The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  Guiding them to their saviour, just as they had been doing for so many moons, Ostly and Merkel were trotting along confidently by their sides. How invigorated our William was to see this army uniting behind him. An unexpected few were even holding up the heads of those cruel Gremlins from outside—the Ogres, if you can believe it. It’s true. William knew they had a kindness to them. Their only crime was that they were simple-minded creatures, easily influenced under greater powers. They may not have been friendly in a traditional sense, but that’s only because they wanted to be left alone, and they would enforce it at any cost. But, under threat, Drevol had imposed them to fight for him using his Devil Hounds, so they hadn’t much of a choice only to do so. That is, until they saw the legion of Dwelvin-Mites coming up over the horizon. Ogres; piteous creatures really, but good in a fight nonetheless.

  Just when William thought there couldn’t be any more, a cascade of fauna came bounding, buzzing, scuttling, galloping, and lumbering in behind them all. Everything he could imagine, from bears, to Irish elk, to the tiniest of damselflies. They came for two reasons; to assist him, and to settle their own scores with Briggun’s wild tormentors. The Grumtoads and such; harbouring more of a history than you would care to imagine, they had many scores to settle that night.

  Drevol, who was furious at his alleged servants for scattering so spinelessly, discharged a wail so resounding and so intimidating that his minions stumbled and froze, should he murder any deserters on the spot. But roar as he might, there was no threat of him drowning out the Banádh. That was still going strong, but was almost at its end, though its effect would live on.

  The music finished, so Drevol saw fit to deploy his minions to deal with he who was awaiting them so steadily. He, who, not for a web’s width in time, took his cold scowl off old Briggun.

  A bumbling rabble of Ahueé stampeded at the young Wrythunn. All of them failed. They exploded into dust before they could even reach him, leaving him there, smirking behind his mask, as their powdery remains wafted away like the last of a dying dust storm. His fearless stare could be deemed almost dark in his exhilaration, as he could feel the power of this warrior rushing through his veins. He could sense him speaking to him from within.

  Briggun, in his infuriation, ordered a second assault. This time William cut every one of them down with his gleaming sword as they stormed past. Seconds was all it took him to smite all thirty-four. He wasn’t even out of breath, for their movements were just so simple. They were telegraphing their actions long before their heels kicked the dirt. They may as well have shouted out their intentions beforehand.

  Twice more, the Pooka risked this tactic, and was running dangerously low on soldiers because of it. Funny; for all his grace he had no honest wit to support it. A Pooka’s logic could never stand up to that of a human’s, anyway. Not even when it came to Drevol Briggun. Once this dawned on William, he thought it ever so droll. Why, after all this time, did he fear this creature? Briggun was the child battling a warrior, not the other way around.

  The Pooka conserved his last few hundred men until more enforcements had arrived. He otherwise waited to see what William was going to do next. The boy, likewise, nevertheless he didn’t appear half as anxious as his counterpart, for patience had, at last, come naturally to him. As for Briggun, he was really feeling the pressure. For him, doing nothing was worse than being in an actual fight.

  He’d eventually gotten so sick of this waiting that he caught a bunch of hounds in his sorcerer’s grip, then hurled them at the boy. A pitiful attempt. William saw it coming before Briggun even concocted it. He turned those hurtling beasts into tarry globs, before spattering them over the frontline of Drevol’s deteriorating army. Amusing, at first; to see them all sticky and confused. Then the young Wrythunn’s face darkened again as he freed two fiery insects, millipedes of sorts, from his sleeves, which then wormed their way slowly towards Briggun’s men. A tease almost. A childish torture, as of a magnifying glass to an anthill. William found it all so oddly entertaining. Briggun’s entire vanguard tried wriggling free, but in the end, they wound up as smouldering sods. They never stood a chance. William was, indeed, adapting well to his new skills. Unusually well. He even seemed to be enjoying it.

  The Pooka learned nothing from his mistakes. Now his Anstén warriors were moving in. He had them advance more vigilantly this time, so he could attack on the sly. A cheap diversion, on his part. Nor was it the first time. William, on the other hand, had already had his fun with that sort, and he was not there to mix with feeble beasts all night. He was there for their master. Old Drevol knew this all too well.

