Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (15 page)

For it being so late in autumn, he was surprised it wasn
’t colder than it already was.

“Carmen,” Nova said. “Do you want another shirt to wear?”

“I couldn’t possibly fit into anything of yours,” she laughed, rubbing her hands back and forth as if ready to create a fire for herself.

“I mean, to wear—something to cover up in.”

“That’s fine. No thank you.”

“All right,” he said. “Suit yourself.”

He pushed his pack to the side, spread out in his bedroll, then closed his eyes, sighing when the wind came up and brushed his hair away from his face.

It seems too convenient that we aren
’t being followed.

After being pursued by the werewolf and having
found their mount torn apart and eaten, it was any wonder he hadn’t considered such thoughts previously in more concrete detail. Maybe it was a case of him not wanting to worry about anything, or perhaps he had not a worry about the werewolves because his thoughts lay elsewhere, primarily on his back. Either way, he couldn’t dwell on it, because doing so would simply push him in an opposite direction and therefore shroud his concentration.

“Do you want me to take first watch?” he asked.

“I’ll do it,” Carmen said. “Don’t you worry.”

Closing his eyes, Nova burrowed into the bedroll as far as he could.

The caravan came in the middle of the night. Flushed from the darkness and guided by two bobbing lanterns, it appeared as a specter with its arms braced forward and its han
ds dangling before it. Flushing, a flourish here, a grand, sweeping arc there—the horses grunted as the cabby pulled them to a stop and then whinnied when a harsh wind began to stir from the north, as though signifying a great foreboding sense of dread that both Nova and Carmen should take heed to.

“Hello there,” the man atop the carriage said, shifting his weight as he looked down at the two of them. “Who might the two of you be?”

It was highly unlikely that the man had seen either of them in concrete detail. With Carmen nestled in her bedroll almost as far as she could be and Nova sitting up, they could have been anyone or anything, save a Dwarf and a man trapped on their feet and forced to wander without horses.

Pushing himself out of his bedroll, then into his feet, Nova approached the front of the carriage with extra care, then pushed his hand out to shake the man
’s hand. “We were on our way to Ornala when we were attacked by a werewolf,” he said, watching the shrouded figure’s face for any sign of movement.

“A werewolf?” the cabby asked.

“Yes sir. A werewolf.”

“We got
‘im though,” Carmen said, rising from her bedroll and stepping forward.

“A… A Dwarf?” the man asked. “This far west?”

“Like I said,” Nova continued, drawing the man’s attention back to him instead of the four-foot-tall creature beside him. “We were attacked and our mount was killed. Is there any way you can help us?”

“Of course. It
’d be wrong to leave the two of you all by yourself.”

“Thank you,” Carmen said, turning to return to their camp.

After crossing his arms over his chest and examining what little of the man’s face he could see in the light ebbing from the fire, Nova took a deep breath and turned his attention to the inside of the carriage. While he could see nothing, save for the faint outline of what were obviously curtains, he imagined there had to be at least one or two people inside, if only by purpose. Coachmen knew better than to travel alone, especially in this day and age.

“How many of you are there?” Nova decided to ask.

“Just myself and two other gentlemen—armed, of course.”

“Of course,” he smiled. “Is there any room in the cart you
’re carrying?”

“Possibly, yes. I hope that doesn
’t bother you.”

“It doesn
’t.”

“You
’ll have to lift me up!” Carmen cried, her voice cracking the silence of the cold night like a whip.

“That won
’t be a problem,” the coachman said. “Say… the two of you wouldn’t happen to be coming from Dwaydor, would you?”

“Yes. We are.”

“Soldiers! By the Gods, you’re more than welcome to come with us, especially in light of the recent circumstances.” The man paused. He tightened his hold on the reins loud enough for his knuckles to pop, then raised his eyes to look at Carmen, who currently kneeled in front of the fire gathering up their things. “The war wouldn’t happen to be over, would it?”

“I can
’t say, sir. Our general took most of the forces and is currently attempting to drive them back to Denyon.”

“Such a horrid thing, that place.”

“What about you? Where are you coming from?”

“One of the outposts in the forest
s east of here. Liar’s Forest, that place. You’ve had to have heard of it before?”

Of course. How could he have forgotten such a notorious place?

Maybe because you’ve had so much other shit on your mind.

Rather than say anything for fear of betraying his conscience, Nova turned, looked to the campsite, then to the cart arranged behind the carriage, filled with what appeared to be straw and boxes of supplies.

“Gather your things,” the cabby said, drawing Nova’s eyes back toward him. “I’ll wait as long as you need. We’re in no rush to get anywhere.”

With a short nod, Nova turned and started for the camp, but stopped before he could fully get there. “Sir,” he said.

“Yes?” the man replied.

“Thank you. You don
’t know how much it means to know that I’m finally going home.”

“I can imagine, sir,” the cabby said. “I can only imagine.”

C
hapter 4

Odin stood before the Whooping Hills like a child awaiting the grandest adventure of his life. Breath caught in his throat, heart a low, continuous thud in his chest, he reached down to make sure his swords were at his side and somehow resisted the urge to push the horse into a trot, regardless of the situation and what obstacles they currently faced.

