9 Tales From Elsewhere 10

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  “You killed us.”

  “You killed us.”

  “Commander, we loved you.”

  “We trusted you.”

  “You killed us.”

  Tortured screams resonated in his head. “Who’s there!?” he shouted. Against the storm, his voice was little more than a whisper. A chorus of wailing began to sing inside his head. “Show yourself!” It grew louder. He clutched his ears to block out the sound, but it was no use. He could still hear them. “Argghhhh!!!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, but he couldn’t hear himself.

  “You killed us. You killed us all.”

  “It’s your fault.”

  He fainted in the mud with the rain coming down onto him. The screams ebbed away. “It’s my fault. I killed them,” Sytre mumbled. He felt the warmth of tears against the cold running down his face. The world darkened. He could hear the disappointed voices of his ancestors in his mind. He could feel their presence in the graveyard around him. But Sytre couldn’t hear them, nor make out what they said.

  He could faintly hear the loud splashing of something running closer to him. They were footsteps. His world faded to nothing but blackness.

  Chapter 4

  Sliver of Hope

  Sytre woke, shaking with fever. He felt covered in a film of cold sweat. Opening his eyes, his vision blurred by the bright fire. He rubbed his eyes, clearing away the haze to find himself in a small, homely room. “What,” He convulsed as he was taken by a coughing fit “where?” His voice was strained and quiet. He could hear someone in the next room, his first instinct was to rise and grab his weapon, but his body refused to listen. Sytre groaned, clutching his stomach. He realised he was only wearing the linen shirt and cloth breeches that he wore under his armour.

  His body ached, and his throat was sore. Even with a woollen blanket draped over him, he couldn’t feel the heat of the fire. His teeth chattered relentlessly behind his blued lips.

  “I tried to warm you, but you haven’t stopped shaking since I got you inside.”

  He looked up at his voice. It was a young woman walking in from the other room. She had kind eyes, blue as sapphires, and a smile that would melt the hearts of men. Her short auburn hair gave her a very gentle figure.

  “I… I…” Pain shot through him as his throat tightened up.

  “Hush, my Prince, that scream you let loose must have hurt your throat. It might be a little while before you can talk.” She calmed. “I made you some honeyed tea. It should help you recover faster.” She bit her lip, “It was the last of my supply, but it should help.”

  The girl knelt down and poured him some of the brew. “Here,” she slipped one hand beneath his head as she guided the cup to his lips. Sytre jerked away as it burnt his lips. She waited patiently for him to return for another sip. The first mouthful was painful to swallow but it soon got easier.

  He rubbed his throat, a small smile edging its way out of the corners of his mouth, “Better…” he whispered. He could feel himself recovering, as the aches began to subside.

  “I used some Pollymire Leaves while I brewed it, it will hasten your recovery.” She looked at him expectantly, raising her eyebrows, as if he should know who she was.

  “You don’t recognise me do you?” She asked. She sighed. “I’m the herbalist and healer of the Caste District... and I’m Forlen’s sister, Inara.” She averted her gaze, as memories flooded her.

  His eyes widened as he remembered where he’d seen her before. His old lieutenant had introduced her to him before their last campaign. “Sorry…” he reached up to wipe his eyes at the memory. Shame filled him. “I’m ssoo-” He massaged his throat, “I’m sorry…”

  She shook her head. “No. You can’t say that to me.” She stared into the dancing flames. Releasing a breath she continued on, “I heard you scream from here, I knew something was wrong so I rushed over to the graveyard and found a man, unconscious and half buried in mud.” Inara stood up, “I thought about leaving you there to rot.” She looked at him, “But I couldn’t. Not knowing how my brother…”

  She wiped her eyes and shook her head, seeming unwilling to continue. Sytre opened his mouth to talk, but she cut him off. “It was hell trying to drag you back home. I ended up having to strip your armour off you outside just so I could move you. You wouldn’t believe how much mud was in them, if I hadn’t looked closely I could have mistaken you for a soggy earth golem.” She gave him a weak smile for her poor joke.