  “Redmun,” said he. “Mind handling these?”

  “My pleasure!” the Erethaoí grinned, but his charuns were too tough to break.

  “You’re not going to let a set o’ chains stop you now, are you?!” William ribbed.

  “Don’t get cocky!” the Erethaoí replied, with some humour, but those chains were giving him a terrible time.

  William conjured a small sphere on light, then sent adrift towards Redmun, upon whose hands it settled to give him the extra boost of power he needed. A frosty glow ran up along his arms and over his body. First his fear vanquished. Then confidence came. A stanch and heightening strength, which put him to the top of his game again. So revitalized by this inspirational rise of impenetrable power, the man thus cloaked himself entirely in palpitating flames, melted the shackles, and took to the air, where he unleashed hell from above. William then presented the others little spheres of their own, so that they too felt like they could take on the dark underworld, singlehandedly.

  With strength fully replenished, they all sprinted back into battle; a battalion of beasts and Dwelvin-Mites, alongside them. Of the many, the Dearg Due had their work cut out for them as they tried controlling the skies, what with all the broom-riding witches and bizarre-looking Grollo birds chasing after them, a-snipping and a-snapping at their heels. Greaves had his part to play, too. He and his Iskian wolves were bruising enemies left, right, and centre.

  Briggun’s forces were being folded upon like gazelle lost in a cheetah’s hunting grounds. All enemies were being run down, every which way.

  William watched on in high regard for the good who had united to overcome that ancient evil. Strolling at ease amongst those whistling arrows and flying harpoons, as though they were simple hailstones and nothing else, he then spied, through freshly attuned vision, two of the most unlikely candidates fighting hard in the middle of it all, taking no prisoners. Armoured to the teeth, complete with knitting-needle pikes, Picksy Whispin and her father, Fibbún, were giving their enemies just as much oomph as even their comrade Trolls were, who battled proudly by their side. Fibbún’s muscles weren’t what they used to be, of course, but he had enough strength of will to see this fight through. The same went for young Picksy. Their bravery inspired the Wrythunn, no end.

  Clearing a pathway with Thérn as he needed it, he strode on to confront his enemy at his gate.

  Drevol was scared rigid of the boy’s fearless disposition. He was hiding by his portcullis, to where he could escape if necessary, and was firing down anything he could think of at him. William, much to Drevol’s distress, was countering his spells with contrasting hexes of his own. If Drevol summoned fire, William would cast frost, without a flinch. If the Pooka provoked wind, William would quickly call upon pillars of mud to shield him and those nearby. No matter what the Pooka tried, William was always a step ahead.

  Upon reaching the castle steps, the young Wrythunn beheld Drevol, who had deployed a very old and tarnished claymore, twice as big as even William himself, in the chance that it would intimidate him. It did not. As it so happens, he ended up actually putting his own weapon away. Thérn consented. Why he did this was curious to Drevol, also terrifying, for William was smirking in such a way as one who had a plan. Before he could figure him out, the demon’s monstrous blade was unexpectedly whipped from his repulsive claws. It whooshed by the boy’s ea
r, then smote the sneaky Devil Hound that was making its way up behind him, baring its vile gums. The lad smiled at Drevol. Drevol sneered back.

  William barraged up the stairway in flight, crumbling the steps beneath him with uncanny haste. His fists were primed for something he’d been dying to do for such a very long time—beat his enemy down with his bare fists. The fun and games were over.

  He landed hard at the Pooka’s feet, and did not hesitate. Springing upwards with supernatural height, he launched a brilliant uppercut clean into Briggun’s jaw, knocking him right back onto his shoulders. The undiluted power of William’s punch would’ve been too much for any normal person to handle. It’d probably rocket us straight through a brick wall, and ten more thereafter, if we took one head-on. The Pooka, however, was large and resilient. He recovered himself and swiped at William in his frustration, yet the young warrior slipped every punch, faltering not, always retaliating with unreal agility and superb form; connecting everything he threw back at him. He then ended his flurry with two hair-raising hooks across Briggun’s face, before kicking him back down that flight of ruined steps.

