The Name of Death

by Joshua Robertson

  Chapter 2

  Bound by honor, Drada walked along the Anshedarian enemy, Siegfeld, and his silent cohort, Farthr. Wrylyc bounced along in front of them, leading the way to Shayol Domier. The Kras made little sound as he hopped over fallen branches and through scattered brush in the dark forest, seeing the darkened path ahead.

  The tree birds provided an ambience somewhere in the depths of the tall woods, fluttering and squawking, amongst the distant howls of unknown beasts.

  “The forest is alive,” Drada said, making the effort to step as lightly as she could behind Wrylyc. Farthr seemed less concerned, crunching the brush beneath his hooves. She kept her eyes off the towering Svet. “What other terrors lay within its fold?”

  Siegfeld’s hand gripped the handle of his weapon, as it had for the past hour, while he steadied his walk with his free arm. “Any dark tale of the Dyndaer holds more truth than most would readily admit. Naturally, many kinds of monsters flock to this darkness.”

  “How do you know these demons you seek at the ruins are not only more monsters?” Drada asked.

  “I do not,” Siegfeld said, “but I am told that it bears necessity. You may know demons are regular on the northern island of Kalamaar, and were once said to have marched on Shayol Domier over a thousand years ago.”

  Wrylyc piped up. “Quite true. My grandfather was among the many saved when Branimir Baran freed the Kras from the clutches of the Kadari. Of course, they were known by another name during that age. The songs are magnificent, telling the stories of how Branimir and the Highborn fought against the Bukavac of the Netherworld, guarding the Ash Tree from being destroyed.”

  “The Ash Tree? You mean the Tree of Life?” Drada’s mouth suddenly dried with disbelief.

  “The same.” Wrylyc twisted his neck to flash her a crooked smile.

  “Pay no attention to the Kras,” Siegfeld laughed. “The creatures are full of fancy stories to stir the heart. Sadly, they are only stories. Shayol Domier was a ruin long before any human stepped across the ocean.”

  “No,” Farthr rumbled. “The red beast speaks truth. The Svet know.”

  “Quiet, Farthr.” Siegfeld’s voice grew terse.

  “If humans did not build Shayol Domier, or these Highborn,” Drada cocked her head, “then who did?”

  Siegfeld took a moment, and then finally shrugged his shoulders, showing his lack of interest. “Maybe the Uvil. I hear they had built Garain’l in the age before.”

  Drada disagreed, knowing the Uvil had not ventured as far as Shayol Domier, but held her tongue. Arguing with the human over something so trivial was pointless. She retracted the conversation. “So, why do you think demons haunt the ruins?”

  The crooked smile returned to Seigfeld’s lips. His blonde hair shadowed his cheeks. “The world has seen more blood as of late, notably with the Uvil arising from the sands of the South—”

  “And you suspect demons bid our coming?” Drada concluded, peering at the swaggering human.

  “I suspect demons sway those who are good in equal measure to those who are evil, planting ambitious seeds, without revealing their true nature,” Seigfeld replied.

  Drada squinted at Seigfeld, unsure if the human was attempting to compliment her or otherwise. Opposite of her, she saw Farthr twitch his ears and give Seigfeld an equal look of confusion. Likely, Siegfeld spoke for the sake of speaking, and was not saying anything really important at all.

  She moved her attention to the Kras. “Wrylyc, how much further to Shayol Domier?”

  “If we make camp soon,” Wrylyc tapped his finger on the edge of his crooked nose, “…midday tomorrow.”

  Taking the suggestion, Siegfeld stopped where they stood. “Farthr, fetch some wood for a fire and hope it keeps any passing simargl at bay.”

  Within the hour, the four of them sat nestled around the crackling embers of the fire. Drada readjusted her veil to keep her face hidden, watching the others with careful consideration. With the dangers of the forest, they would take turns keeping watch for simargl or any other beasts that might approach the camp. Yet she was uncertain she could trust the human and his centaur. She had never known humans to hold the same honor as an Uvil. They may still cut her throat while she slept.

  Wrylyc scooted closer to her, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders. The odd creature looked at her with his uneven black eyes, shining like gems in the firelight.

