by Ross Turner
Isabel gasped and flung the front door open to see her shivering and bedraggled son reach the end of the pathway leading from their home, still clutching the fruits of his earlier errand in gnarled and cold bitten fingers, curled almost involuntarily in a frozen vice.
“COLE!” Isabel screamed as she ran for him. Zanriath followed, noting Cole’s exhausted condition and his sodden clothes.
Isabel grabbed Cole in a desperate embrace and he returned it just as fiercely. Zanriath put his arms around them both and they stood there for a few minutes, their heat warming their son somewhat, though they did not question him instantly of his whereabouts. They were simply relieved to see him home unharmed.
Before long they had Cole inside, changed, warm, and with food in front of him. He ate ravenously, but said nothing, swallowing his food in great chunks, barely bothering to chew, for he had not eaten for most of the day.
“Cole?” Isabel began tentatively, concerned still for her son, having not yet received any information regarding his disappearance. He seemed less than willing to share with them what had happened, and had virtually not spoken since his return. “What happened?” She sat at the table next to him and Zanriath sat opposite, both with concern evident in their eyes.
“Crane was in the market.” Cole said quietly, his voice croaky. Zanriath’s gentle eyes hardened slightly and flashed a darker shade of gold. “He singled me out to everyone. So I left.” He continued eating for a minute before speaking again, tearing at the bread before him almost viciously. “I went for a walk in the fields, but got lost in the dark.”
“Oh Cole.” Isabel said softly, though she was not sure that he was telling them quite the whole truth. He looked at her directly for almost the first time since his return, and Isabel saw something strange, something that she did not recognise.
The look of discontent, almost longing, that Cole had worn so desperately for so long now, was gone, replaced by something that Isabel had never seen in him before, something that should have comforted her, but for some reason did not.
“Did something happen?” Zanriath asked, clearly not buying that Cole had revealed the whole truth either.
“No father.” Cole replied, standing and taking his plate to the side. “I am very tired though. I don’t know how far I went, but I had to walk for hours to get back.” He said suggestively. Isabel gave in, overcome with relief regardless of all else.
“Go to bed sweetheart.” She said gently, standing and guiding him upstairs. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Cole nodded and disappeared up to his room.
“Cole…” Zanriath called up briefly, halting his son in his tracks for a moment. The young, exhausted boy looked back to his father sorrowfully. Zanriath sighed. “Ignore Crane in future Cole.” He said. “He causes problems for a living sometimes.” Cole nodded timidly in response. “Sleep well son.” Cole nodded again before turning and disappearing upstairs.
Zanriath and Isabel looked at each other with a mixture of relief and confusion. Zanriath placed his arms around his wife and she leaned against him, heaving a huge sigh of relief.
“What’s going on Zan?” Isabel breathed quietly, her voice a little shaky, directing the question at Zanriath, but hoping fervently that somebody, anybody, would be able to answer her.
“I don’t know.” Her husband replied. “But I get the feeling we’ll find out soon enough.”
Isabel only nodded in response, convinced on one hand that he was right, but on the other, unsure whether they were going to like what they found.
7
The next day, back in his workshop, Zanriath focused on the immediate task at hand, his thoughts bent solely upon the metal burning with such intense heat between his fingers, steaming and rasping to the touch.
Some unnerving truths had been coming to light of late, regardless of how skewed they seemed to be, and this was the best way he could think of to escape. His forge had become one of his closest friends, and when he worked in the intense heat of the scalding flames and smouldering coals, he found that he could relax, pressing and shaping the metal repetitively, even mundanely between the intense pressure of his hands.
Though the mere thought of Zanriath delving his bare hands into the burning pits of metal was unnerving for an onlooker, most in the village had grown accustomed to the sight, and many could now watch him work whilst cringing only slightly.
Zanriath, however, knew there was no danger, and his rhythmic work freed his mind to wander liberally.
Cole was by his side, as usual, watching his father work. His son was well accustomed to Zanriath’s practices by now and, besides Isabel, was the only one who no longer thought twice as his father delved his hand into the searing flames and took up whatever scalding object rested within.
Usually Cole was full of questions, and often even asked to try his hand compared to his father’s, using the proper tools of course, for it seemed he did not possess the same elemental abilities as Zanriath. But on this occasion, after all that had happened of late, Cole was somewhat pensive, unobtrusive, even withdrawn, and watched his father’s motions without comment.
Zanriath’s now thick set and muscular forearms, shaped as the metal from his profession, moulded and pressed boiling iron and tin and steel and copper and silver and gold, shaping them intricately with his hands and fingers as one would shape clay.
Reaching into the flames once again, Zanriath pulled from their intense depths an ugly lump of heated metal, glowing molten red and steaming even in the air. He held it in his hand, for a moment lost in thought, before putting it to work.
Moulding and smoothing the heated lump, it took him little time to fashion the item he desired. Within only minutes he had formed a perfect spade head, curved elegantly and precisely - a very fine finish for such a simple tool. Zanriath strove for perfection in his work, regardless of whether it was for a king or a peasant, and so laboured over every piece equally.
