Brotherhood Saga 03: Death

by Kody Boye

  Don’t think about that.

  He would come to that conclusion when he reached it—not now, not when he was still in ample shape to continue.

  As he persevered, tired and more than a bit hungry, the sun fell across the sky at a speed so alarming Odin found himself almost unable to believe it. His feet heavy, his boots soggy and filled with sweat and snow, his eyes drooping ever so far, he eventually caved in halfway through the day and cracked the ice at the corner of the bog, then took several long, deep drinks. While it did little to ease the pangs of hunger, it did sate them, to a degree, and allowed him to continue without fear of going mad.

  At what seemed to be the tipping point of the bog, near where the frozen-over water made up more of the terrain than any actual land, Odin found himself debating whether or not to continue.

  Maybe you should stop, he thought, grinding his jaw. You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep going at this pace.

  But why, he pondered, stop now, when he was so close that he could almost feel it sifting between his fingers?

  “You can wait,” he sighed, collapsing beside a tree and pulling his bedroll from his pack. “Get a few hours of sleep. It won’t kill you.”

  Maybe if he caught up on his sleep now, instead of later, he wouldn’t have to worry about pursuing the Marshlands in near-exhaustion come time he and his father returned from across the river.

  Rather than dwell on the consequences, Odin slid into his bedroll and closed his eyes.

  He fell asleep almost immediately.

  He woke in pitch-black darkness.

  Panicked, Odin threw three balls of light across the clearing and thrust himself out of his bedroll with his swords in hand. The world silent, the snow shifting down through the trees, his current predicament appeared anything but dangerous. In fact, it seemed calm—peaceful, to a point where this frozen world seemed tranquil and bursting with life. That feeling, however, lasted no more than a moment, as almost immediately he saw shapes shifting on the horizon.

  You know what to do, he thought, first clipping his swords to his belt, then drawing each of the blades from their sheaths.

  He began the melodic ceremony by tapping the tips of his swords together slowly, one at a time, every other breath, then increased the pace during the time he spent curling his bedroll and forcing it into his pack. The Wraiths, who seemed all the more intent on encroaching upon the orbs of light, hovered outside the radius of light, shifting back and forth as if on a boat managed by a clumsy fisherman. Their behavior in and of itself was enough to unsettle Odin, especially since he had only the faintest idea of where to go but not how to get there.

  “Keep going west,” he whispered. “That’s all you can do.”

  After throwing his pack onto his shoulder, he navigated himself in the right direction and continued into the night.

  The Wraiths followed him for hours. Slowly, heavily, like dogs intent on the prey whose life was theirs to own and placate to their own dilapidated will—they drew so close at times that Odin found himself wanting to strike out for fear that they would devour him. His worries eventually escalated into all-out panic when, on all sides, the creatures were so thick that he could see nothing but shadowy, amorphous figures.

  This is ridiculous.

  Rather than get angry and thrust himself into rage, he began to tap the swords together at an increasingly-alarming pace—first slowly, then in more rapid blows. He eventually began to worry for their conditions come the time he was done with this mission, but rather than dwell on the fact, he shook his head and pushed a path through the darkness, toward the one place he was determined to set foot on.

  Over the course of several hours, the Wraiths began to fade—not, it seemed, due to any form of light, but because the Marshlands began to make way for the coast.

  There.

  Heart caught, mind alight, he tapped the swords together three final times before sheathing them.

  No Wraiths came forward come the time he broke from beneath the willows and stepped foot onto the coast.

  Even in the darkness, it could be seen in the distance—jagged, tooth-shaped, much like the riddle had described and broken apart on three even sides. Its triangular shadow beckoned the question as to how it had disbanded from the land if not by a higher power, as the break seemed perfect and even serrated to the south of which it lay. Odin’s eyes were so intent on the island before him that he barely realized the time that was passing in light of his newfound freedom.

  You need to get going, a voice said. It’ll soon be time.

  Odin closed his eyes.

  As if sensing his distress, the wind began to kick up.

  Somewhere, a loon howled, as if mourning the loss of innocence that was just about to be taken.

  The world seemed to draw into terrible focus.

  Odin turned his attention to the river at his side, then at the island in the distance.

  You have to sing to summon the Ferryman.

  “I know,” he whispered, bowing his head. “Thank you, Virgin.”

  He took the next several moments to prepare himself for what was to come. Hands laced, chin bowed, hair depicting him in what seemed like a horrible, malevolent light—anyone looking upon the situation would have seen that there was much distress in this young man’s heart, whom had just stepped from possibly the most dangerous place in the Ornalan country and was now waiting for the strength to do the thing he’d so vicariously planned for a year. That alone was enough to make Odin tremble—not because of the cold, which was ever-so-present, but because of the fact that, soon, he would be committing an act that might erase all good in his life forever.

  When Odin turned his head up, he saw the faint image of a bird spreading its wings, then taking flight.

  “Ferryman, Ferryman,” he whispered. “Hear my plea—“

  Can you do this? a voice whispered. Can you, Odin?

