Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (69 page)

“Try.”

“Try?”

“Try.”

“It feels like it’s calling to me,” Virgin said, lifting one hand in the air, then balling it into his fist, as if capturing the almost-invisible sun within his palm.

“What is?”

“The forest.”

The forest?
he thought, unable to resist the urge to shiver.

Could the Abroen, like some said, be a living, breathing
thing? In the grand scheme of things, it had not seemed that long ago when, upon the soil of Ohmalyon, Miko had spoken of things living in trees—of mages so great and powerful they could seal themselves within the forms of inanimate objects and live lives unlike any had lived before. One could argue that a forest, especially one so bathed in blood, could retain some form of consciousness—could, for all he knew, know and understand things small and insufficient, despite the fact that it could not possibly have the mind that a human, Elf, Dwarf or even a Leatherskin had. That in itself was enough to press upon Odin the realities of the world and how, whether he liked it or not, he seemed much smaller than he wanted to let on.

“Do you think you
’re connected to it,” Odin thought, unsure how to continue with his question, “because you’ve lived there for so long?”

“Many would argue that you become one with the forest when you are born and live there—which, if you want the truth, is probably why I
’m so attuned with my surroundings.”

“Why you
’re able to be so quiet.”

“Right.”

“Do you think that’s part of the reason why you’ve been such a successful rogue?”

“I believe so, yes.” Virgin paused. He pulled his hand to his breast and took a slow, deep breath, then expelled it with the same veracity he
’d used to pull it in. Shortly thereafter, he turned his head to examine Odin with his cunning, calculating eyes and offered a look that Odin couldn’t discern for the life of him.

What does it mean?

He couldn’t help but wonder if the expression on Virgin’s face came not from the muscles in his face, but the thoughts within his mind. The way his lips seemed immortally pursed could not have been for his muscles, as they seemed too properly fixed upon his face, nor could his eyes have seemed so calm and concise unless they’d been magicked to do so. While Virgin bore no magic, he had, of course, been born of it—just like Odin himself had, but within a place so ripe with energy that it had to have infected him.

“Will you be all right?” Odin asked, breaking his companion
’s fixed stare with but a few words.

“I
’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“We can talk about it if you like.”

“I know.”

“Don
’t feel like you can’t talk to me about things, Virgin—I’m here for you.”

“That
’s more than I could have ever asked for from anyone else,” the Halfling said, raising his head and pushing his shoulders up to straighten his posture. “Thank you, Odin. I really appreciate what all you’ve done for me. Never in my life have I felt so at peace with another person.”

Neither have I,
Odin thought, but said nothing in response.
Neither have I.

They came within seeing distance of Harpie’s Summit as the whitened sun fell across the horizon and lit the sky in shades of blue. However, it seemed as though as the mountains drew dangerously closer and the snow continued to blaze through the sky that this Point village, even from a distance, was far different than Drianna or Kalen’s Rise.

From his vantage point atop his horse, which stood some six-and-a-half-feet tall and allowed Odin sight he normally would not have had,
he noted that Harpie’s Summit had been constructed for the sole purpose of defending its inhabitants from outside forces. Be it war, skirmishes, to deter bandits or looters from breaking in or even to keep creatures wicked and feral from its heights, the city itself had been forged in grand splendor and as such showed. With its high stone walls, its impressive wrought-iron gate and its four fire-lit towers that peaked each corner of the city, it could have been described as a siege outpost—a place where, during the final stages of their lives, men and women hid during the cruelest aspects of war, praying to the Gods for their salvation. It was for these things, and more, that as they drew closer, Odin began to shake uncontrollably.

“Virgin,” he said, trailing his eyes along the distant walls, upon which archers stood with bows drawn and arrows str
ung. “What is this?”

“I don
’t know,” Virgin said, drawing closer before raising a hand to the guards poised above the gate.

Whether
the men could see them was up to anyone’s discretion. With the snow falling like hellfire and the atmosphere clouded with a thin haze of mist, it was any wonder the two of them could see so far, much less make out lone figures atop the gate. Sight or not, that gave neither of them any indication as to why the gate would be closed when everything seemed fine—peaceful, even, despite the coming storm that was likely to snow everyone in.

Something
’s wrong,
Odin thought.

This idea came from the fact that the towers were lit. From what he understood,
fires only burned during times of peril, when help need be summoned from distant neighboring cities or villages. It made sense, considering the guards were armed and even more prepared to fire at enemies, but what exactly could they be faced with if not a squadron of soldiers or a massive group of bandits?

Reaching down, Odin gripped the hilt of his black-bladed sword and drew it from its hilt.

“What’re you doing?” Virgin asked, watching him through the haze of flakes on his lashes.

“Something
’s wrong,” he replied.

At this Virgin seemed all the more worried. Alarmed, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated to an almost animal-like focus, he reached down and drew his dagger from his jerkin just in time for a feral scream to rip through the sky.

Beneath them, their horses trembled. One grunted, while the other pawed at the ground as though willing itself to dig toward safety.

Every hair on Odin
’s neck stood on end.

“What was that?” Odin asked.

In the distance, the guards raised the bows and drew their strings back.

A figure emerged in the distance.

Arrows flew.

The darken
ed visage danced through the air before thrusting itself into the sky and thrusting its arms at its sides.

No.

It couldn’t be.

