Heshayol, p.4
Heshayol, page 4
Chapter III
The cold of the Netherworld bit into Tyran’s face, causing him to hold his breath. The chill clung to his cheeks. Ahead of him, Kam stepped off the bridge, letting go of his hand almost as quickly as he had grabbed it. At first, Tyran thought the boy was reacting to the cold too, but Kam seemed unaffected. Tyran had to remind himself that the Warden was a Vucari. The skin-switchers did not feel the cold or heat like regular mortals.
“By the gods, Tyran,” Drast said, pulling back to adjust the quiver of arrows at his side. Tyran stretched out his fingers, already feeling the soreness from gripping Drast’s hand. His brother waited a moment with him on the end of the bridge while Kam and Erzebeth moved farther ahead on land, and then said, “This is not a welcoming place to die. We best keep breathing a bit longer, eh?”
Tyran strained, gripping the heavy mace at his belt. The weapon threatened to jerk his pants to his ankles. His mind swirled. “Breathing is about all I am doing. Why are we here anyway?”
Drast flashed his teeth, or what was left of them. “I know we have spent a lot of time together—probably saying all that would ever need to be said between two people—but you cannot grunt at me all the way through the Netherworld. Do not leave me having to talk to the skin-switchers.”
Tyran cocked his head, raising his voice at Drast. He was not certain he could yell any louder. “I am talking to you, and I would appreciate it if you answered the question.”
Drast snorted, smiling wryly and rocking his head. “You may not say a word, but I know you want to be here. This is already far better than being chained to a stone wall. Besides, you would not deny the backstabbing skin-switcher. I know you and your endless pledges to duty.”
Tyran scrunched his face, feeling his mustache meld with the overgrowth on his chin. He leaned closer to try to make out his brother’s facial features. All he could see was the blasted grin. “What do you mean duty? And why should we be here?” He took another step closer. “I do not know that I want to be here. I definitely do not want to hear your tireless rattling. You ramble as much as Kam.”
Drast widened his mouth to the point that it looked painful. Of course, he would smile and answer nothing. His brother was hopeless.
Tyran twisted away to leave Drast alone with his ridiculous grin. He sucked the cold air through his nostrils, feeling the burn in his chest, and scanned the nonstop landscape ahead of them. The topography consisted of blackened, jagged rocks irregularly sprouting over the frost-laden ground. From what Tyran could tell, the entirety of the earth could have been a frozen sea, forgotten to time. An ice-blue haze clouded in subtle bursts across the horizon, hanging midair, like fog might over a millpond in the early morning. Tyran was hauntingly certain the mist could darken while giving no promise of diminishing.
The sky, if it could be called such a thing, appeared to be eternally overcast, but a gleaming indigo-infused light brightened this outlandish world in equal measure. No sun, moon, or set of stars could be seen, only the soft ruddiness of the strange hue emanating from the heavens.
“At least we have some light.” Tyran eased his tone, stepping off the rope bridge to the ice. He immediately slipped and had to grab the bridge post to stay on his feet. Once his legs were locked into place, he peered back over his shoulder. “Be careful.”
“Do not be an ass,” Drast said, the smile frozen between his wrinkled, pale cheeks. “Tell me something worthwhile, like why the skin-switcher is here. By the gods, I cannot think of any good reason.” He eased himself onto the ice with more care than Tyran had applied. “What? You cannot either? Well, someone has to know.”
Tyran hobbled on, wondering if Drast was talking to him or someone else entirely. He spun around to see if Erzebeth had snuck up on him, but she was a good distance away—a green blur—standing next to Kam. They both gazed across the breadth of the region.
He mumbled under his breath, “No matter why he came, the Warden will only find death.”
Erzebeth spun around in flight, as though she were propelled by a gentle breeze. Her voice carried across the distance. “Ready yourselves, Reds. We draw close to the Kalinov Bridge and the dragon-god will be near.” In the gloom, Tyran could see her softening her features as though a sneer may have coated her expression a moment ago. “Though I can guide you to Wolos’s prison, I have little power in this realm.”
