It is important here to correctly explain the status of Avendia in reference to the existence of Good and Evil, and consequently, God and Satan. For Avendians, except for those zealots from The Sons and Daughters of Destiny, one of the schools of religious studies (though those from the school would never call themselves religious but rather relational), God existed but not as the Biblical Creator Of All and the intensely personal God I have come to know (albeit through many unnecessary sufferings) in the Old and New Testament. Rather He is seen as an unearthly power by which all things were brought into being. And that’s it. God was not seen as being personally involved in the well-being of His children. Hence, Good was viewed as that which comes from the people of Avendia when they choose to do something to benefit the common good. And all such other things with an obvious derivation outside of the mortal explanation of its existence were explained through primarily two words – Chance and Fortune. This meant that because there was no direct source of Good, then there could be no dismantling of God’s divine plan, because there was no plan beyond the act of creation.
So when I absolutely and clearly felt the presence of a directed and tangible Evil beyond what I had come to understand as the natural state of the functionality of Avendia while I was under the influence of the venom induced haze, I did not believe it once the fog covering my awareness was lifted. But make no mistake, while affected by the toxic liquid of the bug, I completely believed, and was completely afraid.
“Drin! Drin! Drin!” I heard my father say with increasing intensity as he began to vehemently shake me. I must have turned to him with a look of vacant fear in my eyes because he immediately stopped his shaking and firmly held me by both shoulders, the way he did when I was younger and woke from a particularly vivid nightmare.
“Wh…Wh…,” was all I could verbalize because I was still battling between being submerged within the fog the bug bite had created and returning to the realm of reality my father’s voice was attempting to re-establish. As subtly as the fog had come on, equally so it faded. And with it went most of my clear experience and memory of the evil I had encountered. In an instant, I could no longer see the black, wispy tendrils connecting the bugs and mud. Nor did I have any reason to talk about them to my father the same way I would after he woke me from the vivid nightmares of my youth. I remembered being bitten, inducing a longer duration of the bite, and feeling sick. But as for the rest, nothing remained within my conscious memory.
My father must have seen a change in my expression because I saw his change from concern to the faintest sign of relief. I felt a tiny bead of sweat roll down my temple. He must have seen it as well because he handed me our water skin, “Are you well enough to walk now, Drin?”
I took a long pull of water to both wet my mouth, now severely dry, and cool myself because I was also severely hot. "Yes, I can walk," I replied in between deep pulls of water and the resulting gasps of breath. "I do not know what happened," I said as I was quickly forgetting the details I was so acutely aware of just moments ago. "I remember seeing a bug bite me, then I felt hot and groggy, and...”
As I struggled to recall a memory I was certain I had experienced, but could not remember from the perspective of an active participant, my father interjected, "Drink more water. It was probably the heat, mud, bugs, not drinking enough, and being nervous about the selection. We need to pick up our pace a little so we can be sure to enter the city before dark. For some reason, they started a no admittance policy after sundown. Must be some goblin activity nearer the city so we should be careful. I would not be worried though, Drin. Goblins rarely attack anyone without money." And with that, my father turned, took a quick look at the sun to either gain his bearings, or judge the correct time of day in order to set our pace for the rest of our journey.
When pressing against a goal, my father was known to be singularly focused. And this was true for reaching the location of this year's Silver Selection on time. If his love for me was measurable in regards to the pace he now set, it would be considered fierce. But such as my father was, it was difficult to measure anything in terms of affection for he rarely showed any. And when he did display any, it was usually linked to the completion of a goal within the confines of his agenda. As such, there was no deviation from this construct during the last leg of our journey.
Because we were slightly ahead of my father's expectation after the first two days, illustrated by his surprise at emerging from the Breckenwood before nightfall on the second day, his mood was relaxed though still focused while we waited out the storm during the night. Before the storm had slowed our pace, he offered words of encouragement centered around continuing my good performance. But because of the time we lost at the whim of the elements resulting in a much slower pace on the third day, and no doubt because of my episode with the bug, my father's encouraging words had minimized to the point of a focused silence.
But I didn't mind the silence. We were making our way through the Shallow Pass of the South Eastern portion of the Spine of Heaven Mountain range when my thoughts began to wander and the repetitive foot after foot trudging sank into a mindless rhythm requiring no more thought than breathing. Growing in anxiety, my thoughts returned to the conversation I had with my father the previous evening while we were held up in the cave to protect ourselves from the unseasonably vicious storm. What did my father mean when he said each man is only as great as he believes? Did that mean our greatness is determined completely and solely by what we believe of ourselves? And if that is true, would that not mean that everyone who believed they should be king would possess the right to become one? And if so, how would it be decided who was to be king first? Can one's belief in their own individual greatness be measured and quantified, and then subsequently compared to another's on an empirical level to absolutely decide who should be greater? Who was right? Who determined who was right?
