TR: 42

Chapter Forty Two: On The Shoulders of Giants

Mannin Vassik peered into the dry hole of his empty flask, staring back at him like an unforgiving eye. He grunted in frustration and tossed it off onto the grassy shoulder. He turned back to the long, dusty desolation that was Cobbler’s Pass, reminiscing on their journey so far. His mind drifted over and along the monotonous dirt road which, sometime many kaldar away, was eventually absorbed into the landscape beyond. He sighed and turned back towards the horse cart.

“Remind me again why we didn’t just hire ourselves a private shuttle out of Satine Starr? Isn’t that the running joke: the perks of being an elected official–that you get to squander tax dollars via expensive jet-setting?”

Vassik looked down at his companion who lay on his back in the dirt under their carriage, in earnest attempt to repair the rear axle which had split going over the most recent pothole–of which their were many on the pass. Too many, apparently. Darrik pushed himself out from underneath, dust kicking up around them. He sat up, wiping the glistening sweat from his brow with the back of his travel robe–attire which they had both donned to remain indiscriminate on their travels. He squinted against the booming sun as he peered up at the ambassador.

“Well, sir, for one, I am unsure of the logistics of mooring such a vessel, given there are no local spaceports at our destined locale. More, I imagine that, given the clandestine nature of our mission, it would be counterproductive to mark ourselves in such fashion. I feel that our choice of transportation was a sound decision, given the circumstances.”

Vassik glanced over at the large white draft-horse still attached to the yoke. It turned its head, its large chestnut of an eye peering out from under blonde forelock, staring at the ambassador with what might have been a judgemental look.

See what you have done? Now where is my food? He imagined it saying.

The Ambassador raised an eyebrow at the animal, shaking his head in disapproval. He turned back to his friend who sat leaning against the wheel of the cart, drinking what drops he had left from his own canteen.

“Indeed. Still, I can’t help but see the irony in all of this.”

Darrik twisted the cap back onto his flask and placed it in his robe pocket. “Irony, sir?”

Vassik kicked a stone with his boot and watched it bounce along the pass, jostling around until entropy and other forces persuaded it off course, along a grassy shoulder and into a small brook, disappearing into the water with the faintest of plops. He frowned off into the distance with his hands on his hips.

“Yes, that we should be sent out to do the prince’s bidding in one of his appointed carriages which then breaks down not a quarter of the way in, to then find ourselves derailed on one of his appointed thoroughfares–fallen into such a state of disrepair all on account of his negligence, I might add. I would say that constitutes an ironic situation, wouldn’t you? After all, we wouldn’t be out here in this god-forsaken countryside, in the heat of summer and waterless, if it weren’t for his bloody…”

Vassik groaned, slumping against the side of the carriage, sliding down until he was sitting on the ground beside his travelling companion. He sighed deeply.

“Ah Darrik, listen to me–all those years of filibustering in parliament have caught up with me. The heavy hand of politics, lifting the House which you carry everywhere with you. But what does it matter, anyway? Any of it, really? It would have happened sooner or later and there’s nothing to be said of it. This is truly the culmination of events that have been building up for years, and years to come, and we all knew about it. We really are here of our own making; I shouldn’t forget that.”

Darrik sat silent, considering. The Ambassador wiped the dust off his face and looked over his shoulder at the broken axle.

“How’s it looking?” He asked.

Darrik shook his head. “I don’t think I can repair it. The axle is split right down the shaft and any kind of sudden force could cause it to fracture, and then we would be without a wheel entirely. Possibly, two, if it snaps midstride and the force jars the other side just so. There is no question in my mind that it needs professional attention.”

Vassik scoffed. “Professional attention. A wheel. Not a thermo-transductive… servo..whats-a-majiggy–a simple, wooden wheel. Oh, how low have we sunk…”

The two stewed in silent self-pity for a time. Eventually, the Ambassador glanced desultorily back down the path, stretching endlessly away from them, as if hoping a technologically advanced answer to their problems would come skipping along toward them. None did, of course.

“How far until the next town?”

Darrik scratched his head. “Half a kaldar at least, I’d say. May I suggest, sir, that if we are to continue on horseback that we avoid the main path? From here on there are known…unsavory types about. We do not need to add to our current troubles and make ourselves marks.”

“You mean highwaymen, don’t you?”

Darrik nodded. “It is common knowledge that Imtek frequent the mids–the many intermediary arteries that connect the main populations. We are, as they say, in their turf, now.”

