As he traveled east, Korel could see the mountains gradually drawing nearer, the sand giving way to more barren, hard pack. Dust devils danced ahead, purposeless yet frantic in their meandering. As he walked, he began to lapse into a kind of ruthless fatigue defined by a punishing, pitiless insistence that drove him to a low-grade exhaustion, pushing in slow, ceaseless pulses that allowed for only brief stops at night to rest and eat. Then he would rise again to trudge through the apathy that filled the dim dusk and rode the currents of the cool, dusty winds as they blew in vapid perpetuity. On the afternoon of his third day across the plain, he began to near the foot of the mountains. He would be there before nightfall.
The low-hanging sun began to set behind him as Korel neared the mountain foot, winds rising in the ritual chaos of night, gusting frantically and driven by relentless voices that renewed their call, howling on the edge of hearing, their song touched with a biting sense of urgency. The need within them rose higher and higher with a mindless agitation that threatened to flow out across the plain and consume everything in it—mountain, sky, and even the plain itself. At the peak of this frenzy, the world fractured, a crystal goblet shattering into a million pieces, as a deafening silence suddenly reigned, the wind dying instantly, the sun touching the rim of the world, pausing to hold its breath as Korel walked to the end of all wastes.
As he neared the first foot of the mountain, Korel saw a small church just to his left lit by the ashes of the setting sun. The church seemed plain enough, made from whitewashed wood and surrounded by a white picket fence. The roof was made with wooden shingles, and upon this rested a small green bell tower with a green steeple that ended in a gold-crested tip. Each wall of the chapel had small but beautiful stained glass windows that reflected the light from the fire setting in the west, breaking into warm colors and spilling them upon the ground within and without the chapel confines.
The chapel, as quaint and beautiful as it was, seemed out of place, a forlorn counterpoint to the barren terrain extending for miles, broken only by the rugged mountains and their razor-sharp passes, the brutal landscape all but uninhabitable. But as Korel pondered, the chapel bell rang out once, emitting a lonely, shrill note that was quickly swallowed in the dead quiet of the plain. At the sound of the bell, people began to emerge from the chapel, men, women, and children, all of whom were plainly dressed in cotton shirts, pants, and skirts in browns and whites—but they had a regal baring, faces of old nobility, and many appeared strong with a lightness of foot that suggested experience molded in the forge of battle. Many gave dark looks of pride and noble position, lending an impression of long-established power and the entitlement of generations.
Then the children ran to Korel and bid him follow them into the chapel, taking his hands and gently drawing him forth as the thongs of leaf-covered meat swung gently over his shoulder. Voices of a divine choir rose inside the chapel, swelling inside his mind. Men and women gave welcoming smiles, a few bestowing expressions of mild forbearance. Gradually, he came to float on a current of urging, ethereal music and mind-numbing need. There was something here, something important up ahead, something inside that he needed to see, needed to do . . . needed to have? He couldn't remember. He couldn't think. Who were these people? But as he entered the picket fence and climbed the short steps to the threshold, he realized he didn't care.
As he passed through the white double doors of the chapel, the choir music swelled as a host of singers in white stood facing the congregation, standing on either side of the room near the main dais. The chapel was simple but enormous on the inside, with stained glass mounted in every wall, their alabaster surfaces reaching toward the ceiling for what seemed twenty feet. Light flooded through the windows, erupting up through the choir. The music rose ever higher, compelling Korel forward. Ahead lay an alter heaped with gold, jewels, crowns of dominion, goblets, and pearls, the wealth from all the ages of man and his rulers, all those things that adorn regal might, all that makes a king a king. And still the music rose ever higher as he walked past the polished wooden pews filled with a noble congregation composed of men, women, and children, all possessed of a great heritage, who, with tears in their eyes, looked to him as he passed.
