The Brotherhood: Blood (75 page)

“I guess, sir.” He looked down at his knight master’s hand. A long, bony finger slid along the surface of his scar, sending shivers up his spine and into the back of his neck. Miko stopped the moment he realized the action.

Odin stood. He slid his shirt over his head, then loosened his belt, holding his trousers in place whilst sliding his pants down to reveal his now-healed hip. The once-knotted mas of purple, blue and black had since disappeared, healed by the natural wonder of his half-human body.

Half-human,
he thought, blinking when he felt his master’s hand on his hip.

Did it mean anything to be half-Elf? Did it grant him extraordinary powers of perceition or give him the ability to tune in to other people’s emotions? How, exactly, could he know if he had never experienced being human?

I was human for sixteen years of my life,
he thought. Miko’s thumb rolled around the ball of his hip, occasionally pressing down as it searching for any defect that may have gone unnoticed.
That should give me an idea.

“I don’t see anything wrong,” the Elf frowned, gesturing Odin to pull his trousers back into place. “If it starts bothering you, please tell me. I would not want you to unintentionally injure yourself in battle.”

“I can walk and run just fine,” Odin said, tightening his belt. “You don’t think it’ll cause problems, do you?”

“There are some young men, like yourself, who are injured in a skirmish and cannot fight for the rest of their lives. Of course, even if you managed to be crippled in a fight, you’re still far more useful than an average soldier. Your Gift makes up for any weakness you may have. But no—I don’t think your past injuries will cause you problems. You’re young, and the body has a miraculous way of curing that which we cannot see.”

Nova stood near the railing, looking out at the ocean. At this time of day, with the sun almost directly above, most of the men had since peeled their shirts off, revealing flaking or scarred, red skin. Nova himself had decided to take this method into consideration. He, occasionally, scratched at the beard that framed his cheeks and jaw, as if it pained him to have so much hair on his face. The teardrops of moisture that beaded down his cheeks gave Odin the impression that such a thing might be uincomfortable.

With nothing further to say, Odin turned his attention to the sea and watched the gentle waves roll back and forth in the mass of water below them. In the long months they’d been at sea, he’d learned that still water was something to be wary of. The night the Sirens had struck the ship, killing a dozen of Jerdai’s men, the sea had been dead-calm, just as it had just before the terrible storm that had cost him and Nova their lives. It would’ve seemed that such stillness was meant to be an omen—a foreshadowing, some may say, of epic proportions, that was meant to be viewed and as such prepared for.

“Hey,” Nova said, drawing Odin from his thoughts. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”

“When do you think we’ll get to where we’re going?”

“I don’t know,” Odin sighed, closing his eyes, baring his neck to the salty air. “I wish I did though.”

When Nova could no longer bear the heat, Odin rejoined Icklard and Domnin at the front of the ship, where they lfited orbs of water for the dolphins to play with. The sleek, shining creatures trailed alongside the boat in glee, squeaking greetings, flipping in circles and twirling just above the surface of the water whenever the orbs of water chased after them.

“They’re mammals, you know?” Domnin said, looking up at Odin.

“I know,” Odin said. “I’ve been told.”

“Fish don’t breathe air,” Icklard commented, raising one of the orbs just in time for a dolphin to jump from the water to capture it between its outstretched jaws. “There’s a few other creatures that breathe through blowholes or through their noses, but I’ve never seen any of them.

Domnin tossed an orange-sized ball of moisture into the air, smiling when several of the creatures circled beneath the water as if they were sharks or other predatory creatures. “Some say everything came from the water. Supposedly, if you want to believe the legend and what the Seers have said, our world was once a giant ocean, a playground for all things big and small.”

“The Elves rose first,” Icklard said, “in the form of smooth, pale-skinned creatures.”

“They weren’t always beautiful though,” Domnin commented. “They once looked like the things that haunt the marshes near where you’re from, Odin. You know of them, right?”

“The… uh…” Odin paused. “What are they called again?”

“Marsh Walkers.”

Odin nodded. He remembered them, more than well if he wanted to truly admit to it. Such things were meant to be avoided, he knew, from what his father had once said—that when hungry, and devoid of natural food, they would take children and even livestock into the marshes and drain them of their blood with twin, fanged incisors that rested within their beaks. Contrary to belief, however, these things were not birds—were anything but. With big black eyes, long, bulbous fingers, skin that looked constantly wet and a height of some six feet tall, they resembled an amphibious creature much like a frog or even a salamander. It was for this reason, and from looking at an artist’s interpretation, that he had a very hard time believing what Domnin had said—that such an ugly creature, who appeared to be anything but beautiful, could, transform into something so magnificent, so beautiful, so articulate and pure. Miko could have never been such an ugly thing, even in millennia past, so it was for that reason when, in looking at Domnin’s face, Odin said, “I’m not so sure I believe that,” then shrugged, hoping his words hadn’t offended either of his friends.