Vassik hopped to his feet and raised a hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the blazing sun. He stared off into the rolling hills before them which, eventually, became ensconced with dense forest. A drop of sweat rolled down from his temple and danced across his cheek. The pastoral scene painted a placid picture of do-no-harm, though Vassik, too, knew that the reality of things was quite different. Raiders were commonplace in the wild; Imtek were legion in parts such as those, and many rogue factions were known to be scattered about the countryside. To gallivant through such a place practically invited trouble. He had heard enough of the stories to fill ten books over. He pulled out a paper map from his pocket; all devices were to be left behind, on official order, as they were to be untraceable–just like their mission. Vassik’s finger found their location and he traced it from that point along a nearby blue line.

“This, here–it appears to be a decommissioned logging road. It is off the beaten path and poses its own set of risks, but at least it puts us out of the crosshairs. There’s a trailhead not too far from here, perhaps, hmm…let’s see, maybe a couple of leave from our position. If this map is still accurate, it looks like it veers off north-northwest a hair but, eventually, reconnects just shy of the next waystation.”

He held the map closer to his face, inspecting it keenly. “Hmm…except, it looks like there may be an obstruction part way along. Mountains. Caves, maybe. Nothing too extreme, judging from the contour, but it may pose a bottleneck…”

Darrik leaned over the ambassador’s shoulder, looking upon the map. “Ah, yes–I know this place: Ash’uwe Knoll. It’s a cairn, actually, where the ancestral indigenes buried their sacred passed.”

Vassik frowned over his shoulder at his companion. “How could you possibly know such an obscure landmark?”

“Quite the contrary, sir: it is only obscure to those who are not of the land. Do not forget: I am of the Isles, despite my estrangement from my real parents. While I am not affiliated with any one band, per se, Island folk are strongly connected to the land and its many peoples. Even though I only knew my father for a scant handful of years, his travels and his teachings left a distinct impression on me in my youth. We saw much of the world–both prominent and humble. Things such as this knoll, well…the only way to describe it is through a traditional saying among my people: the most potent poisons in nature come in the tiniest of doses. Such is the power of nature and all her features. When you see this, I think you will understand.”

The ambassador thought on his attendant’s sage words. He nodded thoughtfully. “And all of this–these worldly travels, as you say–that must have occurred before…”

Darrik nodded. “Yes, sir. I was fortunate enough to spend, at least, part of my youth outside of…”

“Servitude?”

Darrik stopped, catching himself, suddenly looking slightly horrified.

“I didn’t mean, sir…”

“And yet, here you are–a free man–in servitude to another once again.”

There was nothing flagrant in his tone or posture, nothing suggesting his rhetoric was targeted toward invoking guilt or ill-meaning. If anything, the ambassador stood looking sincere as ever, his expression anything if not self-effacing.

Darrik stood erect, almost defiant. “Sir, I hope I have not offended you in anyway. I am grateful for what you have done for me, truly. In no way is this the same as what I went through in my previous life. I am here of my own accord and no one else’s, indentured and indebted to you, and proud to serve.”

Vassik placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, smiling. “And that is the only point that is being made here, my friend: you are free, and I am not your master. Though, at times, I must admit, I do drive the carriage hard, as it were.”

Darrik looked over at the broken axle, smiling cheekily. “As it were, sir, agreed.”

“Careful, Darrik: just because this is a mutualistic contract doesn’t mean I can’t rescind free speech privileges.”

“Right, sir, understood.”

“But enough of this sentimental babble. Now that that’s out of the way, we should untether the horse and prep him for the journey. It’s a long road ahead.”

Darrik nodded. “The Sequala converges about half a kaldar west from here. This stream here is one of its tributaries and should be drinkable. I suggest, sir, we let the gelding drink up and replenish the saddlebags while we are at it. At the convergence there should be a way station, if memory serves. Once we reach it we can ask the attendant ranger for the fastest route to the next town. They will know the area even better than I.”

“Agreed. Hopefully, this ranger has some veissenbren on tap. I could use a good drink after all of this.”

“Unlikely, sir. Such amenities are few and far between in the countryside, I am afraid. If they have anything to serve at all, it is likely distillates and trappings from the surrounding woods.”

The ambassador raised an eyebrow as he picked up his estranged flask, un-stoppering it and letting the Sequala flow inward. “It was a joke, Darrik.”

Darrik untethered the gelding from the yoke and led it to the stream by a lead, slackening the line so that the animal could bow its head down toward the stream where it began to lap at the running water. Once the horse was satiated and they had refilled their canteens, Darrik retrieved their belongings from the cart, checking them over to ensure that all the fasteners and buckles were secure. He hoisted both bags over his shoulder, ready to take on the double burden. The ambassador held up a hand in protest.

“Please, I can take my own bag. Though I appreciate the sentiment.”