“Ready ourselves? Dragon-god? What are we doing?” Tyran asked, inching closer across the icy terrain. He could not remember if they had discussed battle. His mace was certainly too heavy for him to fight anything.
“You need to use Koldovstvo,” she said with a tilt of her head, indicating she was repeating herself. “Your life will not be forfeited here as it was on Aenar. In the Netherworld, you can cast your magic freely.”
“I already told them,” Kam chimed in, reaching for his hood to cover his shaved head.
“The hell he did,” Tyran muttered. He remembered the Warden talking a lot but could not claim he heard the boy say anything useful.
“Go ahead,” Erzebeth encouraged. “Give it a try.”
“Come on, Tyran. Worst case scenario, we die, and we can be done with this little trek.” Drast smiled. He then turned his head to the side and mumbled over his shoulder.
Tyran hesitated, knowing the slightest trickle of Koldovstvo would steal breath from him as swiftly as a hard fist to the gut. Except in this instance, he would not breathe again. A thousand years and more passed since he last welcomed the power of Koldovstvo into his thoughts, shaping the will of his mind upon the physical world. Yet now, as he finally gave in to the watchful eyes of the Vucari, the effort was as natural as his beating heart.
Forgetting the pain in his joints, Tyran used elemental magic to lift himself from the frozen ground. The chilled air rustled his hair as he slowly rose several inches off the ground, matching the height of Erzebeth’s ethereal form. Taking the weight from his knees and hips immediately eased some pain from his aching bones. He sighed in relief. He was not dead.
With a gasp, he suddenly fell to the ground. The sting of the hard ice on the soles of his feet shot up to his hips.
Drast hooted from behind him, drawing Tyran’s attention. He twisted his neck to see his brother grinning from ear to ear, his few teeth flashing between his beard and mustache. Where the missing appendage had been moments before, Drast had created a spectral hand, a shimmering sapphire color—partially transparent—which he used to pull an arrow from the quiver at his side. His wraithlike fingers twirled the arrow around as he let out a booming laugh.
“Looks like I can use my bow after all. Can we kill the brown-eyed bastard now?” Drast laughed, nocking an arrow and spinning the weapon at Kam. The skin-switcher stepped back, raising his hand in alarm. Drast pulled the string back and forth playfully, as though he might release at any moment, then noticed Tyran. He relaxed the string. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He groaned, rubbing his sore hip. “My mind wandered, and I lost concentration.”
“What happened?” Drast asked.
Tyran scowled. “I just told you.”
Embracing Koldovstvo again, Tyran pulled himself from the ground and floated back into the air, finding no reason to stay on the rough terrain. Though he may have felt some joy for Drast reforming an arm with magic, he did not share his brother’s enthusiasm. With his age, his thoughts were too broken to maintain his hold on Koldovstvo for long.
“Where is Zyem? Where is the dragon-god?” Drast puffed, pointing his arrow at Kam with a wink.
“No matter how much power we can wield with Koldovstvo, you cannot believe we have the capacity to kill a dragon-god.” Tyran lowered himself back to the ground, feeling his mind wander off into memory. The mace at his side grew heavier. “How long has it been since I was called Ser Tyran? How many Vucari did I slaughter with my weapon?”
“They are mad, Erzebeth,” Kam said. “You should not have brought them here. We could have done this alone.”
“Careful with your words, skin-switcher. Do you know who you are talking about?” Drast hysterically shouted between chortles. “Tyran and I slaughtered Wolos while our blood was draining from our bodies. That is right. A god! We killed a god! By the gods, we killed a god! If anything, we can do this without you, but you can do nothing without us. We are untouchable.”
Erzebeth interrupted Drast, addressing them all without any hint of emotion. “We cannot do this without them, nor are they unrivaled, which they should not soon forget.” She rushed to Drast, shining brightly. “While channeling Koldovstvo will not kill you outright, you can very well die here in the Netherworld. Whether engulfed in fire or crushed by boulders, or cut down by an axe or spear, you are still living. Make no mistake of your mortality.”
“I will kiss the demon who rids me of it.” Drast threw his head back, tapping his temple. His laughter rang with amusement. “No, no, I will not use tongue.”
