ULTIMATE FANTASY (I - III)

by J. G. Cuff

  John shut his eyes and slowly moved his head back and forth. The bird flew off, realizing that the easy meal on the ground was not quite dead.

  After a few breaths, he blinked his eyes open again. Through thin, naked branches, he saw an overcast sky and two steep, snow-blotted hills with patches of brown and white, rising high-up into a tree line above either side of him. When his eyes had settled into focus, he realized that he was lying at the bottom of a deep ravine shaded by large trees.

  He remembered nothing. No memories at all, and yet, the steel helm pressing hard against his head was somehow familiar. He searched through the fog in his mind.... Nothing to cling to; only a vast grayness, like the lonesome sky above.

  Where am I?.... Who am I?

  A moving static began spreading out under his skin; pulsing pins and needles covered his body. His nerves began firing; slowly bringing his muscles back to life. He could feel his jellied blood oscillating, and then steadily pumping through the flesh of his limbs. Nausea overtook his stomach, and he lay still, trying not to vomit; sucking in short breaths, until the queasiness had finally passed.

  The human giant painstakingly worked himself into a seated position. Looking down at his unfamiliar body, outstretched in front of him, he saw that he was wearing red and silver plated armor underneath a long and heavy, black fur coat opened part-way and tied across the chest with two red, braided tassels. He caught sight of something lying in the snow to his right. Nearly resting against his leg, was a large, four-flanged iron mace; at least the length of a man's arm. It did nothing to help him recall. He reached up to remove the helm from his head. It was stuck. The right side had been badly damaged. He winced and pulled harder. When the dented helmet finally broke free, refreshing, cool air passed over his head, and instantly, the pins and needles were gone. His strength was quickly returning to him. John slowly made his way to his feet, letting the heavily-damaged, steel brain-bucket roll out of his lap and onto the snowy ground. When he looked down to his boots, he noticed something very strange. The snow on the ground where he had lain, was raised slightly above the rest of the melting whiteness blanketing the ravine floor. The shape of his body had been preserved in a white form...where the sun's light had been denied.

  How long have I been here?

  He reached up quickly, and his fingers searched along his skull; feeling for the source of all of the dried blood that covered his face. He found no injuries; only the crusted, flaking crimson that broke under his fingertips and fell to the ground. Whatever harm had to come to him in the past was gone. He had healed entirely.

  With a long, deep breath to steady himself, he turned his head toward the sky, listening to the eerily peaceful noiselessness around him. And then it happened. From the darkness in his mind, a flash of images and sounds exploded forward—memories in rapid succession, bringing him down to his knees in the snow, overwhelmed and gasping in fear. He suddenly remembered who he was.

  I am a Veilman soldier............ My name is John.

  His thoughts raced in confusion; haphazardly piecing together the events that had led up to now.

  We were attacked in the dark. It was winter...freezing, the snow was deep...and now..., it's nearly gone. I remember..., remember dying?

  It all came back to him, and John's heart began to sink. Kneeling in the wet snow, he spread out his thick arms and shouted toward the darkening sky above,

  “Father! Please! Take me back!.......... Take me home!”

  He let himself fall forward onto his hands, where wet, rotted leaves and freezing-cold mud pressed against his palms. John clenched his hands tightly into broad fists and began to beg quietly underneath his breath.

  “Father, please don't leave me here. I beg of you..., take me home. Take me back.”

  PERFECT DARKNESS

  11

  HEY were a group of 26 riders—Special Unit 172 of the Veilmen Order; all dressed in light armor of red and silver, draped over by long, black fur coats, and armed with fine steel swords and crossbows. They were tired from riding, tired from winter, and finally returning home to Amicitia after a month-long reconnaissance in the northern White Mountains. There had been rumors of gathering hordes of Wataeo in the forested foothills. Three large merchant caravans were recently attacked while heading north into the Brumal Territories. Twenty-eight wagons were looted in total, and twelve people had disappeared; leaving only their blood behind. It seemed as though the savages may be expanding their reach.

