Brotherhood Saga 03: Death

by Kody Boye

  “I’ve never been particularly interested what outlanders do,” Odin sighed, adjusting his posture to release the tension in his lower back. “Now had I the inclination, I would ask Ournul to lead an investigation into the murders of our kingdom’s people in and around the area, but I would never willingly go in and investigate it for myself.”

  “Are you worried that you might fall victim to them?”

  “I know boundaries when I see them.”

  “As I’m aware,” Virgin smiled.

  What’s that supposed to mean? Odin thought, somehow managing to hold his tongue.

  Was his companion’s comment in regard to his actions, possibly in lieu of him refusing to strike Jarden or harm anyone beyond a simple strike, or did it relate to the fact that he had broken a magical hold over an ancient text forbidden in the Elven kingdom without so much as a second thought? Either way, the comment seemed without tact and mercy, so in that regard he stayed silent and instead focused on the road, so covered in snow but obviously-trodden by people and horses in recent day’s past.

  “I wonder how many people have been passing through now that the war is almost over,” Odin said, preferring to move the conversation in a different direction rather than dwell on specifics.

  “Are you aware that it is over?” Virgin asked.

  “No, but… well... it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it’s been going on, judging from the way the road looks.”

  “Hopefully, if only for your kingdom’s sake.”

  “Isn’t this your kingdom too now? You don’t have plans to return to the Abroen, do you?”

  “I am yours, my friend.”

  Yours.

  “Mine,” he whispered.

  What could he say to such a declaration? Could he reply with a soliloquy, stating just what he felt about his companion whom he loved so much, or would he simply say that he in turn was Virgin’s to own—that, in truth, he bore no desire to pursue another partner even if he was forced to do so?

  All I know, he thought, allowing his eyes to fall from Virgin’s face and to his hands, which lay strewn through the reins like lace along a fine girl’s coat, is that I would never willingly hurt you.

  That much was for sure, whichever way he decided to cut it.

  “Is it fairly straightforward from here?” Virgin asked, turning his eyes on Odin. “It looks that way.”

  “It is,” Odin smiled.

  “Are you happy to be home?”

  “Happier than I could ever begin to describe.”

  The fire outside burned strong.

  As Odin lay beneath the folds of the patchwork tent trying desperately to fall asleep, he listened to the wind whipping across the landscape and tried not to imagine what Virgin had to be feeling while sitting in the cold. Silence, mostly, ruled their world, save for the ethereal howl nature made once breathing her sighs of relief, and while that did much to help settle his uneasy conscience, he couldn’t help but wonder whether or not they would encounter yet another werecreature on their way toward the capital.

  We don’t need that, he thought, shivering, drawing deeper into his bedroll and reaching up to tighten the drawstrings that held it together. We don’t need that at all.

  From the open flap of the tent streamed in light that offered Odin but the faintest glances of Virgin as he first stretched his arm over his head, then readjusted his position before the fire. Not only that, he could see that the snow had started falling, once more blessing them with its chill and marking upon the world its testament to the suffering.

  Sighing, unable to keep his attention focused on nothing but sleep, he pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbed his arms, then looked out the flap, where he found Virgin casting a glance over his shoulder to acknowledge him.

  “Everything all right?” the older Halfling asked.

  “I can’t sleep,” Odin replied, tempted to free himself from the bedroll and crawl forward, but unsure if he should. “Are you ok for now?”

  “I’m fine, Odin. Don’t worry—I’ll wake you once I’m ready to go to bed.”

  But that’s the thing, he thought. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go to sleep.

  After sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he crossed his arms over his chest, let a puff of air out of his chest, then bowed his head, allowing his hair to fall into his eyes to shield his vision from the wavering light of the flames.

  Before him, Virgin shifted, then let out a slight cough.

  A chill swept into the tent.

  “Better close this,” the Halfling said, reaching forward to secure the flaps of the tent.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. That’s probably the reason you can’t fall asleep though. Too much light streaming into the tent.”

  “All right,” Odin sighed.

  “Is something wrong?” Virgin frowned.

  “I’d just rather we were done with this stretch of the journey.”

  “You and me both, my friend.”

  “Just promise me you’ll wake me up if you hear something.”

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  Virgin secured the tent flaps in place.

  No longer willing to keep himself up in response to such personal fears, Odin settled back down into his bedroll, burrowed himself as deeply in as he could, then closed his eyes.

  Outside, the wind continued on.

  What woke him he couldn’t necessarily be sure. It seemed, so far as he could tell, that the wind had not acted up. It had not hissed, screamed, or disrupted the trees, so no branch could have crashed down and tore him from the realms of sleep. He could remember no nightmares, as none dwelled upon his conscience, and no insects could have bitten him, for it was much too cold for any to be out and about. His next thought led him to wonder whether or not an animal had shifted up alongside the tent, then he realized that even if one had, he was sleeping nowhere along the edges, so he would not have felt it in the least. He was not cold, was not ill, was not trembling, shaking or crying, and was not in the least frightened of anything that could have dwelled upon his conscience. For that, he realized, nothing of the real and physical could have shaken him from sleep, as the world was peaceful and devoid of malicious intent.

