The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  The eruption of bloodthirst during the short fight had boiled his blood, and now he had little energy to draw upon. He cleaned the greatsword and laid it down with great care next to him in case of necessity throughout the night. Loken blinked slowly and stated simply, “Melek, would you mind taking first watch? I can see your senses are a bit more alert. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  Melek broke his trance on the fire and made eye contact with Loken. With a slight nod from Melek, Loken laid his head on his pack. Before sleep took hold, one last thought flitted through his mind, What about the body?

  Loken’s dreams were filled with visions of tireless assassins destroying his body with various lethal weapons. In one dream, he stood above Melek’s lifeless body with no sense of what had happened to him.

  “Melek, not you,” Loken whispered with a hint of agony.

  In the corner of his eye he saw a light-filled dagger thrust toward him; it glowed, as if it produced its own light. As Loken stood, he felt the clean thrust of the dagger enter between his ribs. When the wind flushed from his lungs, he could not speak or call out. Loken felt another thrust enter under his ribs and a sharp tearing sensation when the dagger slashed open his torso. Loken’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened as he tried to find the attacker who ended his life for reasons he did not understand.

  Loken looked down at the wound; his hands had instinctively gone to the torso-width cut. Spurting blood coated Loken’s hands as he struggled to keep it closed before he felt another sharp pierce enter his shoulder and cut down his back in one clean tug. As the blade reached his spinal cord, he heard a loud snap. Loken moaned in overwhelming pain, and within a breath, he felt his entire body lurch forward. He felt his entrails slip from the stomach wound, and Loken’s fingers moved furiously to keep them inside his body. His mind bellowed in agony.

  Despite his efforts, Loken heard a sickening plopping noise coming from the ground as he fell, face forward. He could no longer comprehend what was happening, nor did he care. The end is a few breaths away, he thought longingly. The pain had shown clearly on Loken’s face and disappeared quickly as euphoria stilled his panic. He felt his lifeblood oozing out, yet a smile fell over his face. I will soon be with my friend again.

  Unexpectedly, Loken thought he heard music coming from somewhere nearby. What in the abyss could that be? Why can’t I die in peace? The thought evoked laughter to his lips when he considered the lunacy of it. Die in peace? he thought amusedly. I think I’m dying in the least peaceful way I know. The music grew louder and more vibrant in his ears. Loken grew anxious at his breathing. He knew the wounds should have ushered in death.

  The music nearly overtook all his senses as the notes inundated his thoughts. The hands still holding his stomach twitched with life, and Loken opened his eyes slowly to brilliant light surrounding him from every direction. Despite the light, he could make out a shadowy figure sitting on an old tree stump not too far from where he lay prone. A quizzical look came over Loken’s face as his eyes gained focus on the figure. He thought he saw a fiddle resting on the figure’s shoulder, then realized the figure had stopped playing the music. Instead, the figure beckoned toward Loken with a gentleness that seemed strangely comforting.

  Loken tried to move his legs, but he could not feel them. Panic began to set in again, but Loken pushed it aside as he focused solely on moving his legs. After a few moments he saw the figure put a bow back to the fiddle to begin playing a tune familiar to Loken’s ears. Realization widened his eyes. His father had played it to help him ease into sleep as a child. The Wind that Sweeps the Valley, Loken mused.

  He stiffened as he felt a presence hovering above him. Before Loken could react, he felt the heat of someone breathing in his ear. He saw the figure sitting on the stump frown deeply and begin playing the instrument with such vigor that Loken nearly forgot about the presence standing above him.

  “How does the pain of lost hope feel in the face of true glory?” the figure rasped into Loken’s ear. Loken saw the figure jump from his spot. A moment later, the dagger pierced Loken’s body again just as blackness fell over him.

  “Nooooo!” rang through his mind.

  Melek dumped the remainder of the soup into the bowls before fetching water in a stream ten paces away. He squatted next to the water and filled the pot halfway before rubbing away any remaining soup. While he cleaned Melek stared upward at the evening’s sole moon. The waxing crescent provided little light and after cleaning by feel alone, he filled the pot halfway again and carried it back to the tripod. He walked to his pack, pulled out a few rags that lay within, and placed them in water.