  The Queen's Guard could not be everywhere at once. They had many roads to patrol and were never in one place for more than two days. The Veilman had been dispatched in mid-winter when the odds of finding a seasonal encampment were much higher. Their orders were to track the nomads and gather whatever information they could—observe and assess their numbers. But the riders had found no sign of anything other than wolves and white badgers feeding on frozen carcasses. Four bodies; all men, nearly one week apart. Whether or not they had been left by the Wataeo was anyone's guess. Many fools had died attempting to travel after the last days of autumn; caught unprepared in the whipping cold and heavy white. Winter could have killed them all.

  Unit 172 was to travel the Northern Boundary from west to east for one month. The Amicitia Army would then decide what actions to take. There was little sense in sending thousands of coats and costs into the unknown. Wataeo weren't considered to be a military threat. Their superstition and mysterious rituals left them disorganized and lacking any real command or leadership. But their fierce reputation for murdering and stealing had made them an official enemy of the realm for generations. If needed, the army would march north to meet and suppress the horde, hopefully catching them in the open.

  The 26 Veilmen were weary and exhausted; ready for real beds to sleep in and real food to eat. On their way south to the only crossing over the Void Canyon, their commander had decided to save time and accept an unnecessary risk. Instead of keeping his men on open ground, where they excelled at what they did, he decided that they would cut through the northern edge of the Sorrow Wood, saving them a half-day's ride to the bridge. That decision would cost them dearly.

  They entered the forest at midday and just before nightfall, as they were nearing the western edge of the stand, Wataeo Tribesmen ambushed them; swarming out of the trees from every side, covered in dark furs with their faces painted black, screeching and throwing axes and spears. The Veilmen tried to maneuver from their saddles, but the trees were too dense for the horses to turn and the animals panicked; rearing-up and throwing their riders; they bolted in all directions, crashing through the branches into waiting wild men. The soldiers watched helplessly, as their steeds injured and impaled themselves on lowered wooden pikes. The riders fought back, but it all happened too fast and their commander was already gone, along with 16 others. The forest cover had given the Bushmen an enormous advantage and soon, the remaining nine soldiers were standing with their swords drawn and their backs together, frantically searching the dark trees. The Wataeo were gone.

  As quickly as the chaos had all unfolded, all was silent once again in the Sorrow Wood. The heathens had what they had come for. Eleven bodies were missing. Eleven wounded men, including the commander, had been dragged off into the deep woods to be stripped, tied and wrapped in vines around the blessing trees. The remaining six bodies remained amongst the soldiers. All of them dead, hacked and bloodied, sprawled out between the low branches. Their blood had spattered, decorating the white snow all around them with sunken pockets of crimson.

  It wasn't supposed to happen this way. These were no amateurs, no ordinary horsemen lost in the woods. These men were hand-picked. They were Veilmen; named so for the secrecy and lore surrounding their long history. The men behind the veil were known for their efficiency in serving death and out-thinking the enemy—the armies dirty hand at your command, if the price was right. They were the best in the business; murder-for-hire on a grand scale. And they never turned down a chance to make profit.
/>   Each member was inducted into training as a small child. Most of them were taken from the orphan houses, trained and battle-hardened before puberty. John Bruin was such an orphan. The military adopted him from a work-house in Amicitia. The ladies who cared for him there complained that he ate twice that of the other boys, costing them more coins than they made working him as a bath-house cleaner. He was damn glad to go when the men came to take him.

  John went straight into training with the army's Callow Colts. By the age of seven, he had become a near master with a dagger in each hand and he could ride a horse at full gallop with a drawn bow. Before he reached the age of 13, John had become an assassin—killing two men suspected of theft from a wealthy rancher at the foot of the Timor Ranges west of the city. Young boys were less suspicious, making them wonderful little spies and throat-slitters. His years of training would slowly raise him higher into the ranks and eventually he would have a coveted saddle among the infamous Veilmen. Each of them were chosen for their ferocity and their individual talents. But John was special. His strength was absolutely incredible. Wielding a blunt weapon, he promised of smashed bones, and with a sword in one hand, he could hack a man's limbs off in single blows whether they were in armor or not.