Flying. Where did that come from? Ah yes, my dream. Having approached no closer to a solution for the now daunting question of individual rights of royalty, my mind spun to the faint yet still solid memory of flight from the previous night. However, I could still picture no more clarity than that of a vague sensation of racing over the ground at speeds that men were not normally privy to. Though now, the vague sensation of flying carried with it an insubstantial perception of muscular memory, the way one might feel after doing something routine yet uncommon, like jumping repeatedly, or skipping, or running at full speed. Each of these activities seemed physically simple, yet was not something I did on an everyday basis, but when called upon, the muscle pattern was readily available without engaging the powers of conscious reason.
"Hold up, Drin." I heard my father say in a hushed tone that carried with it a potential for danger the way my mother's glare had when I had almost crossed the line antagonizing my sisters. Having been deeply rooted in thought, I almost bumped into his back, "I told you to hold up," came a harsh, quick whisper with intent of remaining hidden, while carrying with it enough force to stop me in my tracks.
"What is it, Drahin?" I said mimicking his hushed and quick tone.
"Mountain wolves," was the response I received, though not the one I had hoped for.
Being on a farm, we had several encounters with wolves and were well acquainted with their behavioral patterns. Thus we knew how to combat them well. But Mountain Wolves were an altogether different story. Half again as tall as their distant cousins and half again as vicious, while plains wolves were hunters only for prey to satisfy their primal feeding needs, mountain wolves had grown the reputation of hunting for something close to amusement. We would occasionally hear stories from merchant travelers while on their way to one of the distant port cities about the unnaturally large and unusually mean wolves in the southern portion of the mountains. They were described as anything from white to dark brown, large protruding teeth, almost twice the size of other wolves, with an odd, almost human grin just before closing in on the attack. Some accounts even had the
beasts shrouded in a dark mist. Many merchants claimed several guards and several more horses were killed at the teeth of these mountain wolves. It was also frequently said that they possessed a howl that was not only directed to the moon, but loud enough to wake it. The first verification I had with these rumors came with the latter.
As if baying with the force of a hundred years of pain, we heard beginning as a low guttural growl and growing into a loud, baying shriek, the first sounds of eminent danger. Contained within its howl was an almost joyful glee similar to a hyena's bark, but drawn out as a single reverberating, high pitched, bellowing laughter. At its sound, I began to slink down and huddle closer to the ground as if to minimize my size to stay hidden, and my weight to stay silent. My father did the same, but as he did, he drew his hunting dagger and indicated that I do the same.
The Shallow Pass was so named, as you can imagine with no great creativity, because it was shallow. Therefore, we had a great vantage point to witness the two large creatures standing on either side of the pass. I say creatures because wolf did not suffice for the silhouettes set against the mid-day sun that were now fixated on our position with a hopeful intent transcending the simple search for food. These two creatures embodied all of the rumors I had ever heard from every merchant I had ever heard them from.
"Drin, we have but moments." I turned my head toward him as he continued in a hushed and desperate voice, "With the beasts (apparently my father shared my sentiment that "wolf" was entirely inadequate) on the pass walls, we gain a few moments to act. They must travel up the pass a short way before they can climb down and double back to where we are. You see that short inlet just up ahead?"
The beasts had begun slowly rocking back and forth at their front shoulders in a deliberate and expectant swaying pattern. I could not focus. "Drin! You must hear me now!"
I gathered myself and managed a weak, "Yes."
"Good. You must run for it and follow the path to the end. It will take you to a large oak tree. Climb it as high as you can. Can you do this?"
"Yes Drahin," I said as my eyes were still focused on the slowly swaying beasts.
"Good. I will be right behind you. When the beasts break and run, that is when we run. Got it?” he said as his eyes were focused on the beasts as well.
"Yes Drahin," I felt my courage mounting for our eminent escape at the certainty with which my father spoke.
I glanced back up at the devilish visage of our current predators and felt a chill run down my spine. How could a mere animal present with such an aura of evil? It was altogether familiar, and entirely awful. While staring at the beasts, a fleeting and faint recognition momentarily attached itself to a distant memory the way a familiar scent from my past evoked an emotional recollection. The memory was trapped within the fog of years gone by, but the resulting emotion presented itself readily. This emotion was fear. I had felt fear before on several occasions, but not like this. It was completely unique, yet I could not shake the feeling that I somehow knew it. Or possibly more accurate, that it knew me. There was an organized thought behind these wolves that extended beyond the instincts of animal awareness. It was this conscious and directed evil that was responsible for building my fear with more than the blocks and mortar of my desire to live.
In a moment, all my primal instincts for survival came rushing back as the slowly swaying wolves stopped and stood utterly motionless. Their cessation of movement presented with a slight tilting of their heads to focus on something other than us; something distant and something more important. I had to fight the urge to glace in that same direction.
"Stay focused, Drin! Remember, when they break, we run!"
The wolves' focus returned to us. "Get ready!”