  William jumped at his enemy, exposing Thérn in mid-air. It was time to finish his foe, once and for all. Down he came, like a human meteor, to open the Pooka’s neck. But Briggun had had his fill of humiliation. In a sudden cloud of violet smoke, he vanished from sight, leaving William to impale nothing but the rock at his knee. The Pooka suddenly reappeared behind him, and, grabbing two fistfuls of the boy’s hair, he summoned his skinny talons to ablaze, consuming William’s head in a hood of cyan flames; and oh, how he cackled.

  William tried wrestling himself free, but Drevol’s grip was tight. Those flickering flashes illuminated his foul grin to horrifying proportions as he relished in impending triumph. Hotter, he made it, and William kicked madder still. Out of tedium, to which, perhaps you’ve guessed, he was foolishly prone, Briggun suddenly altered his plan and began freezing the head of his ancient nemesis instead, to see if that would hurt him more. Soon the boy was frozen solid, from his neck to the top of his head. He was as still as the eyes of death. Drevol’s use of sorcery was, indeed, fickle, to say the least. And, while rewarding in certain situations, erratic isn’t always necessarily better. Pooka can truly be a foolish race, even at the best of times. They always believe themselves so exalted, whereas, in reality, they are so imprudent. Never thinking things through. For after freezing William’s head to glassy frost, Briggun realised that his hands were stuck. Trapped in a block of ice.

  Seizing the Pooka by his wrists, William ripped them free of the frozen shell, tugged them hard out over his shoulders, pulling the beast with them, causing his teeth to smash into the back of William’s head, thus making bits of his glacial mask. With Drevol’s elbows positioned over his shoulders, William wrenched downwards, snapping both arms at the joints. Not a screech was ever heard as the one which yawned from Briggun’s mouth just then. A thousand drowning cats would’ve made less of a racket. Never such agony had he felt. Like Goidoy, pain’s searing bite was new to him, and how deeply he detested it.

  William drove an elbow into Drevol’s gullet, forcing him to gag, then tumbled from his reach. The Pooka reeled backwards in an attempt to catch his breath whilst his arms made these awful sounds, as of damp bark scrunched into a ball. His bones were mending themselves. More manic now than fearful, Briggun scrabbled for the boy, swinging at him with a hammer-formed claw. Briggun had many skills in the Wrythus art, but William had more. Stealing a leaf from the beast’s book, William disappeared into a smouldering cloud of blue-viridian, before he could bash him. Drevol may have missed him, yet he didn’t stop hunting.

  As a glowing spark would leap at you from open darkness, William reappeared right next to Drevol. With a numbing head-butt he nutted him, dead right in the side of the head. It dazed Briggun, but not enough to stop him from attacking William with even triumph. With a jarring knee, he gave the boy a right nosebleed, but William took it like a man.

  And so, their fight carried on this way for a good many clatters, back and forth, as they flew up into the massive heights of those misty cliff tops, vanishing and reappearing in different areas throughout, hollering their fearsome cries.

  Meanwhile, the great battle bellowed below. Think of a Faerie Battle, just on a far more chaotic scale. Thousands of souls were battling amongst creatures as large as Trenchins, right down to bodies as slight as bald rats. All of noble cause; Yacká, Banshees, Elves, Mèlcrige, Sprites, imps, and ghosts were there. Blessed arrivals indeed, for Briggun’s reserves had since shown up, spilling in in waves from the outer passages. That’s not to say they weren’t demoralized by how badly the forces of good were slaughtering their comrades on the battlefield. For them, it felt like dashing recklessly into the belly of the beast without so much as a thought.

  Stell was in there, cleaving off limbs by the dozen. Icrick and Khrum were, otherwise, in invisible form, piercing livers without being seen. Galloping valiantly through the swarms of the north, our tremendous Dullahan was knocking great ghastly insects onto their backs, whilst, from plunging so deeply into the bellies of Gremlins, Wren was wet with blood, from the tips of her daggers right up to her elbows. Crows of darkness wheeled across the wind amidst the bevies of evil pixies, while a fiery Redmun was guiding witches and redfeathers through flocks or Dearg Due, firing out crimson streams as he sailed.