  What if it wasn’t something of the real world? he thought.

  At this, a chill so disparaging he could hardly believe it thrust itself upon his body and ran from his tailbone to the curve of his spine—where, soon after, it slammed into his head and sent his body into a sitting position. The action was enough to make him tremble, but why he couldn’t necessarily be sure. While shaking, he tried to ponder just what was bothering him, then realized it could only be one thing.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  After regaining as much control as he could, he pushed himself out of the bedroll, reached for his black-bladed sword, then unsnapped the claps that held the tent flaps in place.

  Outside, Virgin stood prone with his dagger drawn and his attention set forward, toward the distant woods opposite the road.

  “Virgin,” he whispered.

  The Halfling jumped so far Odin thought he would fall into the fire.

  “Something’s here,” Virgin said, not bothering to turn his head to regard Odin. “It’s in the wood across from us.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Odin!”

  “I heard you,” he whispered. “But I—“

  Something in the woods snapped.

  Not again, Odin thought, pushing his way out of the tent and to his companion’s side.

  His sword now freshly-drawn and glimmering in the light waning from the fire, he set his eyes on the tree line and tried to discern what his companion was so afraid of. He imagined it was nothing more than a simple animal—a black bear, possibly, or maybe even a large wolf—but some darker part of his conscience forbid him from even thinking that.

  You know what it is, the armored thing said.

  “No I don’t,” Odin whispe
red.

  “Odin?” Virgin asked.

  Odin shook his head.

  The hand that held Virgin’s dagger began to tremble before him.

  “Could it be a Marsh Walker?” the older Halfling asked.

  “They hibernate in the winter,” Odin replied, adjusting his feet as to not tremble in the face of danger. “They cover themselves in mud and burrow into the ground. Besides—even if it were a Marsh Walker, you would have heard it.”

  “What sounds do they make?”

  “Clicking.”

  Odin reflected the action by taking the tip of his tongue and sliding it along the flesh above his front teeth, making a sound akin to a rodent whose voice had been amplified several times. Virgin, in response, shook his head and cast his hair over his shoulders, where it fell neatly down his back before settling into place.

  Across the road, something shifted.

  Several tree branches cracked.

  Odin braced himself for whatever was to come.

  A moment passed, then two.

  Nothing came.

  Virgin lowered his dagger and let out a deep sigh. “Sorry,” he said. “I must’ve just been hearing things.”

  “No,” Odin said, narrowing his eyes as a figure pushed forward out of the darkness. “There’s something there.”

  “Can you see it?”

  “Barely. Can you?”

  “You must be standing in the right place. I can’t see anything.”

  The figure, so far as Odin could tell, was crouched down to the point where it held the height of some sort of small deer—a doe, possibly, or maybe even a fawn in its adolescence. That deduction, however, was quickly replaced, as the figure almost immediately retreated into the darkness.

  Twigs snapped beneath its weight.

  Odin paused, then frowned.

  Something’s happening, he thought. Something bad.

  They were, at best, two to three days away from Dwaydor—that was, unless something hindered their pace. At their sides, the horses kicked at the ground and let out the occasional grunt of disapproval, likely in light of whatever it was that stalked them just across the road. How they remained so calm Odin couldn’t be sure, but he imagined they hadn’t seen the intruder or else they probably would have been in hysterics.

  I know we should’ve brought blindfolds.

  At least then their beasts of burden wouldn’t have been able to see the danger that lay so closely ahead.

  “Say it was a Marsh Walker,” Virgin said, shifting as if he were standing on the bow of a ship and expecting to remain upright. “And say it wasn’t in the ground…”

  “I don’t think they’re Marsh Walkers, Virgin.”

  “They?”

  “They look like werewolves.”

  “Werewolves?”

  Once more, a twig cracked and disrupted the silence in the air.

  “I think they’re just curious,” Odin continued, falling a few steps back to set a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Go lay down.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to sleep with werewolves watching us?”

  “Have a little faith in me, will you?”

  The Halfling narrowed his eyes.

  For a moment, Odin expected him to cock off with another remark. When Virgin didn’t, his heart stopped beating as frantically as it had and once more began to fall into its even pace.

  “You know what to do if something happens,” Virgin said.

  Odin didn’t bother to respond as his companion shifted into the tent.

  When the flaps were snapped into place, Odin settled himself on the ground before the fire and slid his sword in its sheath.

  Across from him, something dwelled beneath the tree line. What, he couldn’t be sure, but he couldn’t allow it to bother him.

  The road less travelled, he thought, then almost laughed.

  Maybe the wildlife had been shaken by the signs of war.

