit by the sun and the sky appeared only in translucent hues, then in the afternoon, when often the snow would fall—it felt like they were being relentlessly pursued by something that moved either through the mountainous range to their left or the rocky hillside at their right. During these times, Odin couldn’t help but throw glances over his shoulder; and once, when his horse stumbled and raised its head to regard the scenery with wide eyes and flared nostrils, his heart hammered in his chest and his veins became laced with flames, as he imagined at any moment they would be ambushed by Harpies, werecreatures or even the undead.

  This isn’t happening, Odin thought, somehow resisting the urge to laugh in the face of horrible apprehension.

  It couldn’t be. Here he was—a grown man, no longer prone to fairytales or superstitions—trembling over nothing, despite the fact that he sat atop one of the most massive horses he had ever seen and had a companion at his side, who seemed to know the route by heart even though he had never taken up this path. That alone should have secured a shred of confidence, but to no avail.

  In that moment, he seemed all the more alone in the world.

  “Are you all right?” Virgin asked.

  “I’m fine,” Odin said, wavering his attention from his companion, to the mountains at their side and then back again. “Really, Virgin, I—“

  “You look like you’re fine.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?”

  That he was shaking, trembling, ready to burst into tears and wail like a baby lost from its mother—just what was he supposed to have noticed when anything could have rained down and slaughtered them to pieces?

  I’m going nuts, he thought, this time unable to control his laughter.

  Here he was—Odin Karussa, the Ornalan king’s champion, survivor of the Reclamation of Dwaydor, coward of the kingdom and the thief of the Elven Book of the Dead—riding through one of the most terrifying parts of country he could ever imagine. To say that he was insane would have been an understatement, for men do not run unless they are pursued, scream unless they are frightened, laugh unless they are jovial or draw their sword unless they are threatened. No. For him to be merely insane would have been to diminish every aspect of his situation.

  When his panic began to escalate to a point where Odin felt he could no longer control his thoughts, he reached up, grasped at his hair, then began to tug on it as hard as he could—hoping, at the least, to regain some sanity, or at least pull some of his hair out. Maybe the pain would knock his sense back and allow one last chance to maintain himself in such a horrible situation.

  His horse continued forward.

  Virgin pulled his to a stop.

  The older Halfling reached out and grasped his arm.

  Trembling, Odin bowed his head, took a deep breath, then tightened every muscle in his body unti
l not a part of him shook.

  “There,” Virgin said, running a hand up and down Odin’s back. “It’s all right. Take a deep breath. In… out… in… out.”

  “I really am going nuts,” Odin laughed, cocking his head to look at the bright white sky. “I’m fucking mental.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “No, you’re—“

  “Look at what I’ve done, Virgin. I’ve run away from my country after my father’s death, stolen the Book of the Dead and am now making plans to resurrect one of the two people who had enough faith in me to actually help me. How can I not be insane—mental, crazy, out of my mind, whatever you want to call it!”

  “Your choices are guarded.”

  “I don’t know what to do!” he screamed, thrusting his fist onto the saddlebag, directly where the pack that held the book lay strapped and vulnerable to all persecution. “I don’t have any idea whether or not this is the right decision!”

  “Why?”

  “Because—“

  “Because what, Odin?”

  “Because I don’t know if he would want it!” he cried, tears exploding from his eyes like a great dam crumbling and devoid of structure. “I don’t know whether or not he would want me to bring him back from the dead!”

  “What do you think?” Virgin asked, raising a hand when a gust of air came up and disrupted his hairline, briefly revealing the curve of one of his Elven ears. “What do you think he would want of you right here, right now, if he were still alive?”

  “He’d want me to be serving my kingdom,” Odin said. “He’d want me to do what was right—to watch me grow up and start a family and make myself the absolutely best person I could possibly be.”

  “And you believe your father was robbed of that.”

  “Yes!”

  “That is your answer,” Virgin said, lowering his hand onto Odin’s shoulder and tightening his fingers around the exposed quick of his collarbone. “That is your answer, Odin. Pure and simple.”

  “Is what I’m doing right though?” he asked, turning his eyes up to look at his companion. “Do you know whether or not what I’m doing is really, truly right?”