Any other smith would have had water to hand, and plenty of it, ready to quell the extreme heat of their work and fix its shape. Zanriath, of course, had no need for such things, and simply stood up and walked away from his forge. The finished spade head in his hands cooled instantly as he wicked away the heat into the air all around, dissipating it evenly, and the burning fires he had only seconds ago been using were immediately cold. He placed the now cool metal on his workbench and removed his apron, before turning back to Cole.
“Perhaps we should leave it there for today?” Zanriath suggested. Cole, though he was quiet that day, was by no means sullen, as he enjoyed working in the forge, and looked a little disappointed at his father’s words. But he did not argue.
“If you so wish father.” He replied, his ingrained good manners preceding him.
“That’s my boy.” Zanriath complimented him. “I can see you have a lot on your mind…” He continued. “Is there something you would like to talk about?”
Cole’s eyes flashed for a second and he almost gave in and told his father everything, but at the last moment something stopped him, resisting, holding him back. It was almost as if he knew there was more to come, and that now was not the right time for this conversation.
“No father.” Cole finally replied. Zanriath raised his eyebrows slightly for a moment, but said nothing, letting the matter finally drop.
“Very well then son.” He said honestly. “Go and enjoy yourself before the weather turns completely.” Cole nodded thankfully and retreated from the smithy.
Zanriath sighed a heavy, concerned sigh and followed his son for as long as he could with his eyes, before the young adolescent eventually disappeared between the jumbled squares of stone houses and stores.
He folded his arms and looked around his smithy almost half-heartedly, laying his gaze upon the tasks still to complete. There was not so much to do that it disheartened him; his work never disheartened him, for he enjoyed it immensely. It just seemed that at present there was an awful lot afoot that he did not understand, and
that distressed him somewhat, and so he afforded himself a little time for silence and thought.
He had surprisingly few tools to hand in the spacious room of his workplace, due to his unusual abilities, and consequently there was very little in the way of clutter. What items there were lying about mainly consisted of completed works, ready to be delivered or collected, or tasks still to be undertaken. More often than not these included broken tools, wheelbarrows and the like, and even these did not take up much space, as they were all stacked neatly over to one side, ready for inspection.
Zanriath always found that having a tidy and organised workplace also allowed him to tidy and organise his thoughts, freeing his mind from clutter and stress as far as possible. But it seemed that at present, as can often be the case, the answers he required would not be found through habitual organisation, but rather through dutiful and often frustrating patience.
At that point he thought again of his family, as he did daily whilst working to provide for them. But then his thoughts drifted further north, as they frequently did in quiet and private moments like this, and he found his mind casting itself across Inferno Range. Over the mountains and to Dragon’s Peak his thoughts wandered, for the longing he had had since he was just a boy had never left him. He regularly cast his gaze north to the Kalaren Peaks, imagining and remembering what lay beyond.
How he desired to return to those mountains.
But as he ran his hand through his thick hair, touched now with flecks of grey, his thoughts were of Cole, for his son and his wife were the centre of his world. It pained him greatly to think that his son, who had forever loved him and come to him with endless reams of questions, thoughts and ideas, was now so solitary, and seemed always so distant.
There was something he could not share, something it seemed that Cole was facing alone, out of either necessity or choice.
Zanriath could only hope that whatever it was brought no harm to his son, or to his wife, or to Tamarack.
Cole’s first notion was to visit Rosynn. He felt almost required to do so. But after a short debate with himself, the strange feeling that things were not quite right won over. And so he wandered somewhat aimlessly through Kalaris until, almost before he realised it, he was past the northern-most tip of the small village and looking up at the enormous Kalaren Peaks towering directly above him.
He continued walking and passed through a small grove of trees he had not seen before. Absently, he ran his hands along their rough bark trunks as golden and orange leaves fell all around him, shedding themselves, ready for the cold that would inevitably come to engulf the land.
There was one tree however, that had not shed its leaves, and its bark seemed somehow stronger and more resistant than the others, feeling rougher to the touch and standing firmer against the approaching threat.
The Wykvan tree was the last in the grove, furthest from the village and closest to the Kalaren Mountains. Its leaves were a deep dark blue and Cole knew they would soon turn black, as the light of day was at its shortest and the cold was the most piercing, especially here in the open and so close to the Peaks.
Cole leaned against the Wkyvan and closed his eyes for a moment, desperately searching for an answer, but none came. Instead, a familiar sensation crept over the young man as he stood alone in the breezy afternoon, surrounded by vast plains of common and huge, rocky mountains, tipped with the early white encroaches of winter.
Leaves whipped up suddenly about him as the wind intensified and the open expanses of green and brown and white and blue all around and above beckoned for Cole to release his power.
Then he felt the presence again, only now it was much stronger than it had been before. It overwhelmed his thoughts within moments, creeping through his mind and penetrating his subconscious like a disease. But this time he was not afraid. This time the voices were not vengeful, but instead seemed welcoming.