  I can do this.

  Are you sure?

  “I’m sure,” he whispered, tilting his head back up.

  All it would take were a few simple words to summon the very creature that, in legend, was said to take men to the place where the worlds were bridged—where, in holy books, it was said would rise from the waters, its hands holding one oar and its eyes set toward the very place Odin stood, head held high and figure cloaked. This fear, and more, was enough to make every hair on his neck stand on end, and in that moment he seemed petrified, unable to move or even speak. He couldn’t, for a moment, breathe, and when his lungs began to beg for air, Odin gasped and took the deepest breath he could imagine, as if he were starving after being drowned.

  “Calm down,” he whispered. “You know you can do this.”

  He’d come here for a reason.

  Were he to turn back now, he would disgrace not only himself, but his father’s honor.

  Slowly, Odin bowed his head. “Ferryman, Ferryman—Hear my plea: I come to thee in the dead of night, whispering things of horror and fright. Allow me to your island’s cross, I offer a penny, the chilled and frost.”

  Odin pulled from his pocket the silver coin Virgin had given him.

  Balanced upon two fingers, he flipped it with his thumb and cast it into the water.

  Instantaneously, ripples began to spread in the sea.

  Something told him it would have been beautiful were it not cast in a light so somber and demure that it could have been seen as horrible. In the moments that followed the exact time the silver coin struck the sea, the water beneath the surface began to tremble, as if shivering, cold and virile. A chill wind so cold Odin imagined it would freeze him cast itself across the coast and spun in the space before him, creating a mini-whirlwind that cast flakes of snow across the air and onto the surface of the water. It eventually depressed into the sea, twisting like some fallen dancer, and began to open a portal where into its depths the water crashed. Odin, unaware of what was supposed to happen, merely stood there, trembling, and reached down to grip his swords, both o
f which seemed too cold to touch.

  For one brief moment, he considered the option of turning, running, and never returning. Then, slowly, he remembered just who he had come all this way for—had journeyed, over the year, to the Abroen and back, then to the capital and to the very Marshlands he now stood in.

  Miko.

  “Father.”

  It rose from the depths of the icy-cold water as if it were a figure making its way from the darkest places of the ocean. Its body thin, languid, speaking of death and things that could not be real, its head first broke the surface and revealed to Odin a cloaked figure whose face could not be seen, save for the mute white bone of a jaw polished by beast and fish. The torso rose next, so thin in places it appeared impossible, followed by its arms, which hung below the knees and held within its grasp the oar that would guide them across the river. Finally, its canoe came into view—long, thin, bearing upon its face the image of a lonely human skull with glowing rubies for eyes. Odin found it hard to look the creature directly in the face, for beneath its shadowed hood he felt something horrible lay there—deep, dark and all the more foreboding.

  In the moments following its sudden and dramatic appearance, Odin looked up just in time to see its jaw shift and hear a deep rumble echo from its chest.

  “Human,” it said, its voice like keratin breaking under the foot of some great god.

  “My name Odin Karussa of the Felnon Providence,” he said, tempted to kneel, but unsure if he should. “I seek passage to the island known as Sharktooth, oh mighty one.”

  “Yes.”

  Yes?

  “Come,” the creature said, lifting one hand to reveal a perfectly-symmetrical series of fingers that could only discern it as something that had once been human. “We must go.”

  The creature, which Odin did not feel fit to describe as anything more than the Ferryman, shifted its oar and aligned the canoe along the shore, allowing Odin perfect passage onto its surface.

  When he stepped into the boat, he felt something crack, then shift beneath his feet.

  When he looked down, he saw what appeared to be hundreds upon hundreds of aquatic spiders trembling beneath his feet.

  Unable to say anything not only out of fear, but respect for the creature he had personally summoned, Odin turned his head up to the island, then looked at the creature before him, trying his hardest not to tremble in spite of the fact he felt he was embarking upon his final quest.

  You may never be able to return to the kingdom, his conscience whispered.

  At that moment, he didn’t care.

  All he wanted was his father.

  It took what felt like hours to cross the river that separated the Haunted Marshlands from Sharktooth Island. More than wary about their progress despite the river’s short bredth, Odin kept silent and only shifted when he felt it necessary. Much to his satisfaction, the creature said nothing. It did, as he so felt was right, its perspective job.

  We’re almost there, he thought, training his eyes on the near distance.

  It would take no more than a few moments to cross over and be on the very island Odin knew held the strongest source of the Will that existed in the human lands.

  “It comes,” the creature of bone and death said.

  “I see,” Odin said, trailing his eyes over the mist that had developed out of nowhere.

  The Ferryman made no further reply.

  It took, as it seemed, no more than a few moments for the sandbars that surrounded the island to come into view. Upon encountering them, the Ferryman tipped its oar into the water, guided the canoe around their surfaces, then directed them toward the island without bothering to slow their pace.