  His superiors speculated that he came from beyond the foothills of the northern White Mountains where the bears and wolves were also enormous. John never knew his parents. He was left as an infant, wrapped in a wool blanket, naked and screaming in the doorway of a butcher's shop at the south end of the Amicitia.

  He had nearly felt that way again after watching the Wataeo decimate an entire unit of some of the most capable warriors in the realm.

  Their attackers had cut off their intended route to reach the bridge at the Queen's Guard Outpost, and now there was no way forward for the nine remaining men. With no horses to mount and another possible attack at any moment, the Veilmen had to retreat. Their provisions were gone with the two pack horses that had fled in the ambush. They had nothing more with them than their coats, weapons, a few tinder boxes for making fire and a faint hope that the Wataeo were satisfied for now.

  They decided to head west toward the edge of the mighty canyon where the trees grew sparse. At least there they would not be trapped in the brush. It had cost them an entire night in the winter moon to reach the Void's eastern edge. They would follow the ridge south until they could find a way to climb down and cross the mile-gap. The winds blasted at them for two days, funneling out of the angry Void, as they marched between the brim of the forest and the canyon ridge, eating whatever they could gather underneath the snow. The only animals were birds and a few white foxes who offered little chance to fire bolts at. The nights were freezing cold and the Veilmen spent them huddled around a fire in their bearskin coats, taking turns on a four-man night-watch.

  When three days had passed, they found a steep sheep path traversing down one side of the Void and up the other, nearly a half-mile apart. It was cold hell, but they made it alive. Frost bitten, starving and exhausted, they stepped into the trees of the Buckskin Forest at dusk. At last, they had reached the safety of the Sparrow Vale. The men climbed a large hill to mark their bearings and were overjoyed to see little specks of light coming from the tiny houses miles away, across the valley before them. It was the first sign of civilization in 41 days. They laughed and cheered, all agreeing that sitting in a village tavern drinking and feasting together in the company of many women was first in order. They could not afford to risk traveling in the dark and becoming lost in the forest. The men decided that would have one last fire and try to keep warm until the morning light allowed them to see their way through the trees and out into the open valley. It was a starless night.

  The four men on night-watch hadn't made a sound. They gave no warning. It happened in the instant that he turned his head to look behind him. He was sitting on the tail of his coat beside the flames when he heard something moving at his back. In the firelight, John saw the war hammer, just before the right side of his helm smashed inward and split his skull. All went black until he woke-up a moment later on the ground in indescribable pain. Blood seeped out of his skull; sweeping over his face with each heartbeat. The pain was so unbearable that he longed for a killing blow. He could hear the others around him shouting and screaming in terror—sounds he had never heard from the mouths of brave men before. Then, in an instant, he was lifted up and thrown into the air. A high-pitched humming sound filled his ears and then his body slammed back into the forest floor, knocking the wind from his lungs, as he felt himself rolling downhill and heard the sound of ice and branches scraping across his armor until he slid to a stop, flat on his back with his head turned to the left. The pain was gone. He felt nothing at all. John was paralyzed from a broken neck.

  A stream of blood started to take its course out from the gap in his skull, moving slowly in the frozen air, down along his eye socket to the bridge of his nose and down, thickening upon his lips until it spilled down into his open mouth and dribbled into his left lung. He choked hard, gurgling bubbles of air through the thick, warm silk. His mouth opened and closed in silent, rhythmic gasps, as the fluid iron covered his face and his eyes fluttered behind a veil of blood.