They whispered his name. The voices in his mind spoke softly at first, as if they were slowly approaching him, but the sounds grew gradually louder and fiercer with each passing syllable.
Before long they were shouting his name and their grating words screeched in his ears. He covered them with his hands desperately, trying to block the sounds out, closing his eyes tightly and yelling for help. But he was too far from the village. No mortal help came. He was certain now that he was going mad, losing his mind, his sanity, hearing voices that did not exist.
By now his power was growing too great, and it was beginning to tear him apart. Cole felt as if he was bursting at the seams, being ripped into a thousand pieces from inside his own body. Then the voices spoke again, cautiously now, and the whistling wind seemed to quieten.
‘Colvan.’ They said in ghastly a whisper. ‘Cole.’ He waited expectantly. ‘You will die if this continues. Your power is too great for it to be ignored. You must set it to your task.’
Cole faltered. He could not only hear them now, but he could see them too, regardless of whether he closed his eyes or not. The voices were real. They did exist. They were not soulless, in fact far from it. They were the lost souls; the Souls of the Ocean that everybody so feared - and it seemed they were saving his life, protecting him from destroying himself, even helping him find his potential.
His vision fixed upon the single image of a young girl, her very presence flickering and distant, her outline fading and then reappearing with hints and flashes of blue and white. Her eyes bore into Cole’s, seeming to penetrate through to his very core, concealing a deep, dark secret lying hidden within them.
‘Your power is growing too fast Cole.” Their voices told him then.” There is too much of it. You must release it, or your own will shall destroy you.’ They sang almost in harmony now and were soothing, convincing.
“How?” Cole croaked, knowing the voices were in his mind, but speaking the words regardless, his eyes still set upon the strange ghost of a girl. “What is my task?” Cole’s chest burned as if his insides were aflame and he was not far from unconsciousness, the pressure far too great for his feeble human frame to withstand.
‘Summon those which you may call your own.’ The voices told him. ‘Summon those which you may control. It is your destiny Cole. Spread your power between them. If you do not, it will consume you.’ Then the voices broke off and Cole fell to his knees, shaking and unable to focus, his head spinning.
His mind raced, but he could not concentrate. He could not focus. By now the pain was unbearable and he screamed in relentless agony, but there was nobody there to aid him, nobody but the lost souls.
Then another image fixed in his mind. It was a man. But this man had no eyes or mouth or clothes or even skin. It was a black figure that Cole recognised only as the shape of a human. Nonetheless, he knew the figure was alive, whether it was a man or not, because he could feel it. It was as if the figure’s breaths and very heartbeat were as his own; they were one and the same.
He realised then what was happening.
He somehow knew that what he was doing was more than likely impossible - outside the limits of the ability and power of a single human. But, not knowing whether it had even been attempted before, Cole did it anyway, continuing in that safety net of ignorance.
The shape in his mind’s eye began to shift and change. It became the outline of a dog, and a bear, and a wolf, even a cow. Numerous other creatures followed before it finally settled upon a shape that Cole did not recognise, though it seemed to have come directly from his own imagination.
Then the blackness began to drain away and was replaced by eyes and ears and monstrous claws and hideous teeth. And by the time it was eventually finished, Cole had no idea what the thing was that he held fixed in his thoughts.
That was when the fear he had so far lacked set in. That was when he began to completely lose control.
The creature, that he could feel so intimately entwined within his own body, suddenly began to multiply. There was only the one at first, but then there were two, then four, eight, and be
fore he knew it, dozens, hundreds, thousands, all contained within his bulging thoughts, ripping and tearing at the fabric of his mind.
He screamed yet again, his cries falling on the deaf ears of the surrounding trees and rocks and sloping banks and falling leaves.
Cole felt as if his eyes were bulging from their sockets as the demonic thoughts cascading through his mind exploded from him, threatening to tear him to pieces for even attempting to control them.
But then another voice spoke to him. At first he thought it was a voice from one of the demons he was creating, but he was wrong. The voice seemed to speak to him from his very soul, and somehow even managed to quell the pain that was still building within him.
‘This must not be so Colvan.’ The strange voice that he did not know resonated powerfully in his mind and through his body, somehow feeding Cole new life and strength with its words.
Then the pain seared again and Cole shrieked horrifically as the figures continued to multiply uncontrollably. He doubled over and fell to the floor clutching the sides of his head, unable to cease the burning agony.
‘You must stop this Colvan.’ The voice urged, somehow without insistency, or even emotion. ‘What you are doing will destroy Tamarack, and the rest of the universe. This is not your task.’ And then the voice was gone. Its sudden arrival and absence left Cole feeling somewhat empty, but a new resolve had dawned upon him, and his will was suddenly set to a new task; this time a task with a much clearer purpose.
He clambered to his feet and focused, gritting his teeth through the blinding pain coursing throughout his body. By now the demonic figures he had been creating numbered in the millions, and he could somehow feel every single one as if they were a part of his own mind and body and soul.
And so, he began the arduous and complex task of reversing what he had almost allowed to entirely consume him.