“You will survive.” Erzebeth ignored his strange comment. “Now listen. When Zyem appears, you will not harm him. We came here to restore balance to the world, not further disrupt its order. The dragon-god’s role in guarding the Kalinov Bridge cannot be overlooked. He does not only keep the living from entering, but he keeps the dead from leaving.”
“I thought the dead were spilling into Aenar,” Drast challenged.
“They do not cross the bridge,” Erzebeth said.
Kam entered Tyran’s space suddenly, causing him to jump. The Warden’s face twisted with determination. “Zyem has the Alatir Stone. You need it if you wish to survive the Netherworld. Do you understand?”
Tyran’s unfocused mind scarcely understood the seemingly jumbled speech coming from the boy’s thin lips. “What?”
Erzebeth said, “The stone is an eye found on one of Zyem’s three heads. Once it is retrieved, we must flee from him as swiftly as we can. He is bound by the bridge and can only roam so far.”
“We have to pull out his eye? Like pluck it out?” Drast snorted.
Tyran lifted himself back into the air with Koldovstvo. He had no idea what they were talking about and was tired of being ignored every time he asked a question.
“Like Ojenek, you cannot use your magic to manipulate the stone or retrieve it,” Erzebeth said.
The world quaked, knocking Drast and Kam to their hands and knees while Tyran and Erzebeth remained hovering above the trembling earth. Tyran whipped his head toward the Netherworld, searching for the source as the ice and rock around them crumbled away into an unseen chasm. His concentration slipped momentarily, causing him to fall inches before he quickly regained control. He hoped if he were high enough, he would have plenty of time to catch himself before smacking into the earth.
Drast used Koldovstvo to join Tyran in the air, his left hand gripping his bow and stringing an arrow with his translucent fingers. Tyran floated into an open expanse as the soil milled into nothingness, save a thin strip of land adjoining the ever-expanding spread.
Tyran gritted his few teeth, the dentin cutting into his gums. He could taste blood in his throat, but he hardly cared. His attention was on the so-called bridge, standing no wider than his foot. A moment of clarity struck him. “That is the Kalinov Bridge.”
“Ah, yes. The bridge is awfully narrow,” Drast spoke to the wind. “I am flying, though. The skin-switcher is the one who has to tiptoe across.”
“Do not worry about me,” Kam said, backing away as the limited land space around him continued to rattle. “Worry about the dragon.”
“Dragon? Dragon!” Tyran rang out. “Who said anything about a dragon?” He inhaled sharply, fighting to see his brother and the skin-switcher beneath him. The silver of his shield glistened in the blurred colors.
A deep-throated reverberation thundered from the hidden depths, soon followed by another screech—ringing in the hollow—higher-pitched than the first. Along with the sound came a voice in Tyran’s head, unlike anything he had ever heard before.
What is that we smell? Mortal blood? Who tries to creep into the land of the dead?
Tyran considered reaching for his mace, but instead stuck out his shaking hand to retrieve his guard from Kam. His shield rose from the Warden’s back, pulling Kam from his feet, tugging him closer to the gap.
“Wait!” Kam shouted in alarm, jerking at the knotted leather strap across his chest that held the shield in place. The knot gave way, sending the shield straight to Tyran’s arm. The Warden landed on his feet, bending his knees slightly with impressive agility. “If you are not going to carry it, at least tell me when you want it!”
He paid no attention to the skin-switcher, feeling the encumbering weight against his deteriorated muscles; he quickly used Koldovstvo to support the mass. He slipped in the air with the reallocation of magical energy but hastily readjusted before dipping too low.
He smacked his lips with satisfaction. The square of metallic grey covered him from knee to shoulder. He lowered his head and peered over the ridge of the shield as another rumble echoed from below.
The first greyish-brown claw surfacing from the chasm and clamping onto the ridge did not surprise Tyran, though the sheer size gave him pause. The limb had five digits, each of which ended in a massive nail, long as his forearm, and seemingly made from bone. A second claw slammed into the earth, cracking the foundation, followed by the expected three heads of Zyem. Each horned skull was attached by a long, thick neck to a colossal body covered in coarse skin with a crystal ridge running the length of its spine.