Darrik nodded and handed the ambassador his belongings. Vassik slung the sack over his shoulder and looked up at the midday sky, shielding his eyes from the cloying sun.

“We don’t have much time if we want to make it to this waystation in daylight. Let’s get a move a move on then, shall we?”

Darrik nodded as he began to secure the saddle bags on the horse. As he worked, he paused, looking down the long road ahead. The day’s heat settled against the pass, forming a distorted sheet of air that rippled like water just above it.

“Sir, did…did you hear that?”

“What is it, Darrik?”

Darrik stood watching the trail as the birdsong died off around them. The faintest of rumbles shook the earth somewhere off in the distance, like an afterthought to something much, much larger. Vassik heard it too and he turned his attention to the pass beyond. He walked over to his partner’s side and the two stared off into the distance.

“What is that?” He whispered.

The sound came again, louder this time, and the earth shook slighltly. The horse glanced up nervously, its ears pricking up like blades of grass. Another thump–this time much closer to their location– and a flock of white birds scared from a treetop, scattering aloft like an explosion of snow blossoms, chattering noisily. The two men followed the scattershot of feathers overhead until they disappeared behind distant evergreens. The thumping sounds continued around them, coming in closer and closer intervals, growing louder as whatever it was came nearer. The horse whinnied, bucking backward onto its hindlegs, kicking its forelegs in the air, nearly striking the ambassador. Vassik cursed and jumped backwards as the horse tore free from Darrik’s grasp, turning and bolting off into the woods at full gallop, the lead line dragging behind it on the ground like a sad tail.

“Darrik, the horse!”

The two men ran after the rogue gelding but the horse had already disappeared into the dense foliage of the forest. They stopped shy of the river and looked back over their shoulders. The heavy beating continued against the earth; now, Vassik could feel his teeth chattering against his skull from the force.

“What on Rynn…”

“Footsteps.”

Vassik frowned at his majordomo. “Footsteps? How could that be…”

Darrik pointed down the pass with a trembling hand. “L…look sir!”

In the not-so-distant pass, a great hazy silhouette began to emerge from the distorted heat waves. At first it presented as a mess of watercolours, as if someone had taken a brush to it, then the colours converged together into shapes as an object took form. It was bipedal–humanoid–but much, much larger, its bald head nearly level with the highest cedars. Its muscular arms swung gently at its sides like massive pendulums helping it keep its rhythmic stride.

“A hill giant?” Darrik said, incredulously.

“A what?”

“A hill giant, sir. They don’t normally come this far south. It’s unheard of in fact. Something must have driven it from the mountains–their usual domicile.”

Vassik stared at the distant image, his mind attempting to comprehend what it was seeing.

Giants.

Outside of tavern gossip and the ramblings of lay folk, the ambassador never would have considered such a thing to actually exist. But there it was, all twelve-plus blades of it, ambling slowly towards him, as if straight out of a fae fable. And if giants were real, what else had emancipated itself out of the pages of legend?

“Darrik, am I seeing what you are seeing here?”

“Indeed, sir. And I suggest we do what we can to see less of it, as it is approaching swifter than I am comfortable to admit.”

“But…that’s a giant, Darrik. A bloody giant! They are not supposed to exist! What exactly is going on here?”

“Well, sir, I am afraid to say that the world is not always the prim and proper tale that urban narratives would have you believe. Faefolken are as real as you and I. I have met more than a few myself on my earlier sojourns.”

“Well, of course the fae are real. But we’re not talking about the Yan here, Darrik. This changes…well…this changes everything. Records will need to be amended, history essentially rewritten, as the city knows it. How could such a thing escape our purview…?”

Darrik shook his head. “There is much in the world that we do not know. While the capitol is large in surface area, it’s scope is not. There are many worlds in which we do not deal. The natural world being one of them. But a better question, I believe, is why is it here now? Something must have driven it down into the valley…”

“What in the world could drive that from its home?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I do not wish to find out. Quick, we must hide!”

Darrik grabbed Vassik by the hand and they bolted off towards the stream. They ran down the grassy gulch as massive footsteps sounded around them like cannon fire. They ran down the bank toward the brook, stopping at the edge in the soft alluvium.

“Wait, Darrik! What are you doing?” Vassik snatched his arm away from his friend.

“We must get into the stream, sir! It’s our only chance.” He panted between breaths.

“Are you mad, man? There’s plenty of trees around to hide in.” He panned a hand around them. “We can’t afford to catch cold at a time like this.”

“No sir, you don’t understand! It would find us in the forest, no matter where we hide. Giants have a keen sense of smell; it’s how they hunt their prey.”

Vassik placed his hands on his hips and frowned at his friend. “How do you know all of this, Darrik?”