You
’re here,
he thought, training his eyes on the distant curve of the hill which seemed to tower above all else.
Now what do you do?

In truth, there was only one thing he could do—go forward, toward the very place he was seemingly destined to go. The notion, though calm and fragile, was enough to instill the belief that he could turn back, g
o home, and, eventually, return to Ornala and serve the king. Somehow, though, he was able to keep those thoughts away by pushing them into the darkened recesses of his mind, thus eliminating them from his purpose at hand.

He could do this. He knew he could. To think otherwise was to deny himself outrageous courage that he had so desperately earned, for he had traveled such hellacious hill country before, had wandered down hills so blatant and rough that most ordinary men would have found themselves quaking in their boots. It would be no different than travelling through and along Bohren.

Of course it won’t.

Of course, were he to have been honest with himself, he would have said yes, that this was much different than going to Bohren. At least in Ornala the hills were not as large,
as daunting and pockmarked with caves, nor were those hills steep and rounded like dough ready to be baked into bread. Here, at the foot of the Whooping Hills, he felt as though his upper body would slide into his stomach and force everything out the opposite end, such was the nature of the incline they stood upon and the quest it would take to make it to the very top.

“Now you
’re getting yourself worked up,” he mumbled, shaking his head and reaching down to tangle his fingers in the horse’s mane. “Everything’s going to be fine, Odin. Just keep telling yourself that.”

At this junction in his quest, there was no point in turning into a pessimist, at least not here.

With a slow, drawn-out shake of his head, Odin whipped the reins forward and sighed when the horse began its slow but stable trek up the hill.

After the first few steps were taken, he could feel the force of gravity pulling him back to the flatter earth.

The horse grunted.

Odin grimaced, expecting to either fall or be
forced off.

Somehow, the beast continued forward without another word of protest, thus eliminating the urge for such incessant worry.

“Good boy,” he whispered, stroking the creature’s neck as it kept its slow but steady pace. “You’re doing just fine. Once we get to the top of this hill, you’ll have a nice plain of warm, green grass to eat. What do you think of that?”

Though the horse didn
’t reply, the idea was enough to console his mind.

He hated pushing this animal to the brink of its limits.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and bared his neck to the air.

When they would get to the top, he couldn
’t be sure.

All he cared about in that moment was that they were one step closer to their destination.

The afternoon
waned as though a constellation forced to move across the heavens. The sun sinking slowly across the horizon, toward the west and lighting the world with its blinding rays, the clouds moved, shifted and shrouded the world in shadow in some places and then others. It seemed to Odin that once the horse had cleared the harshest part of the incline that they would simply be thrust into shadow, though how he expected that to happen was completely beyond him. Here, seemingly at the top of the world, he could see everything for leagues on end, including the broad sweep of land he had just spent two weeks crossing.

I did it,
he thought, smiling, a laugh ready to escape from his throat but strangled before it could escape.
I really did it!

There would be no more worries about how he would climb the hills, how he would defeat their sentiments or conquer their heights. There would be no doubt, no worry, no fear or growing sense of escalation that he could not do the very thing he wanted to do, for at that moment nothing but triumph existed, a rising sense of glory within his heart that spread through his throat and up into his mind.

Directly before his eyes and sweeping across the southern horizon were the very hills he would cross for the next week, if not two.

The Whooping Hills,
he thought.
The place where creatures once lived and then came to die.

There, he decided that it would be best to not only give himself, but his horse a br
eak. For that, he dismounted, grabbed the nail from the side of the saddle, then stabbed it into the ground.

They each deserved a night of rest.

He saw what could have been the most bea
utiful sunrise atop the Whooping Hills. Much like he had seen at the crux of it all, directly beneath the gargantuan heights of the Hornblaris Mountains, orange and red light bled across the horizon and eventually began to fade into lighter and more prominent shades of pink. Struck with blue both pale and dark, this collage of color seemed to extend forevermore until it eventually struck the parts of the world he knew to be covered in ocean—a large, ever-sweeping plane of blue that likely reflected the very thing he was now looking at.

It
’s so beautiful.

Beautiful could not have described the scene. Breathtaking, awe-inspiring and exquisite could have framed this thing upon a wall, but not beauty. No. Beauty was but a thing to be referred to on a warm summer
’s day when staring into the eyes and soul of another, for such a word was meant for mortals and not the everlasting world.

Taking a deep breath, then expelling it just as slowly, Odin unbuckled the clasps that held the horse
’s saddle in place, then set it on the ground before beginning to go through its contents, pulling from many pockets and satchels the necessary ingredients for the night’s meal. The prop upon which the pot would rest came first, then the support beams that would be speared within the ground. Followed by these items was the pack of flour and the tin of water that he would use to create the night’s dinner.

When he finished and camp was but a moment away from being prepared, Odin smiled and looked out at the fading sunset.

If only you could see this.

A tear slipped from his eye.