  Melek closed his eyes and listened to the night’s sounds. The nearness of spring had brought out the ordinary night’s noises. The constant buzz of hardier insects seemed oppressive until he focused past the typical sounds and listened for the slightest of noises. He concentrated for a few more moments. Content that he heard nothing strange, Melek opened his eyes. The water had begun boiling, so he dipped a long stick into the water. He twisted the stick around a rag, lifted it out of the pot, and held it aloft while it cooled enough to touch. After waiting a few more moments, he wrung the excess water from it.

  Melek folded it neatly into a long lengthwise piece and strode over to the stranger who still slept peacefully. He studied the stranger and wondered how he knew Arstle. “No matter,” Melek breathed. He lay the rag on the man’s forehead, and within a few seconds the man visibly relaxed into a deeper slumber. Melek nodded with contentment and moved over to the corpse, lifting it without hesitation.

  Melek’s feet crunched over the loose rock as he walked away from the campsite, barely even feeling the corpse’s heft. He could feel the blood from the dead man’s chest soaking into his tunic. He paced far outside the fire’s light and threw the body unceremoniously onto the ground.

  “You deserve nothin’ better, you blighted assassin,” Melek cursed. “But how where you able to hunt us?”

  Confused at the nagging question, he turned and slowly made his way back to Loken’s side, trying to make as little noise as possible on the loose rocks. “I don’t want to wake the bear,” he mumbled, pacing past Loken.

  Then, to Melek’s shock, Loken cried out. Pain wracked his companion’s body. Loken unconsciously stifled the outburst and grabbed his stomach. Melek stood a few paces away next to the fire, drew his dagger, and stared at him in confusion. His eyes scanned the surrounding landscape.

  “Blast this fire,” Melek cursed under his breath. “I can’t see a thing.” Loken’s writhing hands grasped his undershirt in knots and a grunt of pain escaped his lips.

  “They’ve killed me,” Loken gasped almost breathlessly. Melek saw him panting; drops of sweat dripped down Loken’s forehead. Melek paced furtively toward Loken. He put a hand on Loken’s forehead—the man burned with fever.

  “Are you sick, old friend?” Melek asked with a surprised tone. Loken did not even seem to recognize Melek’s words; Loken thrashed away from the fire and grabbed his tunic.

  Melek stood and moved away from Loken, his jaw clenched in a grip of fear, eyes erratic and unfocused. “He’s possessed,” Melek whispered. “I cannot leave him.” He slipped back to his place by the fire. Squatting, Melek pulled out a piece of jerky, chewing it while he watched Loken twist in obvious pain. Not much I can do, Melek thought as he pulled his sight from Loken; the unconscious stranger still lay where he had left him. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths. Melek glanced back at Loken. He had stopped thrashing, and now his chest rose and fell through quick, deep pants.

  A breath later, Loken sat straight up and bellowed, “Nooooo!”

  “Shut your mouth, fool,” Melek whispered fiercely. “Do you want to draw in more assassins? I may not see them next time.”

  Loken opened his eyes and the look of utter confusion caught Melek by surprise. Even through the coolness Loken’s quick gasps pushed white streamers into the night; a visible sheen of sweat coated his arms and f
ace. Loken’s eyes stared at a fixed position past Melek, yet fear etched itself plainly on Loken’s face. In the firelight, Melek noticed Loken’s left cheek twitching. Watching him for a few more moments, Melek waited for Loken to respond in some way.

  Eventually, Melek concentrated on the surrounding terrain to not be surprised by any more would-be assassins. His ears detected no unusual noises in the low-lying valley, yet a popping in the firewood caught Melek’s attention. He saw a spark float into Loken’s hair. He did nothing to brush the ember away. Melek smelled a hint of burning hair, and he rushed to brush it away before his friend’s hair burst into flame.

  “Blighter’s tears!” Melek cursed. “Do you want to be burnt alive?” Despite his heated question, Melek received no response.

