Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (7 page)

No,
he thought, clawing at his face, his hair, his eyes.
No no no no no!

His chin shot up until it stared directly at the ceiling.

His eyes watered.

Snot began to run from his nose.

Tendrils of ice began to develop along his forearms. Flowering across his fingertips as though great vines from exotic, blooming plants, they snaked their way up and around his arms until they touched the quick of his elbows. There, it seemed, they began to merge within his body, chilling his blood as though water tainted by ice and allowed to grow perpetually cold despite its natural inclination in the world.

Father,
he thought.

Light showered over his vision.

The world became but one great, instinctual light.

A hum began to drone in his head.

Odin,
a voice whispered.

“Who are you?” Odin whispered, reaching forward, as if hope would allow him but the grace of God or G
ods and allow him to touch whatever it was that had come to him on this horrible cold night. “What do you want with me?”

An eclipse of pain shattered his entire body.

Had he the ability, he would have screamed. Instead, he fell to the floor, then bowed as if before his one and only king.

The world returned to
focus.

The room lost its chill.

To his side, the single burning candle flickered, then winked out.

Across the str
eet—beneath the awning on the neighboring building—the hovering ball of light winked once, then twice before disappearing entirely.

Behind him, his swords began to hum.

Odin closed his eyes.

He knew what he had to do.

Chapter 2

Through the throngs of sleeping people adorned upon the floor Odin made his way across the waiting room with a weight in his heart so heavy and thick it felt as though his chest would simply collapse. His lungs on fire, his breath hot and rapid when it came in and went out of his chest, he stood before the locked door firm in purpose and stout in need. Though as hard as he tried to control the bouts of emotion rolling through his frame, echoing of things that could serve him wrong and turn him back to the office, he managed to persevere, despite everything already set against him.

You can
’t go back,
he thought,
not now, not with so much at stake.

One false move would surely rouse one of the men sleeping no more than three feet away. If
that happened, he would be caught and interrogated by not only his friends, but his recollections on the situation at hand.

Hi
s cloak tight around him, a bag secured but haphazardly-packed, he realized in that moment that there would be no turning back.

In the moments he prepared to leave city hall and, likely, Dwaydor for good, he took it upon himself to first undo the locks on the door and mentally prepare himself for his flight from the city. First he maneuvered the deadbolt out of place, his breath thick and his flow of oxygen uneasy, then he released the chain
s snared at the top of the door that almost lay out of reach with unsurety that threatened to turn him back. Shortly thereafter, and once fully in position, he pushed the door open and tried not to look back at two of the best friends he could have possibly ever imagined.

“You won
’t be left without an answer,” he whispered. “That much I promise you.”

Well in advance, long before he
’d packed and eons away from the time he ever considered trekking across the waiting room, he’d written a note telling them of not only his plight, but his feelings—that, in his current state of mind, he was apt to go insane unless he followed his heart toward a place he could only refer to as his ancestral home ground: where, he felt, he could likely find the answers he was so desperately looking for.

For lif
e, for death, for what came after life and, possibly most importantly, what came before it all—he told of these things as though a poet grand and revered, his pen his sword and his ink his honor. Though he didn’t necessarily feel as though his attempts would be anything close to poetry, he knew that it would explain jut why he was leaving.

This is it,
his conscience whispered.
Your last chance.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperately he wanted to pull himself from this venture and say that it was all too much, he took one last look back at Nova and Carmen, then closed his eyes.

One last chance for you to turn around and end it all.

Tears threatening to burn from his eyes, he pressed his way forward, catching the door before it could slam shut.

When it clicked firmly into position, and as the doorknob locked securely behind him, Odin made his way down the road and toward the stables that would set him free from his own personal version of madness.

He took extra care not to rouse the horses from their slumber. Once inside the stable—complete and content about the mission in hand—Odin arranged a saddle that he felt would ensure his safety along the trip. He bore no fresh water, no foods other than quickly-souring fruits and vegetables, and held no ingredients from which to make biscuits. While it would certainly be a long journey, he would not go hungry.

