Heshayol, p.14
Heshayol, page 14
Kam’s brown eyes flashed with fury. “Killing Wolos has only brought suffering.”
Dagmar lifted his hand, spanning over the many demons at his command. “Death is suffering. These poor souls have been twisted at the hands of the gods because they did not do what the gods wanted them to do. Why should we be held victim to the whims of gods?”
“Why not?” Erzebeth asked, dipping down by Tyran’s side. “They breathed life into you. Why can they not take it away?”
Because it is your life?
“Is it?” Drast chortled.
Dagmar’s voice deepened, almost snarling in response to the ghostly Vucari. “Why should they give us life and then dictate how we live it? Do we not have autonomy? You think we are simple-minded slaves to the gods?” The Nithhoggr screeched above Dagmar as if they heard his calling, swooping closer to the lot of them on the ground. “No intelligent god would create a man to be free-thinking and then threaten him to be obedient or suffer. The gods must be pawns in a greater scheme.”
Who says the gods are intelligent?
Drast tensed at the accusations, the Nithhoggr circling above them. The Bukavac rumbled nearby, several turning their heads.
Erzebeth stared at Dagmar, her pale green eyes illuminating eerily. “You are right. The gods are as much spokes in a spinning wheel as we are. They did not design the wheel.”
“Who did?” Tyran stepped between them.
“Is it not clear? Kowin,” Erzebeth said. “Kowin descended on Aenar from the cosmos, a being of order, and beheld the madness wrought by the immortal Likhyi.” Turning from Dagmar, Erzebeth moved to continue toward their destination. “Being more powerful than all of the old-dark combined, he trapped them in the Ash Tree, creating law from chaos. He then formed the pantheon to preserve the balance, to manage the ebb and flow of existence, and to assure the old-dark forever remained trapped in their prison.” As they followed and she spoke, the Nithhoggr subsequently lifted back to the skies and the Bukavac dropped back, ignoring them once more.
Drast searched his memory, wondering if he knew the answer. When nothing came to light, he asked, “If he is all-powerful, why would he need the pantheon? Why could he not just manage the cycles and elements himself?”
“The same reason you build a ship instead of swimming across the sea or cut down a tree with an axe instead of a jagged rock,” Erzebeth said. “It takes less time and energy to create a tool.”
“He was the clockmaker, while the pantheon was his clock,” Kam said.
Tyran looked at them with the same dumbfounded expression that Drast knew must be on his own face.
“Exactly,” Erzebeth said. “Yet as the clockmaker, he was beyond the function of the clock. He held too much power and was a threat to his own creation. Therefore, his creation—the pantheon—trapped him to keep the clock eternally working.” The Vucari caught Tyran’s eye. “When you killed Wolos, you broke the clock, giving clearance for chaos to reign once more. The gods are simply trying to reset the system by any means possible, whether Wolos is reborn or Kowin destroys it all and rebuilds the clock.”
“If he chooses to rebuild the clock...” Kam’s voice drifted off. She shook her head despondently.
Erzebeth asked, “Do you now understand?”
Drast raised his bushy eyebrows with a wild grin. “I might, skin-switcher, if you could stop playing your games for one moment and tell me one thing.” He folded his arms across his chest. “What in the Nine Lands is a clock?”
Chapter XIII
“We are going to Heshayol to see Wolos reborn. The Tower of Eresh and then to Heshayol. This is my duty. My duty. My duty,” Tyran repeated. He did not fully understand what either of the places truly were, but he made the effort to remind himself of their task every morning and several times throughout the day in the hopes of not forgetting.
The traveling was easy—or should have been—if it were not for the company. Tyran lost track of the days some time ago. He supposed the exact time was unimportant if they continued moving their feet whenever awake. Ice-capped mountains came and went, valleys dipped and disappeared, and the demons were constantly watching over them. Each day, he and Drast continued to exchange the Alatir Stone as they traveled along, feeling their vigor restored, their physical bodies nearing what may have been during middle age. Their wrinkles lessened and their hair lengthened, gaining little color in the grey. More importantly, with each passing day, Tyran discovered two things: one, his memory strengthened, and two, the rot in his brother’s mind was not being cured by the Alatir Stone.