“Virgin,” Odin said, now unable to control his sword-arm as the figure disappeared. “Was that—“

“Yes,” Virgin said. “It was.”

Knowing that they may soon be under attack by creatures that were said to be so terrifying they sent grown men running, Odin locked his fingers around the reins as hard as he could, then looked up to the gate in the near distance.

Please,
he thought.

A second pair of arrows shot and one of the men pointed in their direction.

“Thank the Gods,” Virgin breathed.

“Hail! Travelers!” one of the men called, raising his hand and waving it through the air. “You are in dangerous territory!”

“We know!” Odin called back. “Open the gates!”

“The gates have been closed tonight. They cannot be opened!”

“What might you have us do if not die in the cold?” Virgin called back, cupping his hand over his mouth to amplify his voice. “There is nowhere for us to go!”

“We cannot open the gate. We can
’t—“

The lone figure in the sky thrust itself forward and dived down through the air.

The men raised their bows.

Odin thrust his hand in the air.

From the tip of his palm a white plume of fire flew and struck the hellish creature directly in the chest. She flew, spiraling, arms and legs pin-wheeling through the air, into one of the towers, where she struck head-on before sliding down and into the village.

The two men raised their heads from their crouched positions beneath the walls.

Odin raised his hand.

Without so much as a word, the gates opened.

“How long have you been under attack?” Virgin asked, setting the pack down at their feet before sliding himself into one of the chairs around the rounded table.

“God,” the guard, who’d come to call himself Kethlan, said. “I have no idea.”

“Much longer than just tonight,” his companion, Terrence, replied. “There
’s been a brood of them attacking us for days—weeks, even, if not a month. We’ve gotten so used to fending them off that we don’t even bother to keep track anymore.”

“This has never happened to us before, not
since Harpie’s Summit was built and established some ten-hundred years ago.”

“Why is this group attacking you more than the others have been?” Odin frowned, bracing both hands atop the table. “Did you disturb the nest or do anything to upset them?”

“That’s the thing,” Kethlan sighed. “We don’t know. No one goes anywhere near the Dark Mountains, not with those whores around.”

“And even if they did,” Terrence continued, “what would make them think that they came from here? It
’s not like they’re intelligent or anything.”

“You underestimate the flock,” Virgin mused.

The flock,
Odin thought, drumming his fingers atop the table.

So far as he
’d come to know and understand, Harpies lived in bird-like structures usually commanded by one single queen. They could, in essence, be related to insects—the mother bee atop the hierarchy, the warriors searching for food. Even the young, asexually produced within the queen’s womb, could be considered intelligent, for it was not without purpose that Harpies attacked people, especially settlements. No. For such creatures to be attacking Harpie’s Summit—and harshly, if what Kethlan and Terrence were saying was true—then something had to have happened to draw them to the village.

“What
’ve you been doing to fend them off?” Odin asked, standing, rounding the table until he stood near the window. “I mean, other than bows.”

“Our resident mage died some weeks ago,” Kethlan said, stepping up beside Odin to survey the hellish outside world.

“What was he or she doing before then?”

“Channeling a barrier to keep the Harpies away.”

Around the entire city?
Odin thought, frowning, unable to resist the urge to lean forward and peer out the open window.

For someone to have produced even the slightest barrier around an entire outpost would have taken such high amounts of magical energy that it would have killed even the strongest of mages—unless, of course, he or she had used runes, amulets or talismans, possibly set around the borders of the town or in the watchtowers themselves. Even then, how one person would be able to sustain such a thing was beyond Odin
’s composure, but he tried not to bother himself with that and instead turned his attention to Kethlan, who’d since begun to survey the distant mountains.

“Look,” the guard said.

Odin trailed his eyes up.

Upon the distant horizon, illuminated in the strange luminescence produced by such high concentrations of snow, several ominous figures could be seen slowly making thei
r way from the highest peak toward the settlement. One of them—the largest, so far as Odin could tell, and the broadest of the five—spun in several intricate loops and led its companions in a series of flourishes that each repeated so effectively Odin felt dizzy watching it. What they were doing he couldn’t be sure, but if he were to guess, he imagined they had to have been relaying messages to one another in some strange half-animal, half-sentient verse.

What are you doing?
he thought, bracing his hands along the open window.

Shortly after his thought, one of the creatures cried out.

From his place at the table, Virgin rose, stepped up behind them, then asked, “Do you have extra bows you could give us?”

“We always have extra bows around,” Kethlan said. “Why? Do you intend on helping us fight the flock?”

“The biggest one,” Virgin said, jabbing a finger out and into the open air. “Have you seen her before?”

“We
’ve never had the chance to see any of them up close. They always come at night.”

“Do you know if the flock leader has ever flown with the brood?”

“We don’t know, sir.”

“Hmm,” Virgin said, reaching up to brace his thumb and index finger along his chin and jawline.

“What’re you thinking?” Odin frowned.

“Maybe,” the Halfling said, then paused when another shrill cry rose up in the air.

“Maybe… what?” Odin asked.

When a third cry broke the silence of
the snowy night and stabbed itself into the very center of the tower—stirring not only the fire, but the emotions of every man within—Odin tried not to think about just what frightened him about the sound and turned to wander deeper into the structure, toward the fireplace and the warmth it offered. When a series of rich cackles echoed across the horizon and entered his ears, he found himself shivering not for the fact that he knew the creatures were coming, but from the languid essence in the cries themselves.