The footfalls boomed around them as the creature neared. “There’s no time sir! Get in the river or you won’t be around for an answer.”

“Darrik, I’m not…”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Darrik grabbed Vassik by the shoulder and pulled him into the stream along with him, landing in the icy water with two messy splashes. Vassik gasped underwater as the cold assaulted him, his central nervous system suddenly exploding into alert mode. He swam towards the surface, gulping in a breath of fresh air. Darrik emerged beside him, gasping for air. Vassik rounded on his associate, grabbing him by the collar.

“Darrik you fool! What were you thinking? We could have…”

“Shh!” Darrik silenced his friend, pulling them back under until only the top halves of their heads were visible.

He pointed towards the pass at the crest of the gully above them. The giant came into view, hovering tall above them, the bottom half of its body obscured by the angle of the hill. It stopped in the middle of the road as the last footstep thundered off into the distance. It stared down at something on the road that caught its interest, squatting down to examine whatever it was. It tilted its head as it cautiously examined its find, a carefully calculating analysis which spoke of a keen intellect. The ambassador could see the sinews of its muscular arms, looking like fleshy tree roots under its skin. It wore knee high boots with the cusps tucked neatly over, and tan slacks underneath a dirt brown tunic fastened by a leather belt at its waist. The sunlight glinted off the creature’s bald head, a permanent scowl transfixed on its face. It was not an ugly thing, per se, though it did have a clear air of intelligence about it, apparent in its one visible eye; its other had a large black eyepatch covering it, a faded scar visible beneath it running from its temple to its cheekbone. Clearly, the thing was no stranger to violence. This assumption was corroborated by the dagger which hung nonchalantly on a leather thong attached to its belt. To another of its kind the weapon may not have posed much of a threat; to one on a smaller scale, the thing was enormous, perhaps two blades or more, approximating—or even challenging–the length of a longsword.

The giant reached out with a muscular arm and grabbed a hold of their carriage, hoisting it up to its face with one hand as if it were a toy, not a full-sized vehicle. It turned it over, examining it from different angles, then it sniffed it–not brusquely like an animal–but gently, as with purpose in mind. It tilted the carriage above its head and peered in to the windows as it squinted its one giant eye. It shook the carriage like a pepper shaker, one of the wheels snapping free, falling to the earth with a dull clunk. The giant sighed, sounding like the wind, then glanced around from side to side, most likely searching for the deserters it had hoped to find. The giant scanned the horizon, eyeing its surrounding keenly. It sniffed at the air as it searched and it was at that moment that the ambassador realized why his compatriot had pulled them into the river’s cold embrace: even the keenest of noses would have a difficult time smelling their quarry while submerged. Yet, the creature was so close, the ambassador worried it wouldn’t be enough, especially given they were still partially exposed. As if confirming his worst fears, the giant’s gaze swivelled in their direction, meandering slowly down toward the stream beneath. As its massive eye settled near their location, a horse’s whinny sounded from somewhere not too far off. Ever the equine reprieve, the giant’s attention riveted toward the sound and it stood upright, dropping the carriage to the ground like a discarded rag, the sound of wood cracking and buckling as it struck the unforgiving earth. And while it was a welcome distraction, unfortunately, the trajectory of the sound put them straight in the giant’s chosen path as it indiscriminately stepped into the brook. Of course, to the giant it was hardly that–more of a rivulet than anything, but its massive boot coming down on them was more than enough to warrant distress.

Vassik and Darrik gasped as the giant’s boot plummeted into the stream, cutting through the water and sinking into the bedrock below. The ambassador hardly had time to take a breath before he was plunged underwater. The river exploded into a torrent of cascading waves as it spilled out on to both shores from the sheer displacement of the giant’s foot. The two of them swayed violently underwater, twisting and churning as the currents pulled them about like invisible hands. Another boot came down between them, rocking them out of their temporary stalemate, forcing the two of them apart as the currents pulled them in opposing directions. Mannin Vassik swam hard to combat the flow but it was all but useless against the forces at play. His partner was nowhere to be seen. The footfalls could be heard even underwater, the river rocks below trembling with each step, as if they too were afraid for their lives. As the last of the currents twisted him about, he could hear the massive footsteps fade into the distance, the thundering echoes dying away. His heart thrumming wildly in his chest and using up oxygen haphazardly, the ambassador resisted resurfacing as long as his body would allow him. Soon enough, nature won over and he swam up, frantically. He burst out of the water, gasping in much-needed air. He wiped the water from his face and did a three-sixty, his second-in-command nowhere in sight, as was the giant. Afraid to call the beast back to them, he shouted in a half-hushed tone.