  Uneasiness came over Melek, as he felt his hackles rise. Unexplainably, a great sense of foreboding washed over Melek’s mind, which nearly brought him to his knees. His vision blurred, and the fire seemed to leap out at him. Taken by surprise, he staggered into Loken and grabbed his shoulder for support. Melek shook his head trying to clear his mind. After a few moments, Melek’s thoughts came clearly and without discomfort. He rubbed his forehead and looked back down at Loken. The same distant stare still etched itself on Loken’s face.

  “Enough of this,” Melek muttered. He grabbed Loken’s shoulders and fiercely shook him. “Wake up!” Melek whispered fiercely. Despite his normal implacable resolve, Melek felt pangs of fear tickle the back of his mind. He pushed the hints of fear aside. “I don’t have the time for that nonsense,” Melek stated matter-of-factly. Without warning, Loken inhaled deeply, as if he had not breathed for several minutes. Melek stumbled to the ground and stared agape at Loken. Tears flowed freely from Loken’s eyes, as the latent fear on his face became apparent to Melek. Melek looked upward and asked to no one in particular, “Dear gods, what have you done to my friend?”

  “The gods have nothing to do with it,” Loken answered Melek a breath later. Melek did not respond to his friend’s statement as he sat trying to mull over the past few moments. “My own dream is the culprit, Melek. It will plague my mind until my own death, for what I saw and felt is etched into my memory for all time.”

  Loken slowly swiped a hand across his cheeks to wipe the tears away. Dirt from their travels left streaks across his skin. Finally, Melek peered into Loken’s bewildered eyes without shame. Melek noted fear lining the edges of Loken’s eyes. The sense of foreboding flooded back into Melek’s consciousness; he could not help but look away from his friend.

  Looking upward, Melek quickly found the never-changing crescent of Einmryia. The unusual brightness of the moon caused Melek’s eyes to widen in wonder. “This night’s full of strangeness. No matter,” he muttered under his breath. Melek realized without some focus for his mind, his sanity would soon be lost. Not once in his life had Melek had such a maelstrom of emotions. Even when his father died years ago in a clash with the militia from Molston, he did not have the feelings scarring his mind on this night.

  “What’s got a hold of you, old friend? I feel like the world’s fallen apart in the space of a night,” Melek asked gently.

  Loken tried to focus his senses, but the focus had been taken from Loken’s mind by forces he knew were greater than him. He grunted in pain as fear stabbed his mind. Loken glanced back at Melek to stabilize his concentration. He tried to focus on something familiar, despite all the unfamiliar things being shunted into his mind by a strange outward force.

  When Loken met Melek’s eyes, he saw Melek’s normally stoic face shadow over with an emotion, something that had never fallen on his face for as long as Loken had known the man: a semblance of cautious indecision. Loken waited patiently for Melek to collect himself despite Loken’s own disparate feelings. He needed Melek to hear him fully without this shadow skewing his thoughts. Within a few moments, Melek drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, his face visibly relaxing. Loken nodded slightly at Melek and stated, “I apologize for my own issues. They seem to have affected you in a way I can’t understand.”

  “I don’t believe that you can be held accountable for my feelings. I seem to be suffering somewhat from the same affliction,” Melek replied. Loken saw concern fill Melek’s face as he spoke with careful consideration. The fear had not dissipated in Loken’s mind; his hands visibly shook despite his best efforts to rein in the almost uncontrollable fear. His eyes scanned askance into the darkness, still searching for a presence remaining outside his vision.

  “That may be true. I feel the presence that showed itself in my dream. The dream forced me to feel my own death in a way I never imagined could happen. And the presence that slain me persists here. I can feel it in every breath. My stomach twists itself into knots because I feel that the figure will come at any moment to take my life. I thought I was dead because of the pain inflicted by the blade. That blade—” An uncontrollable cough came to Loken’s throat. He coughed in fits, unable to speak.

  Melek wondered if he even wanted to know the rest of the story. Loken reached for the leather waterskin lying close to him; he pulled it to his mouth and sipped. Drawing the water skin away, Loken swiped the back of his mouth with his empty hand. He capped the waterskin and set it in his lap.