He wondered when, during their long imprisonment, Drast began to slip from reality and what he may have done to prevent it.
Even now, his brother ambled behind him and Erzebeth, in the company of Dagmar and Kam, caught up in his frenzied laughter. Oftentimes, Drast fought to hold back the laughter—almost as though it pained him—but in moments like these, he stared wide-eyed at the demons around them, chortling without restraint.
Tyran looked at the shining white artifact in his shield hand and asked the burning question to their seemingly all-knowing guide. “Erzebeth, what is wrong with Drast? Why is the stone not healing his mind?”
The Vucari looked at the Alatir Stone in his open palm. Her ethereal features gave away nothing of her thoughts, and he was left only with her lifeless words. “Drast’s affliction is as permanent as his missing appendage. He cannot be cured of it.”
“Why not?”
She looked away from him. “His prolonged captivity has broken his mind. Where your sickness derived from time eating away at your senses, his illness primarily developed from suffering.”
Tyran clenched his jaw at the thought. Even though they were both free from Anaerfell, she suggested Drast would always be trapped. Tyran’s throat threatened to swell and restrict his voice, but he forced his tongue. “You mean to say that you did this to him.”
“I did nothing.” She waved off his suggestion of her culpability so quickly—and simply—Tyran almost overlooked how unbelievably heartless she sounded in her indifference.
He grimaced. Erzebeth doing nothing did not save her from being guilty of the circumstance in which she placed him and Drast. She could deny causing Drast’s madness all she wanted, but she undeniably had a hand in laying the groundwork that inflicted his insanity. Tyran knew this to be true. His own life was a testament to how treating others could impact them for years to come. Every action, meticulously planned or not, spirited an inevitable reaction.
In reflection, he wondered how many choices the gods gave him and how many were invariably caused by the influence of others.
His wonderment stayed with him for several hours until he forgot his frustration with Erzebeth. His long strides cut away the miles, easily matched by his father and brother. Kam, who kept the pace in the early days of their adventure, now struggled to keep up with their grueling pace.
After a while, they came upon many oversized stone archways. The large grey stones were stacked, chiseled with faded images hidden under thick layers of silvery ice. The archways were twice as wide as Tyran and four times as tall, forming a perfect semi-circle beneath the purplish sky, wide enough for the five of them to walk shoulder to shoulder.
Tilting his head back, he scratched the grey hairs on his chin. The archways tickled at a memory of seeing strange ruins in the mountains upon entering the Netherworld. He could not recall the full details of the event, but he remembered questioning their existence in this forsaken realm. He restricted his thoughts to himself while they passed under a dozen or more arches, bypassing the multitudes of demons stretching in all directions around them.
At one point, he caught sight of Erzebeth in his periphery and had a sudden tremor in his stomach. He swiftly blamed the ache on hunger, which had intensified over the past several days. He was no stranger to having no food and little sleep. He spent countless hours at Anaerfell with nothing but his tongue to chew on, feeding on haunting visions of what once was or what could have been. Still, he grabbed his belly—as though it were to blame—when the unwelcomed image flashed across his memory of pressing his lips against Erzebeth’s in the ice-covered mountains of Valarun. He mentally fought to push it aside until his head ached. He did not love Erzebeth. She was dead; he knew he soon would be too.
He searched for an excuse for the intrusive memory. His body was exhausted. There could be no other explanation for the discomforting visions.
“Are you okay?” Erzebeth asked.
“Mm.” Tyran almost jumped at her sudden interest. He must have groaned louder than he thought. He quickly sought something to redirect himself from speaking his thoughts, noticing another looming archway in the distance. “What use do demons have for these? Who built them? This is Marheena’s realm, is it not? Was it her?”
“No, she did not build this,” Erzebeth answered, her tone lacking the emotion he thought to have heard a moment before. “The Netherworld was not always a resting place for the dead. This world once was as vivacious as Aenar before wasting away. Once upon a time, the land was filled with its own people and culture, with civilizations more advanced than anything we have ever known.”