“Darrik? Darrik!”

No response.

The ambassador took in another deep breath, about to dive back into the dark waters of the Sequala when a voice cut him short.

“Over here, sir.”

Vassik pivoted around to find his friend lying on the edge of the bank, coughing up water. Vassik paddled over to him, dragging himself out on to the bank beside him. He pulled the tie out of his hair, shaking out his long black locks like a bedraggled dog. The two of them must have made for a sorry sight, the ambassador mused to himself. Vassik coughed, spitting out his own fair share of river which had worked its way down his trachea.

“I thought we were done for, for sure.”

After a long silent moment, Darrik began to chuckle. Perturbed, Vassik glanced over at his offset companion.

“And what, may I ask, do you find humorous about our predicament?”

Darrik made a dismissive gesture into the air and smiled up into the sky.

“Oh, it’s nothing really, sir. Just that…the irony again. It is all is quite overwhelming.”

The Ambassador harrumphed as he took off his sopping robe, wringing it out in the grass beside him. “I think you know where I will suggest you shove that irony.”

Darrik nodded, smiling. “Aye, sir. But you must admit there is an air of wanting to it. Was it not just a day ago–at high tea of all things–that we we made mention of the mundane lives of which we were leading, and how a good adventure would perhaps break the monotony of it all?”

Vassik frowned, removing one boot as water came gushing out onto the bank, his sock mopping wet. “Well, had I known we would be here in less than twenty four hours then I would have very likely reconsidered the topic of our conversation.”

“Well, sir, it seems that, like it or not, our adventure has begun. Though, in this case, I believe it has found us.”

Darrik glanced off in the direction that the giant had taken. Vassik grimaced at the treetops as he shook out his remaining boot before placing it back on his sodden foot. He stood up and made his way back up to the road. At the road he took in the sight of their devastated carriage which, now, was barely more than a pile of rubble, reminding him of their near-death experience. Vassik looked back over his shoulder, Darrik still lying on the ground, staring up at the sky is a state of seeming lassitude. How the man could be so carefree after having that experience, Vassik could never know. Perhaps, it was shock.

“Come, Darrik, before adventure decides to return and claim its supper.”

Darrik met his mentor’s gaze before hopping back to his feet. He looked around at the woods that surrounded them, that untamed, unyielding wild that only shared its secrets with those who were willing to risk everything to learn them. He smiled, the wind ruffling his hair.

“Ah, yes. It’s good to be home.” 

***

20th of Sarelo, 3048 CE

Kinsha’a Encampment

Somewhere in the wilderness of the Southern Strays, Liemont

The figure made its way through the dark underbrush, towards the dim glow that shone through the jagged shapes of barren trees. The smells of campfire wafted past, a gossamer sheen of smoke billowing upward in a dreamy haze toward the clear, starlit sheet above. Boots crunched against long-dead leaves as it approached but the men sitting ’round the fire did not seem to notice.

Some warriors, this lot.

When it came to the edge of the clearing it stood watching and listening, obscured in the blanket of ambiguous shadow. Four men clad in wolf furs sat in a semicircle about a fire, a crude spit fashioned from three whittled maple branches roasting some creature now charred far beyond recognition. A stricken breeze blew in from the west, tussling the flames like a jilted lover. The largest of them–the one with the painted face–pulled his fur tighter to his body, the other two men looking in the direction of the breeze, as if expecting something or someone to follow. Their attention was pulled back to the fire when the painted-face man began to draw figures in the dirt with the end of his fire poker, the stick sizzling as it dragged through the dry soil. His expression was rapt, focused entirely on the task he was performing. When the drawing was complete he looked across the flames at his companions, looking like a ghostly apparition as the shadows of the flames danced across the tribal markings on his face. His dire expression coupled with the warpaint gave the impression a sacrifice was about to occur. Instead, he motioned to the ground with the now-smoking end of his tool.

“Here, here….and here.” He said, in their language. “This is where they will land.”

One of the others gave him a penetrating glance.

“How do you know?” he asked, in the same tongue. “The ocean is large…”

The word was not actually large; perhaps, vast was more appropriate. Literally: a thing so large it is beyond numbers, though there was no direct translation to Standard.

“Chief has had a vision. The Ku’laatn’m have spoken to him, guided his sight to this. The unlanders–they will need clear passage ashore. Their ships will run aground on the shoals and rock banks anywhere else, for kaldar in either direction. This is the place they must go. We will have the offerings, and everything else, as discussed.”

One of the others pointed a finger at the speaker. “It Sounds like this plan has as many holes as those ships’ hulls would have. The North has always sent messengers in advance of trade; why not now? This is a bad omen…”

The painted man rounded severely on his friend, jumping to his feet and pointing his glowing stick in his face. “Are you questioning the authority of the great spirits?”

