The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

by Michael Mood

  Crack!

  His bare skin was cold. It was always cold in the north. The biting winds flung snow and ice through the air almost every day of the year. Otom always told himself that if a Southerner moved up here he would die within a few days, unable to handle the bitterness of the climate. This island in particular was frigid. The wind whipped west, driven by some maniacal force that was hellbent on flattening everything in its path.

  Crack!

  Otom drew upon a tiny string of power within and Calmed himself. It wasn't something he liked to do too often. Punishment should be taken without the need to use magic on yourself, but Otom was feeling vulnerable today. Normally the whip didn't bother him this much. Normally he could withstand it, but today was different. Today was the anniversary of his failure.

  Crack!

  That was the last stroke he could handle right now. He stood up and placed the whip in the drawer of a simple wooden table. That table and the small bed next to it were some of his only possessions. He had built them himself from the wood of the tall pines that grew near the Monastery.

  He tucked his wool pants back into the tops of his fur-lined boots, then grabbed a brown robe from a peg on the wall and secured it around himself with a rope belt. Otom turned and kindled his Fire, letting the magic flow from his hands to the hearth. Life could be arduous for a Monk, but Otom would never complain about being able to create his own Fire. It burned in the hearth, the flames a physical manifestation of the power within him.

  He had sacrificed his world and gained that power.

  -2-

  Otom sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed, recovering from his flagellation, which he had not technically completed for the day. He would have to come back to it later. For now, however, he needed a moment to reflect and then he had an appointment to make.

  His room was one of the biggest in the Kilgane Monastery, with decorated walls, eight foot ceilings, and an ornate fireplace. At least, ornate for Otom's current standards. Candles burned with normal fire. Otom mostly put his own Fire in the fireplace. It was difficult to control tiny amounts of it. A healthy blaze was easier to produce. The powers of a Monk were stable and reliable. As long as he was Sacrificing – which he always was - he would have magic to draw on.

  There was only one other Monk in Kilgane Monastery that had even a glimmer of the magic that Otom possessed. The man had trained him when his powers had bloomed. It wasn't a sure thing, getting that power from God. Many good men led lives of Sacrifice never to have magic bestowed upon them.

  Otom was a rarity.

  Kilgane Monastery had few allures about it: it was constantly freezing outside, the days and nights were of odd lengths, and the food was tasteless. Otom knew for certain that there were worse things than isolation and penitence. He hadn't left the island in thirteen years, and he wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

  Here he had camaraderie, escape, purpose.

  There was a small fishing village on the southern shore of the island and the people there mostly regarded the Monks of the Kilgane Monastery as a mystery, not really frightened of them, but not really wanting conversation either. Of course, Otom couldn't have given them that anyway. To talk would be to break one of his Vows, and to break a Vow was to give up a piece of your Sacrifice. He sometimes wondered what his voice would sound like. He remembered that it was deep and steady, but the last time he had talked was at the age of seventeen. He supposed his voice would sound different now if it even still worked.

  He talked mostly in hand signs for unavoidable essentials. On every First Day he would make the trek down to the village to trade for fish and cloth and other things the Monks might need. Sometimes he would trade wood, beads, or furs, but oftentimes he would simply trade Fire or Calm.

  Monkish Fire didn't consume wood, and could last a good long time, depending on how much magic was poured into it. There wasn't a person in the village who could turn down such an offer, even if they regarded the Monks with wary eyes.

  Calm was more subtle magic, but just as desirable. If someone had nearly died from falling through the ice, Otom could Calm them and wash away their fears, saving them years of fear and doubt. If a fight was about to break out, Otom could stop it most of the time. These were the kinds of services that only a Monk like Otom could provide.

  Otom walked over to the door and pulled it open, the heavy metal knocker on the other side clacking once. The dormitory hallway wasn't much colder than his room. The Monks kept the entire Monastery lit most of the time, Otom's magical Fires joining in with their normal ones.

  Otom walked quickly down the hall so he could arrive on time for another scheduled Vow. The Vow of Bondage. He was actually going to be a bit late even if he ran. Everyone would probably be already waiting for him there. It was fine. Forgiveness was easy to receive here.

  He had to pass through the cloister in order to get to the chapel and as he stepped outside the wind whipped at him, threatening to blow his hood off. He reached up and tugged it back down so that it covered his forehead down to the top of his eyes. His bushy brown beard took care of warming the lower half of his face.

  It was snowing. The fat flakes drifted down out of a gray sky.

  Thirteen years since my failure, he thought.

  The cloister was silent as he padded through the snow, his fur boots would have been excellent for hunting and tracking, but today they were ceremonial. The chapel door had much the same design as his room's own door and fires burned around it, making a glorious arch that kept away the snow and warmed the wind. Otom swung it open and went inside, closing it heavily behind him.

  It was quiet, but that was to be expected.

  But not this quiet . . .

  -3-

  Something fell on him from above and Otom dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor, cursing silently at the pain. He could feel some sort of claws pressing through his hood and thought at once of the Coraline Beast from The Book. But this creature wasn't the Coraline Beast, for the Coraline Beast was much larger. Whatever it was, it let out an otherworldly screech as Otom reached up and grabbed hold of a thin leg, tossing the creature away. It smashed against the stone wall.