  You would’ve said that the eclipse had returned, had you beheld the vulgar redness of the gorge that night. Only it wasn’t the light this time. It was all the spoils of life. Some good, but mostly evil.

  Slipping through scores of slim gaps, to weave in amongst spikes of stone with all the manoeuvrability of two swift bats, William and Drevol were bringing their flight back to terra firma, near the empty end of the canyon. The old beast’s rage had definitely overawed his concerns, which was distinct through that shadowy look in his eyes, and his dynamite pace.

  To use as a distraction before docking, so that Briggun wouldn’t land right on top of his neck and, in all probability, snap it, William bewitched a handful of Glogs in a mind spell, then flung them back at him. They worked hard at trying to damage the demon, only for him to shred through them like cobwebs, however much he slowed for it. It was enough to award our Wrythunn just the time he needed to land safely in the clearing. He readied Thérn, when happened a most unexpected thing.

  The Pooka hit the sandy terrain next to his opponent. A pillow of dust steamed up about him. The boy awaited his next move with bated breath. He then discerned an unusual grumbling noise rooting from within, like something was else was stirring. A thing quite large; something truly monstrous. William knew that sound. He’d heard it before.

  Suddenly, a huge talon of the blackest green stepped out from the cloud, followed by four sprawling wings, two to each side, complete with daggered spines. Sliding one heel back lest another takeoff was required, William found himself pausing. He was compelled to see what it was, to see if his guesses were right or not. Thus he cocooned himself within a shielding dome, barely seen but for a frosty sheen, so he could watch these strange goings on under some sort of cover.

  Just as he was leaning in, narrowing his eyes to see exactly what was moving about inside the haze, the four serpentine heads of Briggun’s own Múbiia suddenly lunged out and snapped at him with a slobbering champ. The force was enough to rupture the boy’s shield, knocking him down in the process. Then, with a reinstated sense of greatness, the gigantic Hydra reared in its might, beating its monstrous wings in William’s face, driving his heels back against the dirt. As if a Pooka of over thirty feet tall wasn’t enough to deal with, he had to content with his sixty-foot alter ego as well. And the way it was craning over him; dwarfing William to the size of a cottage mouse.

  Redmun saw this happening, from where he was. His theory of Drevol’s inability to utilize his dreaded alteration had been utterly disproved. Wrythunn or no Wrythunn, he wasn’t going to let William face this foe alone. He
powered to his friend’s aid, when all of a sudden, he witnessed a phenomenon more astonishing, more inspiring, and yet more disturbing than even the Hydra itself.

  Showing no fear of any kind, even as the frightening dragon menaced over him, the boy snarled right back into its reptilian eyes; all eight of them. Deep within, he knew he had it in him to win this. Courage built in his heart.

  Visions of a dream rekindled from that inner darkness which strove to smother him; of a mountain gorge much the same as this, where his beloved mother was being held captive by old Blackhead. Out of ire, indignation, and a thirst to get even, his knuckles whitened, and his muscles twitched. He could hear her calling for him, as plain as day, exactly the same way as in his dream. Her cries resonated with such cutting agony.

  “MY DEAR WILLIAM!” she bawled. “MY BOY! MY SON!”

  And that’s when her pleas merged into greater meaning, “Oh, My son! My son! Myson! Mysun!”

  The Hydra was about to stomp him out, yet to recoil just as suddenly from a strange look in William’s eyes. It wasn’t a glance of rage. Nor a fix of fear. It was more so bred from knowing that this dragon before him was already dead.

  The boy’s eyes flared into an untameable molten amber. Stepping back at Briggun—what was once a young Wrythunn—puffed out his chest and roared right back into his face, sounding even more ferocious than a pride of the most regal lions. Ripping his mask away, his teeth lengthened to needles, and his whole visage manifested itself into something of an ashy pigment, as it mutated from the norm into something of a far more beastlike complexion. As if bursting at the tendons, his shoulders bulged, and his arms swelled into muscle. A torturous-looking occurrence; however, the boy was far too taken by his will to spare pity for such pain.