Just as they collectively lowered their front shoulders with a single and unified motion in preparation to bound, my father also squatted and leaned forward. I did the same. This next moment passed within the span of a single beat from my now pounding heart, but was suspended by silence and focus. In a horrifyingly quick motion, the wolves were off. And so were we. It took all of my substance to follow my father's instructions and run toward the wolves because all of my instincts for survival were screaming at me to turn and run the other way.
I heard nothing except my breathing and saw nothing beyond the inlet now quickly rushing toward us. Just seconds away from it, I felt a renewed sense of hope. We were going to get to the tree first, climb it, and outwit the beasts. We were going to live.
Upon reaching the inlet, I was running so fast I had to use the opposite side of the shallow pass walls to assist my change in direction to avoid slowing down. My strides were now infused with a relief driven joy that gave me strength and speed. Yes, there was still fear, but that fear had acquiesced to the demands of hope.
I saw the tree. And as I came within the protecting confines of its branches, I leapt higher than I had leapt before, grabbed the closest branch to me, and began to climb. Hand after hand, and foot after foot, I climbed as high as I could all the while my joy at escaping the inescapable grew. When I had climbed high enough that the branches could no longer support my weight, I paused long enough to take a few deep, refreshing breaths of freedom and felt much of my fear begin to diminish.
"We did it, Drahin!" My breathing, while still vastly elevated and causing me to gasp, was beginning to slow. In a few short seconds I was able to muster another, "We made it, Drahin!" But there was something nagging at the fringe of my awareness. Like something was missing from this moment. I looked down, fully expecting to see the pride on my father's face the way he always did when I was able to overcome a fear in childhood to accomplish a lesson. But that is not what I saw. When my eyes did not return the image of my father to my mind, in a mere fraction of a second, all understanding overflowed my mortal ability to consciously evoke a response from my muscles, and I knew.
Frozen and unable to move, I heard a low and loud growl in the distance. Another voice joined it, mimicking its intent for carnage. The growling was interrupted with short bursts of animalistic grunts similar to barks yet infinitely deeper. Piercing the guttural sounds from the beasts came a cry I had never heard before but knew it could be only one thing; The sound of my father dying. Desperate in its pitch, yet absent of fear, it pierced everything and demanded all of my attention.
I loosed my white-knuckled grip from the branches and found a desperate strength infuse my limbs allowing them to move once again. I knew what I had to do. I knew, in this moment, I was meant to save him. I didn't know how, and I didn't know why, but I knew. I hurried down the tree with a jittery speed. Focused on what I believed to be my purpose of saving him instead of the placement of my feet upon the branches, I missed the branch my foot had sought. Such was my confidence (now knowing it was arrogance) that I had also failed to secure a hand hold before my descending step. My misstep and failed hand hold, while singularly no issue, when simultaneously coupled together, created a fatal and insurmountable error. While I plummeted toward the hopeless realization of my father's death, I heard the triumphant yet hideous howl of the mountain wolves. Then, I heard a loud crack, felt a blinding flash of pain behind my head, and everything went black.
Dualoin (Worship).
Deliciously remembering his first soul drink, when he consumed a living soul making it part of his, he could not help but give a silent thanks to his master for imbuing him with the power to do so. And as part of this thanksgiving, he rededicated himself to the training and development of the dark legion he was directed to raise. As all things filtered in a progression from the top of a mountain's summit to the depths below, so too did all aspects of his legion begin with him to then be filtered through his two most treasured students. He always began his training of Vismorda and Mordin by allowing them the offensive pressure, and this morning was no different. As Jesolin had taught her, Vismorda assumed the shadow cloak, one of the skills he had developed with the assistance of his Lord, allowing her to advance without fear of
injury. In battle, she was naturally courageous, but shrouded with the cloak-like, black liquid making all forms of attack momentarily ineffective, she was all but dead to its hesitative propensities. Like an avalanche, she released a blinding series of slashes, steps, parries, counter steps, feints, twists, flips, and strikes all coordinated with a perfected muscular pattern enhanced by her two blades. Jesolin marveled at her frightening countenance when cloaked within her liquid darkness and, when the training was concluded, would applaud her progress, but that had to be held for later. For now, the training was far from complete, and he had something new to show her. But not yet. Rhythm and indulgence once again.
Little one, little one who is my special little one. You have done well. You are doing better than even I thought you would. But now I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?
"Yes, I trust you," Jesolin replied. He stood, while the limp body of Captain Vulin rested at his feet, and felt the assimilation of the late captain's soul into his. He had so many questions for the voice. So much of what he had done, from killing Rento to this soul drinking of the captain, he was unable to explain. But he thirsted for more knowledge. He thirsted for more trust and more of whatever end this voice was planning for him.
Thank you little one. I will not forget your trust. Now, I must ask you to run to the forest to the north. When you are there, you must continue to head to the north until you find what you are looking for.
"What is it I am looking for and how will I know when I find it?"
Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1) Page 39