  Otom threw his hood back now, balancing the advantage of its claw-stopping thickness against the way it blocked his visibility. He decided it would be better to be able to see.

  He glanced around the room to find a macabre scene. At least thirty Monks – almost the entire population of the Monastery - were laying scattered about, bodies looking badly beaten within their brown robes. Blood pooled around some of them, limbs sticking out at odd angles, faces crushed and slashed.

  Otom stripped the robe from his shoulders, not knowing if he could still move the way he had been able to thirteen years ago. But he felt the need now, staring down the monster he had thrown from his shoulders. The top half of his robe now hung on his waist by the thick rope belt, dangling down to look more like a martial arts Skada: loose, unrestricting.

  Otom hadn't always been a Monk.

  His body still rippled with muscles he had built before his time at the Monastery. He had maintained his form, often losing sleep and exercising late into the night to do so. Old habits died hard and Otom was stubborn. But he hadn't fought, really fought, in ages.

  Otom's attacker looked more bird-like than anything else, but it had no wings. It was about five feet tall and had some kind of a beak-like protrusion, but it had teeth where a bird would not. Its beak and claws were wet with red blood and its tongue, a disgusting purple thing, lolled out of the side of its mouth like a dog who had finished running too hard. The creature skidded, claws scrabbling awkwardly on the stone floor, giving Otom more time.

  Otom gathered Fire and although he couldn't attach it directly to the creature (it was impossible to attach Fire to another living thing, even an abomination like this), he let it sit hidden in his fists, burning there. A Monk could not be physically burned by their own Fire, but it still felt horrible, li
ke gripping hot coals.

  Otom reached out with yet another branch of his power. A wave of his Detection radiated outward. He could feel the presence of other beings this way. He couldn't feel this creature, though. It wasn't registering the same way human's did. What trickery is this? He did feel one other living thing behind him. Likely another Monk, wounded and clinging to life.

  The creature reached Otom, and it struck out with a thin limb that looked disproportionately long for its body. It whizzed through the air, but Otom raised a forearm to block its path. Another strike came, this time a kick, and Otom caught the bird's ankle with his own, using the creature's momentum to pull it off balance. Then he opened his hand, revealed his Fire, and slammed his palm into the creature's stomach. He heard a satisfying crunch and sizzle followed by a surprised shriek as the thing reeled backwards.

  Otom leaped forward, powerful legs closing the distance quickly. This time the creature stabbed forward with its beak, all the while gasping for breath. Otom saw the attack coming and, while turning just enough to avoid it, delivered a quick chop to the thing's neck. The creature reeled backwards again.

  Otom didn't feel fear, only exhilaration. It felt good to be who he had been all those years ago, if only briefly. Friends of his lay dead on the ground here, but Otom felt alive. Had this been in God's plan? No, probably not. God wouldn't send a creature like this. Was it some sort of Foglin? Otom remembered whispers about Foglins, but he had never been sure he had actually seen one.

  The creature was slowing and Otom didn't have a hard time knocking it to the ground. He delivered a powerful blow to its head with both palms, cracking its skull and putting it down for good. He thought he heard it mutter a word near the end, but found it difficult to believe that the thing had been capable of human speech.

  He kept his Detection up but let his Fire fade. He only felt that one presence, so he headed towards it to see if it was someone he could save.

  -4-

  The Monk he found was propped up against one of the prayer benches. A deep wound on his neck was turning his brown robe crimson. Otom began to tear a piece of his own robe off to try and form some sort of bandage. He knew he at least had to stop the bleeding somehow. The fabric ripped loudly in the quiet space. He'd seen fighters with wounds like this. They usually didn't live.

  “No need to bandage me,” the injured Monk's voice grated in a whisper.

  He's talking!

  Otom started to open his mouth but the injured Monk held up his hand. “Don't speak,” he said. “Don't break your Vow as I am. I have been quiet for so long I just . . . I just wanted to speak before I died.” He coughed. “I have lived with you for ten years and I . . . I don't even know your name. Names,” he scoffed. “They are of no consequence, but mine was Umden. Umden.” Tears ran down his face. “Is it all worth it, Monk?” he asked. “God has betrayed us here. He has forgotten us. After all we have tried to do.”

  Otom shook his head and tried to communicate what he was feeling. He could not. Without words he was powerless in this situation. He had listened to God and communed with Him here. God was working to absolve him of his sins and now . . . now Otom wasn't sure what to think. Am I being tested? The Book spoke of trials. Things sent to test just one person. Otom could be that person.

  Or I could just be a normal man caught in horrifying circumstances.

  “The pattern,” the wounded Monk said, gesturing. “I can see it from here.”

  Otom looked around the chapel. The creature had killed so many men, but each one had died in a specific spot. Otom stood up to take a better look. He squinted his eyes. He was in the middle of twenty-nine corpses that littered the ground around him. If he connected them in his mind with lines . . .

  A fish.