  “It’s all cleaned up and ready for you.” She raised her eyebrows and placed a hand against him to stop him getting up. “When you start feeling well enough to return to the palace,” she said, pointing over to his armour in the corner.

  A sharp pain stopped any protest he’d had. He chuckled, “whatever the medicine lady orders, and…” He turned his head and stared at the flames frolicking upon the coals. “Thanks.” He closed his eyes and relaxed as he felt sleep take him.

  When next he woke, it was morning.

  The birds chirped outside the window and the sun shined through, illuminating the whole house. He sat up, groaning. His body still ached, but he could move again. “Hello?” he called softly, afraid his throat would still cause him pain.

  The young woman popped her head in from the other room, “Oh, good morning, my Lord.” She smiled and bowed her head.

  Sytre raised his hand and shook his head, “Please. Don’t.”

  She stood up. “As you say, my Lord.”

  “Sytre. Stop with the Lord crap, Inara” he told her. ‘I’m not worthy to be called a Lord,’ he thought.

  He could see her opening her mouth to talk, but the words catching in her throat. “S-Sy-Sytre.” She smiled. He could tell she felt nervous about calling a Prince by his first name. It went against all customs, especially for a commons girl. “As you please, my Lo…” she caught herself, “Sytre.” A grin crept across her face, “I wouldn’t have thought…”

  He held up his hand, cutting her off. He nodded, “Thank yo-” The front door burst open.

  Soldiers stormed into the room. Inara took some defensive steps away from them but they arrested her anyway. “By my order you are arrested in connection for the disappearance of Prince-”

  “Brother!” Sytre exclaimed as his younger sibling, Myko, marched into the room, sword in hand.

  Myko had to look twice, “Sytre?” He stared. “What are you doing here?”

  Sytre raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

  Myko shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well… umm… you’re supposed to be missing. Aren’t you?”

  “What? Who the hell said that? Release her,” he ordered the guards, they did so without hesitation. Inara moved beside him.

  “I didn’t do anything but help,” she told him defiantly, standing up as tall as she could.

  Myko scratched the back of his neck, “A guardsman said you brawled with Thuldin, which he denied, but you know how Mother is. She whipped the whole barracks up into a frenzy about you going missing, so, naturally, Father had to order a search. Agron counselled against it, as did our Grandfather.” He shrugged, “But you know how it goes.”

  Sytre faked a smile, it was the best he could offer. His eyes darkened for a moment as thoughts turned to how he handled his mentor last night. Myko noticed something was wrong, and moved to sit beside his older brother. “Leave us.” The guards bowed and left, going to wait outside until their Princes commanded them otherwise.

  “Umm… I’m going to go make some tea,” Inara said, excusing herself. Once out of view, she went about making herself busy but made sure she was still in earshot. This was interesting, after all. She loved hearing nobles talk privately. Not that she got to hear them often, let alone Princes. She was curious as to how they acted away from the public eye.

  “What’s happening, Brother? What’s going on with you?” Myko asked.

  Sytre opened his mouth to talk but the words caught in his throat. Memories flooded back to him like a wave
of torment and agony. “I… umm… I...” He trailed off, shuddering, despite the fire burning in hearth.

  Myko sighed, he’d never seen his older brother like this before. He stood, “Alright, come with me. I’m taking you to see someone.” His voice was unyielding. Sytre wasn’t used to being given commands by his sibling, but he had to admit that Myko was really coming into his own as a commander. It even brought a true smile to his face. Syter walked over to his armour.

  “I’ll get ready and meet you outside.”

  “Need help with the straps?” Sytre shook his head and Myko left him.

  Inara entered the room, holding a vial of blue liquid. “Here, drink this, it should rid you of your aches in an hour or so.” Handing him the potion, she groaned picking up his breastplate and fitting it to him. “I used to help Forlen with his armour, though I don’t remember it being so heavy.”

  Sytre tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth and gagged. He covered his mouth to stop himself from spitting it out. Inara giggled as he made a face to try and swallow it. “What is that?” Sytre looked down into the empty vial, utterly disgusted. The concoction left a burn in his throat.