  When the canoe pushed up onto the island, Odin disembarked, pushed his feet into the peach-colored sand, then turned his attention on the creature that stood no more than a few short feet away.

  “Thank you,” he said, breathless and unsure what more to offer.

  Rather than say anything, the Ferryman parted the sand beneath its oar, pushed the canoe away from shore, then disappeared into the mist.

  With the knowledge that he was upon the very location where his father would soon return, Odin stepped forward, into the mist that hung waist-high, then raised his hand, where he summoned three orbs of pale light and pushed them toward the deeper parts of the island.

  As he’d expected, a thicket of trees came into view.

  What he hadn’t expected, however, was a road, one that ran into the forest and eventually disappeared into the darkness.

  “All right,” he whispered, taking his first few steps onto the island, then up the road that would lead him to where, he assumed, the source of Will lay.

  Having not expected anything, he couldn’t rightfully assume whether this path was natural, much less of the physical world. The brief thought that occurred to him shortly after he started forward was that, as unlikely as it was, this path had been forged for him.

  If the Elves wanted to hide this, he thought, then why is there a road here?

  Maybe, like he thought, the road had materialized for him, as he’d completed the necessary steps to summon the Ferryman and begin his journey. That notion was enough to assure him that things would be fine, but no matter how long or hard he tried to settle himself with that fact, there seemed no shortage of concerns pressing upon him.

  “Everything will be just fine,” he whispered. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  Somewhere behind him, a loon began to cry.

  Do the dead speak here? a voice whispered in his head.

  Odin chose not to concern himself with such things. Instead, he focused his attention on the road and began to make his way toward whatever lay in the distance.

  He came, after what seemed like an long time, to a break in the path that revealed something marvelous.

  At first unsure what to think and even more concerned about the structure set before him, Odin paused and began to take in his surroundings—first the trees, which seemed no different than those within the Felnon wood, then to the ground, which looked to have died some ages ago and had since retreated into the earth. What frightened him the most, despite the mist that placated the area, was the single object that stood just beyond the end of the road.

  Situated in the middle of the clearing, perfectly filed into a complete circle, was a well—a plain, simple well, constructed of stone and leading to what could only be the center of the world.

  What is this? Odin thought, tempted to step forward, but unsure whether or not he should.

  In the moments following his revelation, he began to wonder whether or not all places of the Will were like this. He imagined that couldn’t be possible, considering such creations were of the material world and could not be of nature, but as he began to think even more, his thoughts led him to the idea that this had been placed here—if not by the Elves, then by some greater, higher being.

  Maybe, he mused. Maybe…

  Maybe, completely devoid of purpose other than to direct attention unto themselves, the Gods had placed this here.

  Unsure what to think and growing more nervous by the moment, Odin fell to his knees, pulled the pack from his shoulder, then began to fish its depths for the book, which he found at the bottom beneath his bedroll.

  “All right,” he thought, turning his eyes first to the book, then the well before him. “This is it. Where it all begins.”

  Taking a deep breath, Odin opened the tome, lit his palm in magical fire, then poured light over the page until he found what he was looking for.

  Bringing back the physical dead.

  He turned the pages, closed his eyes, then opened them and allowed them to fall on the very page he’d so desperately sought out.

  Is it only in the minds of men that fear is summoned by word?

  Odin opened his eyes to look at the book before him.

  It took but a few moments to read from the sacred text.

  When the memories of death were true, Odin stood, the
n approached the well.

  His heart on his sleeve, his nerves in his hands, he approached with a heavy mind and an even lighter conscience.

  He’d expected much more of this sacred thing that had been hidden from the world by the creatures fair and immortal—smoke, possibly, maybe even mist or a light at the end of the tunnel that marked the Will and just what it ordained. That was not what he saw, as when he peered into the well’s depths he could find nothing but darkness. The idea that he could have come all this way for nothing, much less a dead source, unsettled him so much that he began to shiver when he placed his hands on the stone, tracing the mighty and chaotic construction beneath his fingertips as he would a cat nice and full of love, but when he found himself able to realize that the Will had never, nor ever would fade from this earth, he took a moment to compose himself and calculate what he would have to do.

  Here, in this moment, he would lift from his body the essence of his father’s life and revive the very Sprite that had departed his body upon his death.

  “This is for you,” he whispered. “Father.”

  Reaching down, he drew from its sheath his father’s silver-bladed sword, then brought it to his head, where he cut from the base of his skull the very hair that had been bonded to him by Ardut upon his father’s death.

  Ceremonial, it would have seemed, were anyone to have looked upon the scene.

  Odin closed his eyes.

  He lifted the hand that held the lock of hair and pressed it to the curve of the sword.

  Flesh met steel. Blood was born.

  The pain, though initially catastrophic, did not last, as everything physical seemed devoid of reality.

  Odin opened his eyes.

  Bonded in his hand, blood and hair appeared brother and sister, husband and wife, father and son.

  Slowly, with grace he could not imagine, he pushed his hand over the mouth of the well, then let go.