The other man balked for a moment, sticking his chest out defiantly, before settling on his better judgement, shrinking back into the shadows of the fire.

The man sitting beside him–the one roasting the spit–held up his hand in appeasement. “Low, brother! The spirits have heard no defiance this night. Silent Snow only echoes our feelings here this night; we wish no war on our people.”

“Yes. Lone Shrew has a good point, you know.” Said the fourth figure, a man with a bundle of hawk feathers tied into his hair with a leather thong.  “Even though they are blood broken, they still honour some of the old ways; they are a still a people of tradition. As long as we honour the traditions–and our pact–then we can do no wrong.”

“That’s right.” Said Lone Shrew. “So, K’rangie, there is no need to get worked up like a bear in a beehive.”

His comrades chuckled as Lone Shrew withdrew a long pipe from his buckskin, tamping down some dried grey leafs into the spout before lighting it with the end of the hot poker offered by K’rangie. He crossed his arms, leaning back as he blew a large smoke ring at the fire.  The others took cue and lit their own pipes, sitting in silence for a long while as they contemplated the campfire between them. After the silence seemed to stretch on for a time, another breeze blew past and K’rangie turned his gaze to the stars, grunting in disapproval.

“You are all wrong. The spirits are uneasy this night. I can feel it in the air, in the trees.”

He pointed at the sky with his poker. “Even the stars know it. Something is not as it should be. The wind has brought confirmation: balance is sought. We must act or bring our ancestors great shame.”

The four men sat around the fire, ruminating on K’rangie’s heavy words. It was true: there was a heaviness surrounding them. They could all feel it, like a weighted blanket.

A loaded gun.

“What shall we do?” said one.

“We must pray to the spirits for forgiveness.” said another.

The painted face man nodded his head. “Yes, but the Ku’laatn’m demand more. Elder Wustook has foreseen it: we must prepare a grand offering if the disaster is to be prevented. Chief Talc Feather must go into the Sacred Caves. Only then will our people be able to commune with the spirits.”

Lone Shrew jumped to his feet. “We cannot go into the caves! No one is allowed into them. You of all people know this, K’rangie. It is the sacred burial ground of our people, ordained by the great spirits themselves. For thousands of years our people have honoured this tradition. We must never set foot there unless it is to bury an elder. No exceptions!”

K’rangie nodded, the briefest expression of sadness touching his face. “You are right, brother. And this tradition will be honoured. The chief himself will be the offering.”

The others stared at the painted face man with bewildered looks.

“He is to be a sacrifice to appease the spirits. We will bury him in hallowed ground; the spirits shall be pleased with such an offering.”

“But… we cannot defy the Great Spirits, even if it is them that is asking to defy their own creed. Can we?”

Lone Shrew looked around the campfire to the others for answers but everyone seemed just as baffled as he. Before any suggestions or further objections could be made, a twig snapped in the bushes behind them. Like honed predators, they bolted to their feet, the crackling blue glow of three repulsor bows as energy weapons were drawn, Glo arrows nocked and poised to strike into the heart of the darkness. Behind them, K’rangie stood at the ready, suddenly armed with electrolance and shield, translucent orange projections surrounding the lot of them as they engaged their corpomesh.

A figure came walking out of the shadows, clapping its hands slowly in a mock gesture of applause. The fire light cast dancing shadows against his person as he came into the clearing, giving the impression that he himself was of the flame. A tall, lean form, he wore a long tanned duster, beneath which were a pair of faded jeans held in place by a black leather belt fastened in the center by the skull of a small animal. The spurs on his boots clinked as he walked towards the guarded group of men, marking a slow, taunting cadence.

“A touching story, brother, but one that will remain folklore, I assure you.”

The man’s voice was low and dirty, though it possessed a kind of control; a snake’s gentle hiss, but laced with poison.

K’rangie glared at the dark intruder. “I am no brother of yours. You have been banished from this land. Leave, now.”

He spat on the earth between them.

Lone Shrew winced at the gesture, as if inflicted pain. “The cowboy returns. Is that it? What happened to you Kieldahmun? What really happened? We know the stories you tell, but the Great Spirits know differently…”

“The spirits be damned!” shouted the newcomer.

The four warriors gasped in unison.

“What did they ever do for me, huh?”

The figure caught itself and reigned in the passion, tugging at the fold of his duster. “It’s like you said–it’s only stories. And your spirits, well…they abandoned me the night they fell from the sky.”