Nearly two weeks after his father’s death, he still could not shake the feelings from his soul.

Though he felt as though he would never truly get over the Elf
’s death, he knew what he had to do.

Reaching up, he brushed the tears from his eyes, crouched down, then struck a plume of flame into the ground, where it began to glow in glorious light before eventually dying down to a somber, pale white.

Without the company of another, it took all his courage to sleep alone, for anyone or anything could easily come in the middle of the night and kill him or steal all his belongings. For that he forced the fire with all his might to burn
and allowed what little faith he held to be instilled within the horse, who would surely alert him to any trespassers who stepped too close to the campground.

Though initially concerned about his lack of protection, he eventually gave in and was able to fall as
leep.

In the middle of the night, a bloodcurdling scream thrust him from the peace of darkness. Thro
wn forward by momentum, he reached down and pulled the black-bladed sword from its sheath in one single, deft move.

What was that?

Ears alert, eyes scanning the horizon and the fine hairs on his neck rising on end, he first looked to the horse who stood no more than a few feet away, then to the distant hills that towered even above the awesome heights he stood upon.

He knew nothing of this area, of the creatures or beings that inhabited it, so who could say that he had not heard the shrill cry of a Harpy or a giant bird of prey?

There are no Harpies here,
he thought.
There can’t be.

Surely there could be no wicked women, no creatures of avian lineage and cursed beyond compare, for they only existed to the far west in the Dark Mountains, within the heart of Denyon and the passages it held. For them to be so far north would be a tragedy, as that alone would have summoned upon the world a notion of evil that surely should not exist within the lightened planes of life.

“No,” he whispered. “It wasn’t a Harpy.”

It couldn
’t have been, for he had not heard a cackle, a cry or a shrill shriek that cut across the sky like a fine dagger being thrown through the air.

No.

This had to be something else.

Pushing himself out of his bedroll and steadying himself on his feet, he sought out the distant horizon and the hills that blanketed the eastern countryside.

For one moment, he thought nothing in the world could have been watching him.

Shortly thereafter, his heart froze inside his chest and his blood chilled to the temperature of ice.

It stood on the furthest hill watching him with an intensity that could have been considered catlike and iconic. Hunched forward, head tilted in his direction and red eyes burning with an intensity like two handheld lanterns, the creature, doglike in appearance and all respects, began to stalk the hillside watching him with its horrific eyes, then slowly came to stop in midstride as if disturbed by something on the wind. Head held prone, high ears flickering, it tilted its head left, then right. It soon came to repeat this behavior as though mimicking something it had to have seen in a bird, for unless piqued by some higher curiosity canines, or canine-like creatures did not usually exhibit such behavior. It continued to do this for the next several moments, watching Odin in the faint light that streamed from the firelight, before tilting its head back to release the very sound that had torn him from sleep.

If one truly stopped to consider it, the creature could have sounded like a bird dying on a cold night.

“What are you?” Odin whispered, holding his sword steady as the fire began to flicker, waning in spite of the immense hold he forced over it. “What do you want from me?”

The creature turned its head back down to regard him.

No. It couldn’t have possibly heard him, could it?

That
’s ridiculous.

Whatever this thing was had to have come across him by accident. He had not drawn attention to himself, and while a fire burned to keep intruders away, it had not been
meant to draw others near him.

Maybe he would have been better off in the darkness—alone, isolated and completely cut off from everything around him.

“Go away,” he whispered.

The creature tilted its head back and screamed.

What on the very face of this earth could this creature have been, could
be?
Surely it was not of the natural world, for dogs did not scream like women. Could it have been supernatural, possibly, or maybe even a magical construct created by someone distant and hidden?

Up until that moment, he hadn
’t felt any form of magic whatsoever.

This isn
’t magic,
he thought.

“This is real.”

The creature tilted its head back and howled.

Odin snuffed the fire out of existence with a simple wave of his hand.

Beside him, the horse whinnied.

“It
’s all right,” he whispered, crawling back into his bedroll and sliding as deep inside it as he could. “Nothing’s going to bother us.”

He could only hope.

For what seemed like days following their initial acquain
tance the creature continued to follow him. Only by night and seemingly shadowing his every step, its red eyes could be seen bobbing across the horizon and its howls heard echoing across the hills—
whooping,
some would have said, like a bird strangled and with damaged vocal chords.

At one point—during the day, at a time when the sun was clear
and stark against the horizon—Odin began to consider the idea that the creature could have been a Sprite of some sort, as its eyes seemed the only discernible part of it. However, as night once more came and the creature returned, he cast all notions of that aside and turned his attention to dinner, which cooked in the pot before him and threatened to boil over were he not careful.

Does it really matter,
he thought,
what it is?

Though it clearly didn
’t, as the creature had yet to approach or attempt to communicate with him, he couldn’t help but wonder whether or not this thing had a past. He briefly entertained the notion that the Centaurs, once alive and thriving, had once dealt with this thing—had once told their children to always remain inside after dark and to stray from things with red eyes and curdled cries—but that idea quickly faltered as the creature howled.