  Inara shrugged. “It’s a mixture. It might be better if you don’t know.” A grin crept across her face.

  Sytre sighed, placing the vial down, “So, why did you help me?”

  Inara knew he was referring to last night. She pulled on the straps of his breastplate to tighten the fastenings. “Why do you always take all the riskiest missions your Father plans?”

  He flinched at the unexpected question. “B-because they are critical to the success and prosperity of Silverseat.”

  “Yes, of course they are,” she muttered, mimicking his rehearsed tone. “But why do you choose to do them?”

  He’d never thought about that. He’d never thought about why he always stepped up when his Father called for a commander to undertake those missions. He supposed anyone else could have; Agron, Myko, his Uncle or even one of his cousins.

  “I’ve never thought about it.” He was getting uncomfortable. “Are you done yet?” he urged, tugging on his collar to test if his chest piece was secure. Inara went about putting his gauntlets and arm guards on.

  “Well, do you know why so many people ask to be placed in your forces?”

  “Why are you asking me these questions? You’re forgetting your place,” he growled, clenching his fists. His eye twitched. Inara had to yank on the final gauntlet to pull it up all the way.

  “Do you?” she repeated.

  He whirled around and slammed the girl against the wall, holding her by her throat. He bared his teeth, “Why?” he seethed. The darkness around his face was stronger than ever. Black veins began stretching into the whites of his eyes.

  Inara gasped, pulling at his hand to breath. She was scared, but she’d seen this before. Her brother had been a victim of this sickness once. She was determined not to back down. She choked out all the words she could, “Because they believe in you.” Her face began to purple.

  “I got them all killed!” he shouted. He dropped her, grabbed his sword and stormed away. She watched him leave as she massaged her throat, wincing at the pain. His anger subsided as he left, guilt filling the void in its place. He wanted to go back and apologise, but his brother was waiting for him. “Alright, Myko, lead the way.” He breathed deeply to help calm his mind.

  Chapter 5

  Unlikely Saviour

  Myko led him into the Elder Rise, a small district cut into the mountain towering above the rear of Silverseat. Sytre didn’t venture here very often. It was a long hike and he didn’t much care for the magic practiced by those whom resided here.

  They reached the plateau where large blazing bon fires crackled and the air smelt of incense and herbs. “Shamans,” Sytre muttered under his breath. Shamans were the mortal links between the living and the elements, and the ancestors. “What are we doing here, Myko?” he demanded.

  “Just, trust me. Please.” He placed a hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

  Sytre grimaced and contented himself to endure whatever his younger sibling had planned. After all, it can’t be too taxing. It seemed to him that the shamans did nothing but stay in magic induced trances and gave pray and offerings to the supposed elemental lords.

  Moments later they entered an old tent. A small campfire burned in the centre, the fire burned green, then red and blue before turning brown and returning to green. There were many colours in between, but those were the ones Sytre could see clearly. Bones, furs, totems and trinkets hung about the tent, all of them tools of the shaman.

  “I’ve brought him,” Myko said from behind.

  “Hmm,” the old one groaned as he lifted his head. “You were right to do so. Take a seat, young Prince.” The elder’s eyes flapped, as flies crawled across their fur.

  Sytre rolled his neck and gave his brother a pained look. Myko didn’t take the bait. “Sit.” Myko pushed his older brother further into the tent.

  Sytre sighed and took his place opposite the shaman, sitting on the ground in front of the fire.

  The shaman was a biershan. They were usually large, horned beasts with tough tan hides and enough muscle to lift a large horse with ease. Though this one was old and weakened, Sytre knew the shaman could still overpower any human. This biershan had chosen the path of the Spiritwalker rather than the one of the Plainswalker.

  The old bull sprinkled bonemeal over the fire, causing it to leap to life and dance wildly. Sytre listened to him chant his spells asking for the spirits and the elements to come to him. After a time he slowly opened his eyes, he had a sad look to him. “Your heart is heavy with regret, my Prince, and your spirit is tormented by the past. We shamans call it the Echoes of the Fallen and you have it upon you. It has dragged your soul into its depths.”