  She asked the question as it came to her mind. “How is it that you have no purpose, Wrylyc?”

  “What would I do with purpose?” He laughed.

  “You would live your life.”

  “I am living now.”

  “But you are not living with any meaning,” Drada muttered. She tried again, “Wrylyc, there must be something that you aim to accomplish, something you wish to prevail over…”

  “Why?”

  Drada faced the fire, unable to comprehend the Kras’s belief. “You tarried around our camp at Raybin for months, doing nothing but watching us go to battle and return. Such a life…without ambition is…”

  “Peaceful,” he finished.

  “I have known their kind for a long time,” Seigfeld offered from across the fire. “The Kras fear to love anything too much lest they might feel something real. Surprising any have lived without masters to lead them.”

  “We feel,” Wrylyc said softly. He scrunched up his nose, wiping his sleeve across his face. “Kras are as much a part of this world as any other living thing.”

  Siegfeld scoffed. “And you give nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Wrylyc’s tone changed considerably to a familiar one of authority. “The Kras have died for others for thousands upon thousands of years. We have been hardened to think every life is worth more than ours, and thus we give ours freely as we do the knowledge we gain.”

  Drada remained stoned-face, but the Kras’s speech touched her heart. “It sounds as though the Kras give everything and take nothing.”

  Siegfeld’s jaw dropped, speechless.

  Farthr snorted with amusement from somewhere in the trees. For the first time since meeting the two, Siegfeld did not silence the Svet.

  “True.” Wrylyc raised a thin finger, and added, “Mind you, no one dies for a Kras.”

  “Is that your purpose then?” Drada asked. “To give your life away for another to use as they see fit?”

  Wrylyc grinned, displaying his row of crooked teeth. “I suppose. And for now, my purpose is to help you complete your purpose.”

  Drada folded her hands. She kept an eye on Seigfeld and asked Wrylyc her question. “What will you do once I discover the name of death?”

  The human, again, hardly flinched at mention of her quest. The thought of discovering death’s name was peculiar enough to her, she would expect any to inquire as to her purpose. Yet Siegfeld stayed quiet.

  Wrylyc shrugged, speaking at a whisper. “If I survive to see the day, I will tell you. Until then, I could not know. I do not know the future.”

  In the distance, the rumble of bestial growls resounded from the forest. Drada turned her ear, gazing into the pitch and then upward to the equally dark canopy of feathered limbs, blocking all view of the moon and stars.

  “Worry not,” Farthr said. “The beasts are far removed from our location. If they come closer, I would let you know.”

  Wrylyc twisted his hands, staring at the centaur. Drada noticed his eyes widened with a thought that had likely been looming on his mind for the course of the day. Suddenly, without easing into the conversation, he blurted, “Are you a slave, Farthr?”

  The Svet, taken by surprise, snorted through his enlarged nostrils, and barred his sharp teeth at the Kras.

  Seigfeld answered swiftly, lifting a hand to ease the beast. “No. Farthr is not enslaved like many of his poor brethren. Though he may pretend from time to time when we pass through uncivilized civilizations, he is a free mercenary among the Crimson Sun.”

  Wrylyc rocked back on his buttocks, unaware of the dange
rous glare Drada noticed in Farthr’s eye. “Amazing. I have never met a free Svet. How did you come to meet?”

  Farthr growled in his throat.

  “Easy, Farthr. Check the area and I will tell the story, and calm yourself, old friend,” Siegfeld said. Farthr snorted and disappeared into the darkness. Seigfeld smiled at Drada and Wrylyc. “He is not fond of this story.”

  “I got the hint,” Drada muttered. “You do not have to tell it.”

  Wrylyc shook his head in disagreement. “I am most interested. If I am going to tell the tale of this adventure, I must know all the details.”

  Seigfeld chuckled, rubbing his knees. “Best not tell Farthr you plan to spread this specific story. He’d have you roasting over the fire before morning came.”

  The threat gave the Kras pause, and he then nodded his little head with understanding.

  The wood popped and sizzled as Seigfeld leveled his gaze over the fire, and began, “Four years ago, my sister, Anneinda, had gone missing from my home in Eris. My father called me back home to pick up her trail, claiming demons had pulled her from her covers in the night. I found tracks and followed the trail to a cavern at the edge of the Shade Fells. The cave was without light, smelled of decay, but most peculiar was the stoned walls decked with some slick lichen that burned to the touch.”