“How dare you speak such blasphemies, Kieldahmun! Do you not know the portent this night brings? Can you not feel it around us, even now, as we bicker here?”

The man looked around in silence, the crackle of the fire in the backdrop. His gaze fell back upon K’rangie, vacant and desolate as the night.

“Oh, I think you’re right. At least about one thing: the gods are angry. But, let me tell you this, brother: there are other gods out there, oh yes. And I’ve come to bring a message from them.”

Casually, he brushed aside his duster, revealing an ornamental-looking hatchet at his waist. He unsheathed the weapon, holding it up in the air above him. A radiant blue energy began to emanate from the thing, working its way down his arm until it enveloped his whole being. He became a radiant form, an electrical silhouette of his former self, as if he were made of pure Glo. The hatchet in his hand began to telescope out from the haft, a second blade forming on the backside of the working end, until he was holding a full-length axe. He began to spin the weapon in a circle, faster and faster until the image disappeared, replaced with an electric whirlwind. Bolts of energy shot out sporadically, one striking a nearby tree trunk, setting it aflame. The four warriors ducked down despite their protection, suddenly terrified and feeling vulnerable, as if their equipment would do nothing for them. The man called Kieldahmun lowered his gaze to the four before him, his eyes two burning pits of white flame. There was so much anger in those eyes–a resentment that Lone Shrew could not understand; what had happened to his brother? This was not the man that he knew.

Lone Shrew held up a hand as torrents of hot air pushed them back. “Kieldahmun, this is not you! You need to stop this…this…thing, before it consumes you.”

The man laughed. “You are not wrong, brother. I am not who I once was. We have become so much more, together. But you would never understand. You never did.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

“The future, brother! Behold the power of the beyond. This: this is true godship.”

He lowered the spinning weapon at them and the four slid backwards as the focused air intensified in their direction. Blue bolts lashed out, striking their corpomesh. Normally, the mesh would absorb the impacts and redistribute the energy to the surrounding environment–as was their design–but, instead, the energy completely depowered their suits, the orange translucence faltering several times before it blinked out of existence. The four warriors exchanged astounded glances for the briefest of moments before time-crafted battle hardiness quickly set in and their riposte ensued. Silent Snow and his partner unleashed a flurry of bolts but the vortex formed by the spinning weapon absorbed or deflected the shots, forming an impenetrable wall between them. A rogue bolt ricocheted back at the warriors, striking the unnamed one in the heart. He fell to the ground motionless, smoke sizzling out of the center of his chest. Silent Snow looked down in horror at his fallen brother, suddenly panicking as he turned and ran into the woods. Kieldahmun held up the spinning axe above his head, a cascade of lightning raining down around the encampment, striking pell-mell at whatever it could ground itself on. A bolt lashed out, striking Silent Snow at the periphery of the forest. In a flash of light and an anticlimactic puff of smoke, the man was gone, a pile of ash and a derelict repulsor bow in his stead.

“Nooooo!” K’rangie yelled, putting himself between Lone Shrew and their assailant.

He held up his shield and the lightning arced to it like a dousing rod, absorbing the energy as the internal sinks began to rapidly bank towards maximum storage. K’rangie watched in horror as his device’s gauge told him as much, beginning to flash red as systems bridged into critical capacity.

“How is this possible?” He gasped.

SYSTEMS APPROACHING HAZARDOUS LEVELS. DISENGAGE IMMED…

A huge explosion followed as K’rangie’s shield, overloaded with energy, disintegrated in his hands. He screamed as he flew back, a spray of blood and gore as the shrapnel tore away his forearm. A repulse backfired at Keildahmun, surging into the weapon and sending it flying out of his hands, knocking him off balance. He cursed as the axe clanged along the hard packed earth, sliding into the flickering shadows at the edge of the camp. K’rangie, now on one knee and holding a badly bleeding severed arm, wasted no time and lunged at his opponent with his electrolance, screaming a gut wrenching battle cry. Kiledahmun brushed aside his duster and with precision as fast as the lightning that had ravaged the camp, a steel six-shooter was spiralling out of holster in his leather glove, the barrel spinning gracefully into place as perpendicular met death. Three brutally loud reports as magnetically-accelerated balistek rounds embedded themselves in K’rangie’s torso, small sunbursts of red spreading across his buckskin like dye dripped into water. The bold warrior fell to his knees once more, this time to stay. A look of frozen torture on his face as he met the gaze of the other, Kieldahmun’s expression unmoved.

“Spirits…guide me…”

His eyes glazed over and he fell face first into a pool of his own blood, spreading in a dark circle as it stained the earth black in the night. Kieldahmun looked curiously down at the corpse, nudging it with his boot, his spur jangling as if laughing at it.