  Sytre tried to speak, to reject the truths this biershan was saying, but he could not. He couldn’t talk, nor move. The tent and the fire faded away, this brother blurred out of existence and he found himself back in the Scorched Peaks, with his five hundred doomed souls around him. He watched himself march his army to their deaths. ‘Stop, damn you stop!’ he willed his feet to obey, but he couldn’t control them. “Why are you showing me this, shaman?!” he shouted, hoping he was speaking in the real world.

  “Relive your darkest hour,” the voice of the shaman thundered around the entire world, but no one but himself seemed to hear it. “Relive it and find your salvation or your damnation. May the ancestors guide you with their wisdom.”

  “Why!?” he shouted, and this time Sytre’s voice echoed across the field. No one turned their heads, or even noticed he was there. “Don’t do this to me, you old beast! Don’t…” his voice caught in his throat as he witnessed the first victim to fall in the battle. It was Tristran, a man he’d shared many nights with drinking and laughing around a campfire.

  “No, no, no, stop!” he begged. He fought them back but the tears streamed down his face. His sorrow grew with each comrade who fell. “I can’t, I won’t!” he dropped to his knees, beating his fists into the ground. His spectral form did nothing to harm this memory.

  “Why do you hurt so, Prince Vygar?”

  Sytre didn’t know this voice. He looked up and the spirit of a man dressed in chain-linked armour made of Ocean’s Blue Steel stood before him, staring right into his eyes. He could see him, he was not part of this memory. Upon his head sat the crown of Silverseat. He was a king of his city, or had been. “Who are you?” Sytre asked quietly.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. I have lived and died as I had wished, and not once did I allow myself to be lost in grief. Grief ravaged me once, when I lost my wife, after my first and only son was born. I did not let it take me.”

  Sytre scoffed at this, “One life is not the same as five hundred.”

  “You’re wrong in this, young prince. When it’s the one you love it doesn’t matter if it is one or ten thousand, the loss cuts just as deep with either bl
ow.”

  Sytre didn’t speak, he couldn’t bring himself to argue against a ghost. Though in some way he could see sense in what the apparition said.

  The spirit pitied the Prince. In an instant the battlefield shifted and the two of them were upon the great stairs of Vygar Keep. “When I built this city it was like every stone was a shard of my broken heart and I was cementing it together piece by piece.”

  Sytre’s eyes grew wide. “You’re Valmarion Vygar, founder of our house and of Silverseat, aren’t you?” Sytre faced his ancestor.

  Valmarion nodded, “Yes, and your distant forebear.” He smiled. “I must say, the Vygars have grown into something I could have never imagined. Upon the shoulders of you, your brothers and all of our family that has been since I lived, the Vygars have become the rulers of a kingdom, and one of the five pillars of the Remnant Alliance.” He chuckled.

  “What does any of this have to do with my mistake?”

  “That’s just it!” Valmarion wheeled on him, “What you did was never your mistake to make.”

  Sytre was confused by this. Before he could ask they were back at the battle, but this time it was as Sytre led the final charge against the Aruks. He felt sick but Valmarion’s voice calmed his nerves, “Just watch, and watch closely.”

  Sytre concentrated on the events unfolded before his eyes. Watching was as heart wrenching as when first he witnessed this horror. “Don’t just look at your soldiers, see your soldiers.”

  Valmarion’s words were like riddles inside of a riddle. Sytre looked, ignoring the battles around him and saw. The Aruks mounted offensive after offensive, darting through their foes trying to get at the Prince of Silverseat. Sytre had never even known so many had gotten within a sword’s length away from his back.

  Sytre witnessed his soldiers darting forward, coming between each aruk and himself. They were throwing themselves at the mercy of these vicious beasts, shielding their commander from harm. “They were protecting me,” he muttered quietly. The realisation both awed and stung him. “Why? When they could have saved themselves?”