I can kill with one whisper,
he thought.

That alone should have secured him all the more.

After he placed the saddle onto an ample stallion’s back, he pulled it from its stall with little more than a soft coo. This horse—fine, proud, towering over his head by at least three feet—walked forward without contempt, which only served to symbolize the fact that, regardless of whatever he may be about to go through, Odin could continue on without worry.

“There,” he
whispered, reaching up to stroke the stallion’s snout and even managing a smile when it bowed its head into his shoulder. “Everything’s going to be just fine. I’m going to take care of you.”

The horse snorted, disturbing the hair at Odin
’s shoulders.

With the knowledge firmly implanted in his mind that he wouldn
’t have to worry about the horse disrupting the surroundings, Odin led it toward the mouth of the stable, cast a glance back at the sleeping horses, then turned his attention toward the streets, where in the distance gates stood indignant and without respect.

Now,
he thought.
All I have to deal with are the gates.

“And the guards.”

He snapped the locks from their places around the wrought-iron fences with simplicity
he felt mocking. His attempts, while quiet, and the horse’s hooves, all but silent, didn’t bode well with the fact that he had just made his way through three different gates without setting off any alarms.

This is too easy.

Surely the security had to be more intense, for if it were not, just about any mage capable of increasing the pressure within an object could walk right in and do whatever it was he wanted. Most mechanisms were pressure-triggered. It didn’t take much to bend iron if you began to heat it from the inside first.

Stepping forward, taking extra care to lead his horse along the dirt-lined sides of the road in order not to disturb the cobblestone beneath their feet, Odin trained his eyes on the two guards that stood at the top of the southern gates and tried to decide just how he was going to deal with them without causing brutal or lasting harm. He couldn
’t kill them—that much he already knew—but he would have to incapacitate them in order to escape.

Is this illegal?

In the end, who cared? It wasn’t as though his venture was within the limits of the law anyway.

After stepping into an alley to ensure that neither he
nor his mount would be seen when a guard turned and regarded the darkened scene, Odin raised his hand and lifted two fist-sized rocks from the ground before them.

Here goes nothing.

Efficient, targeted, and perfect in shot and execution, both rocks hit their targets and sent the guards stumbling forward, then onto the ground.

“Well, friend,” Odin said
, leading his mount toward the expanse of open lowlands before them. “I guess you and me have a long ways to go.”

To the future, for the past, toward the beyond and, hopefully, toward an answer that would solidify his feelings and place within the world—he marched forward without a care in the world and mounted his stalli
on once they stood on ample ground.

With one look back at not only the city, but friends that would likely fear for his safety, he took off down the path in a full-out gallop.

Under the cover of darkness, he made his way along the path that cut through the Dwaydorian Lowlands that would, eventually,
lead him to the bisecting road that led to both Ke’Tarka and Elna. His mind made up, a decision met and orchestrated, his spirit weary, heavy and throbbing within his chest, he hung his head low and trailed his eyes on not only the dirt beneath his horse’s feet, but the death that surrounded him.

This is your future,
his conscience whispered.
This is your cause.

Who could say, though,
that the death around him was meant for his accord and not another’s—that, regardless of his place in the world, he had not truly caused the catastrophe that could be seen around him? Some, he knew,
could
argue that this was his fault—that, given his purpose within the Ornalan Court and how some years ago his knighting ceremony had occurred, he was the reason Herald Monvich had fled crazed and out of his mind—but what would others believe when they looked upon the situation and weighed in for themselves? Would they say he was not, in fact, the cause, that the power of the human spirit, once tainted, was great, or would they simply count it as a fluke, a stroke of luck caused by several variables that had managed to come to one individual point?

“Does it really matter?” he whispered.

In his mind it didn’t, as he had already taken part of the blame for the situation at hand, but when he looked upon the scene before him, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for the atrocity that had taken place no more than two weeks ago.