  Crippled in the cold and completely paralyzed in the winter darkness, John Bruin drowned dead inside his helm. At that moment, he felt his mind drifting into a horrible lightlessness. A fear like he had never known before, gripped his heart and he cried out in the gravid blackness like he was a terrified child. And then all was white. An internal warmth filled him entirely and he became aware of another presence with him. Someone or something stood before him and John found himself on both knees, looking up toward a body of white light.

  He could feel another presence in his consciousness, as though their thoughts were interwoven. With no face and no features, the light addressed him with the deep voice of a man, echoing from somewhere inside his mind.

  “You must walk the path of hearts now child. Only then can the Father bring you home.”

  “What path is this?” John asked, his thoughts sounding-out like spoken words. He could hear them, although he had not opened his mouth to speak.

  “It is the way to him. He has not forsaken you yet. You must return.”

  “Return? No.” John was suddenly horrified at the thought of ever having to leave the strange and peaceful place of calm light. He felt only warmth and love now. No darkness could ever reach him there. Returning to what he was seemed an utter nightmare.

  John pleaded.

  “Please, forgive me. I know my sins, but I want to stay here. I'll do anything you ask.”

  “You will take this with you,” the voice said to him, “This shall be your only weapon now; the only one you may carry.” From within the light before him, the large handle of an iron mace was set against his chest. He wondered what was so special about the worn-looking weapon. As his thoughts asked, the voice answered him.

  “It will unmake them entirely—breaching their souls...sending them into perfect darkness.”

  “Send who? Please, I don't understand.”

  “Warrior! Grasp your weapon!” the voice commanded him.

  John was more frightened then he had ever been in his entire life. He reached out slowly and closed his large fist around the handle. Instantly, an unbelievable pain screamed from his palm, up into his arm, and ripped through his chest. It was as though his lungs were being filled with white-hot coals. He tried to let go, but his hand was fused to the mace. He heard himself screaming, and then it was over. The pain was gone, and he felt nothing but the presence before him and the weapon in his right hand.

  “You have been given the Father's eye,” the voice said slowly, “You shall be his hand to deliver his wrath into the world of man.”

  John looked down at the mace.

  “What am I to do to come back here? What is my path to return?”

  The voice rose to a deafening volume, and roared through John's mind like thunder from a blac
k sky,

  “YOU SHALL BE RABID IN HIS NAME!”

  It was John's last memory. He could hear a song bird now, somewhere above the ravine. He stood up tall; his legs now growing stronger, and his body warming with blood made new. Time had passed him over. It had crept along in man's world; 46 days exactly, while he was gone, somewhere in the timeless light.

  He looked down at the mace on the ground beside his feet, and then to his right palm. His hand was completely unharmed.

  The darkening sky showed him that the sun would set within an hour. After uncoupling the latches underneath his armor, he sighed in great relief, as the heavy steel plates dropped away to the ground in front of him. One by one, they clanged together into a pile of metal and straps. He was free of his heavy skeleton. His long fur coat and warm gambeson would keep him more than insulated. John stretched out on his back, groaning loudly like a bear lumbering out of its resting place after a long hibernation. As he stretched, the joints along his spine creaked and snapped; settling back into place.

  Thirst. John rubbed his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth. The thought of water was suddenly all-consuming.

  To his right, a few yards away, he could see a small puddle where melted snow had collected beside a dark log. He walked to it quickly and knelt down to drink. As he leaned in, John saw his reflection. He squinted, confused by the wet mirror. His face had changed from what it had always been. The eyes were his, but the face was not.

  No one is meant to recognize me...I am deceased to all those who knew me.

  His mad thirst momentarily set the shock aside. John closed his eyes and began to suck the cold water in through his lips. It was the best feeling that his body had ever known. When he had nearly drained all of the cold liquid down to the leaves and soil, he cupped what was left of the pool into his hands and rubbed it through the dried blood that filled his coursed hair, and his wide black beard, until the fluid running down his chest was no longer pink. He fantasized of a hot meal and a bath. Those wants would have to wait.