  “The lichen burned you?” Drada winced. She had lived her entire life in the mountains and had never found cave moss that posed a hazard to the skin.

  “As surely as this fire,” Seigfeld said. “I thought I had found the path to the Netherworld, and soon the chilled air billowing from the darkness only confirmed my suspicions. I tell you I had never been more afraid than I was in that terrible place.”

  “As is the frailty of humans,” Drada huffed under her veil with surety.

  Seigfeld gave his usual crooked smile and replied with a calm voice. “As is the frailty of mortals. You, too, would have been afraid Drada Koehn, daughter of Vrayda.”

  She folded her hands to keep them from her sword. She had told herself she would not kill the man; she would keep her honor.

  “By and by,” Seigfeld went on, “I came upon what the Ispolini call a Witiko. Dastardly demons with a hunger for flesh, who they themselves have more bone than flesh to cover their grisly bodies. The bluish bulbs of its eyes were lit in the darkness like torchlight, its fangs were—”

  “We know what a Witiko is, Seigfeld,” Drada said with a click of her tongue.

  Seigfeld cleared his throat. “I suspect you would.”

  “By the Nine Lands, I do not,” Wrylyc gulped. His little hands clung to his knees to hold them steady, leaning forward with his attention fully on the human and his story. Drada held herself rigid to keep herself from shaking her head at Wrylyc. The Kras added, “I hope never to see such a beast.”

  Seigfeld smiled. “I would pray you never do, Kras. The beast would rip limb from torso, all the while you were alive and screaming.” When Wrylyc shuddered in response, Seigfeld pressed on with his story. “I asked the Witiko about Anneinda, but the demon said nothing intelligible. The battle between us was swift. Soon, my blade found its black belly and its guts were left to stain the cave floor.”

  “But what of Farthr?” Wrylyc asked.

  “I heard Farthr soon after killing the Witiko, fervently rustling from further down the path. He had heard the battle and sought his freedom.”

  “Freedom?” Drada lifted her eyebrow, beginning to understand the odd relationship between the Svet and Seigfeld.

  Seigfeld dipped his head. “I found Farthr chained in a hollow in that cave, captured and meant to be eaten by the Witiko scum. He had watched handfuls of his own—and humans—slaughtered at the hands of the demons.”

  Drada felt her heart twist, the smoke of the fire burning her nostrils. “Your sister?”

  Seigfeld turned his eyes from her. “Forever lost. Farthr agreed to help find her, unsure if he had witnessed her death among the many humans. We searched for a while, but the tunnels beneath the mountain ran long and deep in more directions than the two of us could have ever traveled in a single lifetime.”

  Wrylyc looked over his shoulder, scrunching his hooked nose. “I don’t understand how Farthr disapproves of this story.”

  “He is shamed to have been captured,” Drada said matter-of-factly, “and you stole from him an honorable death. He would have died with his brethren in that cave had you not come along.”

  “He would have been eaten alive,” Seigfeld protested.

  “Ah,” Wrylyc grinned, “but the Svet have eaten the living, even their own battle-fallen, since their creation.”

  Drada recoiled, catching bile in her throat. She filled the space with words. “So, he is bound to you now because you saved him from an unsavory death?”

  Seigfeld dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “Absurd,” she replied. “A life of servitude is far worse than a glorified death. He should have sought more Witiko in the caves to kill.”

  “Oh, we killed many more in the search of my sister—”

  “I hear little mourning for her in your breath,” Drada challenged, folding her arms.

  Seigfeld continued, “…but many paths were so thick with the demons, we were forced to retreat.”

  “Retreat?” Drada scoffed. “I know few who would be so eager to tell a story of defeat.”

  Seigfeld’s gaze darkened from across the fire. “You do not know the horrors—”

  “No. I do not. Because Uvil do not know fear.”

  The clipping of Farthr’s hooves against the ground drew their attention. Towering over them, crossbow in hand, he stared at Drada with a haunting gaze, the darkness looming behind his massive breadth. His words fell on her like a curse. “You will.”