Not yet picked apart by animals, insects, birds or other creatures deviant and hidden among the horizon, the bodies of the Ornalan
boys and men, Orcs, Ogres, the occasional Elf, Dwarf and even Drow lay scattered about the plains as though marbles tossed and left among the grass. Their armor sparkling, their eyes open yet glazed, mouths open in silent screams or pursed in open prayer, they looked to be the charming artifacts left behind after a horrendous search for the grand jewel amongst a treasure of stones. Once, Odin thought he saw within the face of one man a maggot gorging on the flesh between his pursed lips, though whether or not it was true he couldn’t be sure. His eyes had since crossed, tortured to the sights and the reality of it all, and it seemed impossible to tear his gaze away.

For respect, for need, for honor and, most importantly, dignity, he forced himself to turn his attention toward the horizon and swallowed the lump that had developed in his throat.

It could’ve been you, Odin. It could’ve been—

T
he horse grunted.

The sound jarred him from the visage and thoughts of horror and forced his attention back to the matter beforehand.

“It’s all right,” he whispered not only to himself, but the stallion that walked blind and guided only by his hand. “It won’t be much longer now.”

In
complete honesty, he could not say that such pursuits would be over anytime soon. Upon the horizon—so dark, dreary and lit only by the moon—bodies seemed to extend forever across the expanse of lowlands, marking progress that could very well extend toward the outskirts of Ke’Tarka and surrounding provinces before the Denyon Passage. Human, Elf and Dwarf alike had made it a point to drive their enemy back as far as possible, but had they succeeded in their goal? Had they really, truly driven their enemy back?

With doubt plaguing his conscience and his heart thundering in his chest, he decided to make a decision that would ultimately and, hopefully, free them from the surrounding chaos.

Turning his horse to the east—toward the eventual highlands of Bohren and the slanting slopes that made up the area near Sylina—Odin closed his eyes and led his horse across plains that seemed less crowded by bodies and more accessible to a horse’s four hooves.

This madness couldn
’t go on forever, could it?

He took it upon himself in the early hours of the morning to grant his troubled conscience a moment of silence at the site of Blaine and Jordan’s deaths. Reins held steady, the horse shivering at his side, Odin reached up to clasp his hand over his chest and threatened himself with persecution were he to cry in such an open environment. While no one would be able to see such tears, save the Sprites and those whose souls they carried, he couldn’t reveal himself in a moment of weakness, not in the forgotten presence of two great men.

“I
’m sorry I couldn’t do anything for you,” he said, crouching down to test the dampened grass that had no more than a few days ago been stained with blood. “I trained my best—my
hardest—
to do whatever I could to make sure that the both of you were safe. I…” He paused. “I guess, in the end, it wasn’t enough.”

A whisper of wind skirted along the sloping hills and echoed across the horizon.

Odin raised his eyes.

Though the bodies from this location had since b
een removed and burned to prevent Necromancers from creating additional flesh summons, it seemed as though each and every man and boy still dwelled within this very spot—cold, alone, and rotting amongst the grass.

“Well, friend,” Odin said, standing and mounting his stallion. “I guess this is it then. Off we go.”

He turned his mount and began to lead him toward the east.

In the breaking hours of dawn—in a time which the sun’s ebbing rays could slowly be seen making their way over the distant Hornblaris Mountains—Odin stabbed a nail into the ground to keep his horse in place and prepared to make camp. A fire magicked and glowing before him, a few scant biscuits and water his only breakfast, he crossed his legs and stared into the white flames as though they would do something to take his pain away.

You
’re doing just fine,
he thought, sliding a biscuit into his mouth and taking a slow bite out of it.
You’ve made it this far without having to worry about anything.

Not once had he considered the fact that he
’d abandoned his friends and left them in terror for his safety, nor had he considered what Ournul would say once word got out that his champion had fled in an emotional stupor to the very place that could kill him. To anyone’s recollection, and to his own intimate fascination with the way his thoughts seemed to be constantly plaguing him, he seemed perfectly fine—capable, even, of handling his own emotions despite the odds pressed against him.