  It was a strong symbol, and one the Monks held dear. Salmon, specifically. Otom hadn't understood it until he had read about it in texts, but salmon were a powerful symbol in the Kilgane Monastery. Many salmon would sacrifice their lives attempting to swim upstream to continue their life-cycle, dying by the thousands to hungry bears and fishermen.

  Otom's mind raced to try and comprehend what this meant. How had that creature known to slay these people in such a pattern and how exactly had it accomplished such a thing? There was a more powerful force at work here, and the doubt in God that Otom had felt only moments ago was washed away.

  I'm a Chosen, Otom thought. The fact hit him harder than it should have.

  “Your arm,” the dying Monk said, his eyes widening as more blood pumped down his neck. He pointed at Otom's bare arm.

  Otom looked down to see orange and brown glows just below the skin of his right forearm. The colors slowly crawled to the surface. The glows formed the outline of a fish: a salmon. It was about two fingers long and was bright enough now that it hurt to look directly at it.

  “A Chosen in our own Monastery. You must travel to the Temple of Sin'ra!” The injured monk was yelling now, voice free from its shackles. “They say that the truly devout scribe the word of God there. Something about that place . . . there are texts that say it's a hub . . . a nexus of power . . . You must go there if you are Chosen! You mustn't let anyone know! It's dangerous to let people know! I have read that part of The Book over and over and over through the years! It is clear! I knew when you came here, when the Chaplain discovered your powers, trained you . . . you-” He was unable to finish as he died.

  Otom stood in a room of thirty dead Monks and one dead creature. How the monster had gotten there, what exactly it was, and what it wanted were questions he would have to get the answers to another day. Right now he had to travel south for the first time in a long time. He had been Chosen by God. There was no denying that.

  The glowing symbol on his arm now marked him as surely as the scars on his back did. He belonged to God.

  Maybe I always have.

  -5-

  His Detection was still silent, but Otom was wary. His old fighter instincts came rushing back to him. There are more beasts here somewhere. I know it.

  A moment later he thought he heard them scrabbling on the stones just outside. His stomach turned. He slowly backed away from the dead Monk. Umden. His name was Umden.

  Otom turned towards the door, once again summoning Fire into his palms. If he was going to take this journey to the Temple of Sin'ra there were only a few things he would need, but he would have to get back to his room to get them. Please let me be wrong. Please let those noises be the wind, the ice. He expanded his Detection radius, pushing it to its limits, feeling himself sweat with power. It encompassed the whole Monastery, draining his magical reserves at a frightening rate. There was not one Monk left alive save himself.

  The scrabbling outside was getting louder.

  Otom burst through the door without bothering to pull up his robe. Cold air blasted him, making his hair stand on end. Five more creatures waited for him out there, and they were horrific. They all had shapes that vaguely resembled animals, but every single one was grotesquely formed. One creature pointed at him and squawked something. Apparently it meant 'attack' if it meant anything at all, for the others rushed towards Otom, snow flying from the ground in their wake.

  Otom dropped his Detection and washed himself with Calm, trying to settle his nerves. A stone walkway ran around the perimeter of the cloister, with the courtyard in the middle. The door to the dormitory was on the opposite side. Otom had two choices: go around the perimeter or go right through the center of the creature mob.

  So he turned to his left and threw his Fire down to the right, creating flames that stuck to the stone and burned. He increased their intensity quickly until the Fires were licking the roof above him, then he began to run, making sure Fire streamed from his fist to the floor. The result was a blazing wall on his flank. Sweat poured off of him as he ran.

  He could hear the creatures through the roar of the Fire, claws scratching and throats screeching. They rushed to cut him off, trying to gain a more advantageous angle of attack. Otom
was simply faster. They scrambled to get to him, passing willingly through the Fire. Two of the hairier creatures were charred instantly and died screaming, but the other three, covered in carapace instead of fur, found their way through and gave chase. Otom started to set Fire down behind him, but the awkward motion slowed him down and the monsters were gaining.

  The dormitory door was in sight and Otom surged towards it, palms and legs burning. He wrenched the door open and hurled himself inside, leaving the inferno he had created behind him. He raced into his room and flung open his wooden cabinet, hands digging shakily at the bottom panel. It was a secret compartment he had built himself. It contained only one thing.

  The branch of the Dryad Tree was still exactly where he had left it. It was about as long as his arm but it was light, the wood incredibly strong. It still had red leaves clinging to it, even after all these years. He felt a faint power from it as he picked it up and it almost seemed to respond to the glowing fish on his forearm. Magic would react with magic, he knew.

  The branch was his deepest sorrows incarnate, and when he held it he felt sadness wash over him. For a moment the emotion eclipsed everything: panic, fear, excitement.

  He pulled up his robe, grabbed his whip and his pack off the wall, and pounded his way out of the Monastery. Hopefully the creatures had all died in the cloister inferno.

  Otom wouldn't even be able to warn the folk of Kilgane Town, for The Book was strict on the behaviors of a Chosen. He had to stay safe, stay anonymous until he reached Sin'ra. From there he would find out what to do next.