Tyran clicked his tongue. “What would cause a world to become this?”
Erzebeth replied, “I do not know, but if the old-dark are released, I suspect Aenar will become a reflection of this hell. If Kowin frees himself from the gods, we can only guess how he might further shape the Netherworld or Aenar.”
“Wait. Kowin made this?” Tyran asked, following Erzebeth as she navigated them through the dead. His shoulder brushed against a Bukavac’s arm. The beast rumbled but made no move, remaining passive under Dagmar’s control.
He averted his eyes from the frozen demon.
“He did not make this world or cause it to crumble; he simply reshaped whatever ruin it became and bound it to Aenar. He created the Grumadki, the Kalinov Bridge, and the Tower of Eresh. He built Heshayol. As I said before, we could not traverse the Netherworld without him,” Erzebeth said.
Tyran blinked, feeling like he was seeing the Netherworld again for the first time. “How many beings like Kowin exist across Nine Lands?”
“Even I cannot know the answer to that question, but I suspect infinite possibilities,” Erzebeth mumbled.
“The Kaligula name was supposed to be a name of power. Authority.” Dagmar interrupted them from an uncomfortably close distance, causing Tyran to stop and spin around. He saw Dagmar was not addressing him or anyone specifically, but rather talking openly to himself. Kam halted in the far rear, also surprised by the outburst. Even Drast, who remained at Dagmar’s shoulder, cocked his head at their father. Dagmar hung his head almost as though he forgot they were in his company; his eyes looked watery. “We have nothing now. The three of us are all stuck here in the Netherworld. Our titles have been stripped. Our name has been cursed. We have no future. No hope. Nothing.”
Tyran held his breath. In his entire life, he never saw his father cry, and now he looked to be on the brink of tears. The mass of demons began to shift, responding to Dagmar’s apparent despair. A low moan filled the air.
Dagmar clenched his hands into fists, pulling them to his chest as though he were cradling himself, his face still pointed at the frosted ground beneath his feet. He wailed, his strong voice carrying an undercurrent of frustration and sadness, “This is all my fault, boys. I wanted something great for our family. I wanted you to have the life my father was too afraid to give me. I wanted a legacy we could pass on for generations, and look at us now...empty-handed.”
“What—what is this?” Kam faltered, her brow furrowing at Dagmar first, then looking at Tyran and Drast. “Is this just another scheme to win over your sons? We have made our decision. We are freeing Wolos.”
“No,” Dagmar babbled, spouting water from his lips and inciting salty tears to flood down his cheeks. His death-white skin may have paled. “I...I...”
Drast became rigid, taking a couple steps closer to Tyran, distancing himself from Dagmar. “I think death broke him.”
A series of discordant howls resonated from innumerable Bukavac and Dreka, lifting their muzzles as one. Above, the Nithhoggr shrieked, sending chills up Tyran’s spine.
“Oh, gods!” Dagmar collapsed to his knees in a fit, his chin lifting as he reached for Drast and Tyran. “I am broken! My soul is cracked beyond repair. Can you not see it, boys? I was the Arkhon of Lairhein. The Stuhians, the city, everything was ours to rule for eternity. Ours! But it was all taken by those devilish Kluks. When I thought you were dead, I abandoned the city. I let those Kluks have the city. I could have returned and crushed them.” He shook his head despondently. “Instead, I found the acclaimed Kadari and helped protect the Ash Tree.”
“Who?” Kam wrinkled her nose. “The Wardens protect the Ash Tree.”
Dagmar fought to keep the sneer from his face. “The Vucari have been missing from the world. The Kadari have guarded the Ash Tree for over a thousand years, while converting nations to follow their religion of the Lightbringer. Nearly every kingdom now recognizes them as the guardians of Aenar.”
Kam scowled, but Dagmar did not give her a chance to respond.
“I rose to power among their number and forged a new path to restore the Kaligula name to history.” Dagmar now sobbed, placing his face in his shaking hands. His body convulsed as he heaved, forcing the words from his tongue. Tyran could only watch, horrified at his father’s absolute breakdown. “Beyond the grave, the Kluks came for us again, robbing our name from history, stealing our righteous glory.”