  Just as the sun began to rise in the east and light the world in splendid shades of white and blue, Virgin revealed himself for the first time since he’d retreated to bed last night. Eyes bloodshot, stubble much harsher than it should have been at such an early hour, he settled down on the ground next to Odin and reached out to test the warmth of the fire, raising his eyes only briefly to examine the scenery across from them. “You see anything while I was asleep?” the Halfling asked.

  “No,” Odin said. “I didn’t.”

  After reaching down and fumbling through the pack he’d taken out of the tent with him, Virgin retrieved a few pieces of jerky and stuck one between his teeth, offering Odin another between his forefingers. “What do you reckon they want?” he asked.

  “I reckon,” Odin said, testing his piece of jerky, “that they were just interested in us. Nothing more.”

  “Why though?”

  “Probably because we’re one of the first few groups of humans who have traveled in a pair since the war ended.”

  “You think these are the werewolves that have been attacking other travelers?”

  “I can’t say for sure, though if they wanted to attack us, they could’ve done so last night.”

  In response, Virgin narrowed his eyes, then cracked them open when the final piece of kindling broke and shifted in the fire pit.

  “Are you ready to go?” Odin asked.

  “Whenever you are,” Virgin replied.

  Odin shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, then looked back at the tent.

  “Let’s pack up camp,” he said, “then get the hell out of here.”

  “You don’t need to tell me twice, friend.”

  Tracks were found on the perimeter of the campsite shortly after they embarked for Dwaydor.

  Disheartened, unsure, and even more wary than before, Odin looked upon the crop of trees to the east and tried to restrain the rattled nerves that threatened to transform into something greater.

  Just remember, he thought. If they’d wanted to do something to you, they could’ve done it last night.

  For all they knew, the werewolves could have divided their attention to the north and south of their location, successfully flanking them in one swift measure without even revealing themselves for a moment. He could imagine it just now, plain as day—the head wolf, directly across from them, drawing their attention to the east, where it lay hidden but visible to catch the eye; then its brothers, maneuvering through the darkness, one to the north and the other to the south. It would have taken but a moment for the creatures to close in on them and slaughter Virgin silently and with little trouble. Such creatures were swift—agile, even, and easy on their feet—so little would have to be said or done. Tooth and nail could inflict such damage without noise. In the end, where would that have left him, if but asleep in the tent?

  Rather than dwelling on the idea that they could have been killed so easily, Odin pushed his head up and looked to the north—where, faintly, he could see where carts had made ruts in the road, likely by caravans making their way from Ke’Tarka.

  “Something wrong?” Virgin asked, drawing up alongside him.

  “No,” Odin said, biting his lower lip.

  “You sure?”

  “I was just thinking about last night.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” the Halfling laughed, slapping Odin across the back. “I mean, come on—we were being watched.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking about.”

  “Oh? Pray tell.”

  “If those werewolves had wanted to do something to the two of us, they could’ve flanked us from both sides and killed either of us with little trouble.”

  “Obviously,” Virgin mused.

  “I’m being serious, Virgin—I think they’re just curious. They are, after all, the wildlife. They’re bound to be distressed about all the activity that’s been going on.”

  “That doesn’t mean they should be attacking humans making their way through their own country.”

  Was it really theirs, Odin wondered? Could they,
as humanity, really look upon any stretch of land and say that a road was theirs—that a forest, tall and strong, could be cut down; that a pond, full of fish, could be exploited; that a valley, soft and sweet, could be hewn and made into farmland? It could be said that no man owned any land, for he was arrogant and without refute, and though he was indeed the smarter one in the world full of flesh, no rightful creature could claim that everything was theirs—that a world, large and wide, could be made for only one creature; or many, he could add, for even Elves and Dwarves and even those Leatherskins with intelligence beyond that of a simple mule eventually took something and made it their own.

  Is it really? Odin thought, a frown crossing his face and painting his expression somber and demure.

  Though he couldn’t be sure, he could argue with himself all day about the logistics of his thought. For that, he decided to shut his mouth, purse his lips, then look into the distance, where Dwaydor would eventually appear on the horizon come early the following afternoon or dusk the next day.

  “Odin,” Virgin said, raising his voice for the first time since he’d spoken of humans and their country.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “You said Dwaydor was where the assault happened. Correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Is there a fear of disease within the city?”

  “Not so far as I can remember,” Odin shrugged. “We took care of most of the bodies either by burning or burying them.”

  “Even the Ogres that were in the area?”

  “We had to burn them on sight. There wasn’t much we could do. We had no carts to move them into graves.”

  “Fair enough,” the older Halfling said. “I wonder something, though—could not the birds have carried the flesh of the dead and possibly spread contamination throughout their kind?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I… well… never really bothered to think about it, if you want to know the truth.”

  “So long as the dead were properly dealt with, then there should be no long-term consequences. Besides—didn’t most of the refugees from the city make their way to the capital and the outlying towns?”

  “Yes.”

  In response, Virgin offered a smile that Odin found almost impossible to not return.“I look forward to seeing your capital.”