Tyran gawked at the two fat, warped nostrils directly in front him, wide enough for him to walk inside without so much as dipping his head, before following the row of small horns spread over the dragon’s serpentine head to the large teeth poking out from the side of the mouth, previewing the terror hiding inside. A forked tongue slithered out inches from Tyran before darting back between the off-colored scales.
The other two heads whipped around to gain better sight of Drast and Erzebeth, while Kam huddled down beneath Tyran. Zyem reverberated in the throat nearest Tyran and pushed off the inside of the chasm, flapping leathery wings starting from just above its shoulders to the middle of its back. The wings were bladed with spiked scales patterned along the visible bone between the taut skin. The wide tail, ending in a mace-like growth, flapped beneath the dragon like a pendulum ready to strike. One of the heads screeched, the terror-inducing sound echoing off the oversized abyss, causing chunks of rocks to break away from the opposite edge. The noise prompted the voice again in Tyran’s mind.
God-killers!
“Oh! He does not look pleased to see us,” Drast said, flying to Tyran’s right side.
Tyran pressed his lips together, uninspired by his brother’s humor. “I heard him well enough, Drast.” He steadied his breath, scanning the dragon’s many amber eyes elegantly sitting within the creature’s three skulls.
“I wonder if we should tell him we are expert dragon-killers,” Drast smirked. “Let us see, the first dragon you killed was but a baby. We probably should not mention that. The second we fought was Torn’ash, but we did not kill him, did we?” Drast looked over his shoulder for a moment, scratching his scalp in confusion. “No, I do not believe we did. But...Wolos...Wolos... Is Wolos considered a dragon? He looked like a dragon when we killed him...”
“The stone,” Erzebeth said solemnly, flittering closer to them. “Go get the stone from Zyem. Center head. Left eye.”
Tyran strained to see what the ghostly skin-switcher referenced, barely seeing a white stone hovering by some unseen magic in the socket. He was thinking how the gem resembled a glistening eye when bursts of flame spewed from Zyem’s three heads. Forgetting his shield, Tyran lifted his hand and used Koldovstvo to raise a field of energy between himself and the dragon breath.
Drast mirrored him while giggling uncontrollably. He kept trying to open his mouth to speak but only started laughing harder. In short spurts, words eventually escaped between his wheezing fits. “This...this is...so...hot!”
Kam shouted as red-hued flames whipped against the two wavering walls of magical energy. Tyran peered down at the young Warden scrambling for the bridge, jerking their packs along behind him.
The cowardly boy was not even in danger but was screaming like a frightened girl.
“Grab the stone,” Erzebeth commanded once more. She rotated around until the dragon fire was tearing through her backside, having no impact on her ethereal form. “And then get across the bridge.”
The flames desisted. Tyran fumbled to hold his steel shield and hurriedly used Koldovstvo to keep the heavy guard steady. He then looked to Drast for an explanation. He could not remember if they discussed the importance of this white artifact yet. “Why do we want the stone? What does it do?”
Drast turned his nose up at the skin-switcher. “I will pull a hundred stones from dragon skulls if it means being younger again.”
“The stone makes us younger!” Tyran swelled his chest with excitement, pulling his mace free from its loop. The weapon felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pulling his arm down straight next to his side. His mind swirled with magic trying to lighten the weapon, keep his shield steady, and himself hovering above the ground. All the while, he did not want to forget the purpose of the blasted stone. Though his voice sounded as vibrant as ever, he could tell his body was not what it once was. “The stone makes us younger. The stone makes us younger. The stone makes us younger.”
Zyem’s rage rebounded off the chasm’s wall as Tyran advanced with Koldovstvo. Drast grumbled something about drawing fire, circling wide to Tyran’s left, the blue fog swirling from his path as he pushed ahead.
Zyem’s three crowned heads met each of them with fire and fury far more powerful than the initial burst. The lashing flames danced over the heavens adding their own shade to the purplish sky. Tyran clenched his fist with concentration, pulling the particles of cold together to form a wall of ice in front of him, widening his distance from Drast. Two of the heads followed his movement, the heat tearing through his defense mercilessly but keeping him safe from the flames.