Yeah,
Odin thought.
Just imagine.

Night bloomed darkness.

Outside, a dull orb of white light lit up the night sky, extending its rays like petals to a lily that only flowered in the blackest places of the world. It cast an iridescence across the water in a way that made the low-hanging mist shine—seemingly, of course, like mushrooms struck by magic and forced to glow for the rest of time.

Stepping from the inside of the boat and onto the deck, Odin scanned the area in search of his knight master, careless as to whether or not his presence would disturb a moment that would rather have been left alone. Miko had stepped out of the room earlier, saying he’d return in but a moment, but hadn’t come back since.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found the thing he’d been looking for.

Taking his first deep breath of the cool, night air, Odin drew his cloak around his shoulders and made his way further onto the deck. Beneath the crow’s nest, shielded in an octagon in light, he experienced a feeling of lineliness he hadn’t felt since Ornala, when he’d been locked in the tower. Around him, light—seeming to beckon him with its pleasant presence—danced and flickered whenever the waves shifted the surface of the fog, taunting him into submission. Out here, alone and without the company of others, it chose to threaten him with solitude, that of which seemed all the more present in light of the fog rolling up from the sea and onto the deck.

“Sir?” Odin asked. “Where are you?”

Something cried out in the distance.

At first, the sound reminded him of a water bird, like those who made nests along the coasts of wooded lakes. After a moment, however, he realized the scream had not been made by a bird, but it definitely could not have been made by a person either.

A monster?
he thought, shivering. In this current climate, it was any wonder what could be lurking about.

“Miko,” he said, choosing to use his knight master’s name in the hopes that the sound would draw his attention. “Please, come back inside. It’s cold out here.”

A figure standing at the front of the deck shifted, back facing him. He recognized the broad shoudlers and stepped forward, smiling and relieved beyond compare. “Why didn’t you answer me?” he frowned. “Why didn’t you—”

He stopped speaking.

A tremor vibrated his being.

The fog, which had risen to the point where it blocked almost everything from sight, shifted, revealing the large, sleek head of a creature Odin had only begun to dream of.

Lochna, a water dragon from depths of the ocean so deep it was said she rose only once in a thousand years, watched Miko with large silver eyes, intent on the slight, minute movements only a trained eye could see. About the size of a royal guard’s shield, the silver ovals that made up her eyes caught the moonlight and reflected it back at whomever had the honor of standing in her presence, only further sealing the forbidden pact two of the land’s most ancient creatures could have held.

You’ve called, Halfling,
a sound androgynous but bearing feminine qualities said, her voice rolling over Odin’s brow and off the back of his head like pudding spilled but not yet cleaned up.
Your cries are heard, even though they are not spoken.

“Thank you,” Miko said, bowing his head.

Tell me: what is it that troubles your kind soul?

“I… I’m afraid,” the Elf said, his voice low, but high enough so Odin could hear. “I’m afraid something bad is going to happen.”

Why is this?

“Because I feel it.” Miko lfited his head. “In my heart, in my mind… in my blood. I do not know what to do, and I feel it is my responsibility to shield my squire from whatever may lie in his future.”

My future?
Odin frowned, shivering, not cold but not comfortable in the least.
What is—

There is nothing you can do to alter the future,
Lochna said, causing Odin’s thought to stab into his brain and inflict the most tremendous of pains in the center of his forehead.
And, kind Elf—Halfling, whatever you choose to be—there is nothing I can do to alter it or ease your worries. I am no mage, no Seer, no prophet. All I can say, and all I can tell you, is that despite whatever lies in this young man’s future, it is his to face, not yours.

“I…” Miko stopped. He looked down at his hand, then sighed, a rumble of struggled breath breaking the silence of the otherwise-calm night. “Thank you, my friend. Please… do rest. I will never call you again.”

Before his eyes, Odin watched something he thought he would never see disappear through the fog and into the sea.

In the days following his discovery, Odin stayed in his room, preferring his own company than that of others. At first, no one said nor did anything, but it soon became apparent that something was bothering him. Several times, Icklard and Domnin came to check on him, always asking if something had happened or if he had something on his mind. Nova, too, asked, but Odin said nothing, other than that he was sick and wanted some time to himself.

At night he dreamed of water dragons and of Elves who asked them questions, while during the day he dwelled on thoughts harsh and unconsecrated, trying as hard as he could to force them from his mind, but to no avail. It eventually escalated to the point where he couldn’t think about anything
but
the conversation Lochna and his knight master had had, which only served to further drive his consciousness into the pit of agony.