  Loken regarded the fire; Melek saw his breaths finally slow enough so Loken could continue. “I don’t attempt to run from this thing in fear because I know this figure, whatever it may be, will find me. I cannot express to you the hold this thing has over me while I sit here afraid for my very life. My willpower alone allows me to speak and stay awake. If my body had control, I would have already fled screaming into the night.” Loken hesitated for a moment. Melek noticed his eyes had rolled back in his head showing nothing but the whites. Melek’s hand reflexively went to his dagger hilt.

  Melek balked as the fear took Loken’s mind again, and he cried, “Loken! Fight this or I will slay you where you sit!”

  Melek’s threat must have brooked the fear’s power because Loken’s demeanor changed instantly. His eyes set themselves into their normal position, and Loken’s posture straightened more than before the episode.

  “Loken, I’ll warn you one last time. I’ll not have a disabled person watching my back. I don’t even need to tell you this.” Melek’s voice had taken on an edge of viciousness, which did not surprise Loken. Cowardice held no toleration to the Olst. If seen by another clansman, death usually followed swiftly on its heels. Cowardice had once nearly been the downfall of their clan, and prophecy held that cowardice would eventually bring the clan to its final days. It could be tomorrow or one hundred years hence. No one really knew when, but the Olst held it as an unwavering truth.

  Clansmen of Olst are bound by the runeoath to strike down any other of the clan portraying fear in any circumstance. However, clansmen bound by blood, such as Loken and Melek, can bar the urge in times of dire necessity. This would be one of those times, thank the gods, thought Loken.

  A long sigh of relief slipped from Loken’s mouth, yet it was cut short when he noticed that Melek’s right hand grasped a dagger. His white-knuckled grip caused Loken’s eyebrows to furrow in shame. His fear of anything outside the campfire or within his own mind dissipated like a wisp of smoke. Loken had never actually seen Melek miss his mark in the many years they had traveled together. And Melek’s aim unleashed death with one quick flick of his wrist. Loken’s gaze reached his friend’s face, and a steely glare of disgust shrouded Melek’s entire bearing.

  A slight nod from Melek caught Loken’s eyes. Through gritted teeth Melek uttered, “I’ll end this if I must, Loken. I love you like a brother. But our oath can’t be pushed for so long. I’m already using every bit of my will to not throw this weapon. I hope my will holds.”

  Loken swallowed at the thought of Melek’s accuracy. He forced himself to bottle the fear threatening to overwhelm him since the dream. No matter what I do, I cannot shake this fear. I know the dream was not real, yet I continue to feel the lingering effects of the
death dealt to me. A few moments passed as the two men’s locked eyes, and each moment seemed like a lifespan.

  “I’ll attempt to rid myself,” Loken stated lamely. He could not mention his affliction aloud. “I know the prophecies too, Melek. I realize what may have to be done, but I trust you’ll control yourself until it is absolutely necessary to do your duty.” Melek’s fingers slowly untwined from the dagger, and Loken’s sigh brought a frown to Melek’s already-grim visage.

  “The fire’s dying. I’ll get some more wood. We’ll be leaving at first light. I do think you need to finish your sleep, if that’s possible.” Melek stood up and strode to the edge of the fire light. He halted and turned his head slightly toward Loken.

  Loken’s anger had flared with Melek’s suggestion that he go back to sleep. “Melek, you need to rest as much as I do. Do you presume to think I’d be able to sleep after such a nightmare?” Loken asked, scorn lacing each word.

  Loken’s anger took his focus off his friend for a moment; he had earlier failed to notice Melek’s tense shoulders. If anything, Melek slumped in a way which suggested defeat. With no remark, Melek stepped forward and the near-total blackness of the night swallowed him. Einmyria’s celestial shine allowed Loken to spot a shadowy figure moving slowly away from camp. Loken listened for Melek’s steps, but he could not hear the soft footfalls. He knew his words stung Melek, but Loken felt chagrin at such treatment. He did not have much more time to dwell on the matter, as his eyes closed of their own volition. Loken entered a deep sleep, one not disturbed by any dreams of his own death.

  Melek stalked away from the campsite. He became one with the night as he traveled by Einmyria’s light with ease. The exhaustion plaguing his mind and body, while he held first watch, had become irrelevant. The now-constant thought of what he nearly had to do to his friend crushed any other distraction.