“Nine Lands, what is he talking about?” Kam murmured from her position in the small circle that had formed around Dagmar.
Tyran could only shake his head. Drast, on the other hand, giggled, finding unparalleled humor in Dagmar’s grief. His lips vibrated through the spurts of laughter so loud, he almost drowned out Dagmar.
“I had no choice but to accept this fate I have been given.” Dagmar’s lamentations increased, ignoring Drast. “My soul burns for the Ash Tree’s eradication, even if I must march to its location and rip it apart with my bare hands. Limb from limb. Bark from trunk. Until my fingernails bleed. I have no love to see the thing die. The tree gave me life for so many years, and yet I have no choice.” Dagmar curled forward, averting his eyes from Tyran and Drast. His head nearly touched his knees. “The gods have cursed me. I cannot fight this dark desire they have inscribed on my heart. I deserve death.”
Bukavac and Witiko jostled among them as Dagmar wailed despondently, gnashing their teeth and tearing at the ground with their claws.
Erzebeth lingered behind Tyran, looking down on Dagmar in his pitiful state. “He does deserve death.”
“I do,” Dagmar echoed.
Drast’s face reddened, nostrils flaring, despite his maddened mirth. “You would like for us to kill him, eh?” He rushed several steps closer to Erzebeth. Tyran instinctually wrapped an arm across his brother’s chest, holding him back from the Vucari. “Do you not think I see what you and Small-tits are planning? No doubt you want one less Kaligula around so no one can disrupt your little plans.” Drast swung out at Erzebeth, missing wildly over Tyran’s shoulder. “I know you want us all dead. Do not think I have forgotten who you are or what you did. I will not be caught unawares. I know you. I know you!”
“Drast,” Tyran grunted with surprise as his brother’s might pressed against his flexed arm. Drast’s strength was returning. He caught Dagmar from the corner of his eye, still crying, staring at his own hands in disbelief. “Control yourself, brother.”
“Give him the stone,” Kam said, keeping her distance from them all, “and maybe he can regain his sense. He has not proven to be reasonable otherwise.”
Tyran squinted at the Vucari, frowning. “You want him to hold the Alatir Stone when he is like this? Are you equally mad? He would be unstoppable.”
“He cannot hurt Erzebeth,” Kam said.
“And what about you?” Tyran hissed, swelling his chest at the Warden. Drast’s words rang true for him. He wanted Dagmar dead for good, but not at the suggestion of the skin-switchers. “You are weak and pathetic. Any of us could cut you down with a simple thought.”
The color washed from Kam’s face. The Warden evidently needed a reminder of who he and Drast were and what they were capable of.
A light flashed in Drast’s eyes upon hearing him, his mouth opening in sudden excitement. He twisted his head slowly, chewing on his inner lip in contemplation before speaking aloud. “Oh, I would kill her, Tyran. Prettily. I do not need a magical rock to take the little princess’s life. I like girls as much as the next man, but do we really need her?”
“No, Drast! Stop this!” Tyran bellowed, unsure if his jaw had locked up in his distress. He wrapped his brother up in his arms. He tried to speak again, seeing Kam retreat into the throng of demons behind her. She was already loosening her weapon, a hand on her robes in case she had to turn into the bies. The beasts around her growled in unison but did not attack her.
“Her death will accomplish nothing, much like my miserable life.” Dagmar continued to sob.
“By the gods,” Tyran muttered, holding tight to Drast.
“Drast Kaligula!” Erzebeth shouted, her green light bursting around her, illuminating the immediate area. “We are not your enemy! Unless you plan to sacrifice yourself or Tyran, you will leave the Warden alone!”
Tyran kept his grip but stumbled forward, almost knocking Drast over. His older brother grabbed his arm with his good hand to help keep their balance. As they rooted their feet against the ice, Drast vacantly looked at Tyran and grinned. His brother’s words were inside somewhere, fighting to be free again.
“No one touches Tyran.” His words were barely audible through his mirth. He jerked out of Tyran’s grasp, the grin stretching to his cheekbones. “They do not care about us. We have no more allies, Tyran.”