“Doesn’t look like the Spirits are doin’ much for ya these days.”

His eyes slowly met Lone Shrew’s, who just stood in horror, bow still drawn, though it shook with visible fear. Kieldahmun spun the revolver in a three-sixty on his finger, holstering it in one smooth motion.

“Put yer pea shooter away. Bullets already been exchanged. Let’s trade words now, huh?”

Lone Shrew lowered the bow then quickly raised it, doing so several more times as if some other force controlled his movements. Finally, he released the tension on the string and the energy dissipated, leaving a simple cylinder no larger than a hand’s width. He held fast to that cylinder. His eyes panned over the chaos around him. Not moments ago he and his brothers had been enjoying a fine evening feast together in the company of the Great Spirits; now, he felt as if he were the only one alive in the world. Now, the only eyes on him were this stranger’s who once had been his brother. Who he was now, Lone Shrew did not know, but it was not his brother. That much he knew.

“Why…why did you kill them?”

Kieldahmun sat down on a log by the fire, reaching out to turn the spit. As he gazed into the fire, Lone Shrew could see the flames in the reflections of his eyes. They looked like they belonged there.

“Oh, it couldn’t have anything to do with the warm greetin’, now could it?”

“You attacked first!” Lone Shrew shouted. “What were we supposed to do?”

“I ain’t done nothin’ of the sort.” Kieldahmun waggled a hot poker in Lone Shrew’s direction. “Yer memory’s ’bout as good as your fightin’ skills, brother. Think back on it: I only meant to give a demonstration. It was him…” He pointed at the corpse of the silent warrior. “…and him…” he looked over his shoulder where Silent Snow had fallen, now a pile of blackened dust. “Well…when he was a bit more, uh…solid, anyhow. But them’s the ones who shot first. Great Spirits as my witness. And that ain’t no way to greet a brother.”

Lone Shrew grit his teeth but he wasn’t going to take the bait again. He could tell that the man–whoever he was now–enjoyed the torment. If he could not beat him in battle then at least he could deny him that much.

“I don’t know what happened to you, Kieldahmun, but my brother died that day when the great fire fell from the sky. What came out of that pit…only Nal’yvak knows its name.”

Kieldahmun’s eyes glanced up, wincing in the darkness, the flames dancing in his vision. “If I’m truly who you say I am, then my mission’s pretty clear, ain’t it?”

“What do you want?”

Kieldahmun sighed, tossing the poker in the fire. “Not yer first born, if that’s what yer wondering. But it does involve family. Your chief, specifically.”

“The…chief? What about him?”

“We had an agreement that night, and I held up my end of the bargain. I fully intend to collect on his, so you tell him this, little brother: he will in no shape or form be goin’ into those blasphemin’ caves to take his own pathetic life. He don’t have claim to that no more. If he hopes to honour our contract then he’ll heed my word. Otherwise, me and your people–we’re gonna have a little problem. A what-happened-here-today kinda problem. Do you feel me? Blood may be thicker than water, but you can still drown in it. You tell him that, little brother.”

Lone Shrew swallowed, his eyes never leaving the man as he slowly made his way back into the woods. Before he got to the clearing he stopped, half turning his attention back to the last lone warrior.

“Oh, one last thing, partner. I’m no longer known as Kieldahmun. Like ye said, that man died a long time ago, along with all the other washed up legends, ghosts and faerie tales of the tribe. And I suggest you tell as many of yer cronies as you can, because if I hear that name ever again, yer people might just become another one of those stories. And we wouldn’t want that, no, we wouldn’t want that.”

“There are many names for what you are, yesha’washa.” 

The man chuckled. “Na, ye got it all wrong, partner. Devils–they try too hard, ye see. Me, I’m the wind, goin’ wherever needs t’be stirred up, kissin’ the cheeks of the ladies and biting at the babe’s bottoms, spittin’ dirt in the faces of man. An’ while he’s down there watching us tear ‘ch’other part, I’m a-workin’ hard.”

A supercilious grin formed in the shadows. “Y’see, that’s the difference between us: while we both want the same thing, I’m a willin’ to do the work myself.”

“What work?”

“Aint it obvious?” He gestured around him with an arm. “You asked me my name. I’m the hungry traveler they call change.”

The man tilted his head to the side as he thought for a moment.

“I guess… in your language, that would be… dur’aran.”

He shrugged. “Durran it is.”

He tipped his hat in a farewell gesture as he reached out his arm to the side. There was a shuffle in the darkness and then, with a metallic whirring sound, the axe flew out of nowhere, back into his grasp. As seamless as he had come, he disappeared into the night, once more becoming one with the shadows.

One with the darkness.