As he neared the holy alter, Korel looked up and saw the priest, resplendent in white robes, blessing the treasures placed thereon, power and splendor surrounding him and a crown upon his brow. Korel stood before the alter and saw the scepter of power, the staff of authority among the living, placed at the highest point atop the gifts of kings; this scepter was taken up by the priest and proffered Korel, whiteness and light streaming from it. The music seemed to enter his mind as he reached to take this holy gift, rising and bursting through his skull, urgency, need, and hunger driving his outstretched hand, choir and congregation surrounding and crowding ever nearer.
But the urgency was too great, the need too desperate, the hunger too empty, and as Korel touched the scepter he paused and drew back his hand. Yet at his touch the scepter fell, hitting the ground and shattering to pieces, painlessly taking with it a small piece of his index finger where he had touched it. As the scepter broke, the music halted, the light became dim, and the holy priest began to darken, his hair blackening and turning to ash, skin cracking and peeling to the floor, flesh falling in pieces and hanging in fetid ruin upon his skull and bones. Indeed, all those congregated seemed to become corpses of decomposed lineages of men, the flesh and greed of former glory hanging from them in tatters. Each had fire in his eyes and ash and lava tumbling from his mouth, and all came crowding nearer as the building began a ponderous crumbling within its brown and shabby walls.
The priest spoke aloud through his scorched tongue and jaw, "You have touched that which is the pinnacle of the world and your blood is now ours. This you have earned. Enjoy it well!" The priest then removed a flaming coal from inside his mouth and pressed it to Korel's wounded finger as pain seared through his hand and wrist. In his agony, the priest placed the coal to Korel's mouth with new pain bursting afresh in gouts of spectacular agony. Somehow he spit the coal out of his mouth and stood tall before the crowd that reached toward him, a host of lust and hunger. With the breaking of the scepter his mind had begun to clear. Taking a half step forward, he said in a forceful voice, "I have touched that which is yours but was never mine. Though given, it was not received. I am not blind to your desire. Therefore, if blood and meat you crave, then blood and meat you shall have!" With that he drew the thongs of meat from his shoulder and threw them into the throng. A fetid riot of decaying bodies erupted, becoming a savage meat-seeking scrum as Korel broke into a run, vaulting from a wooden pew, arcing over the choir, and shattering through a stained glass window. As he looked back, the entire church fell in upon itself and slowly began to fade, leaving only the traces of a weathered stone foundation and a few scattered old bones.
Korel watched for a while as the evidence of his encounter blended with the earth, making it nearly invisible. He turned toward the mountain but felt a small remnant of the coal passing down his throat. He had swallowed a tiny piece and it left a dull aching burn through the entire course of its passage from his throat, to his chest, and into his stomach. There the burn lodged itself, easing somewhat but taking up a persistent vigil of worm-like pain. As he continued up through the foothills with the sun rapidly sinking behind, a small, furtive movement occurred beneath the sand, the same ground where a small piece of index finger, lost upon contact with the scepter, had come to rest. The movements continued, becoming larger and scattering dust. But Korel did not notice. Having come face to face with the remnant priesthood of the Felorian and having lived, he climbed out and away from the plain of Decaneth, up into the hills at the foot of the eastern mountains.
Chapter 2
The eastern mountains of Nonym raised themselves up at the edge of the known realms of men. Korel had seen these mountains only on maps within the drafting rooms of the royal cartographers, and their histories and dimensions dwelt in obscur
ity. Some histories of the previous ages spoke of a time when a sea covered the plain of Decaneth, with a city by the water built by a proud race of men who peopled its shores. They were known as lords, a people with great lore and knowledge, men whose influence was powerful and their accomplishments in government, conquest, and architecture unmatched in all the known world. They built mausoleums under the earth and plumbed the secrets of decay, striving for dominion over the earth forever. But they dug too deep and plumbed too far, the lake filling their caverns of the dead, and in a great slide the mountain city fell into the sea never to rise again. Some said that the arrogance of their building caused the city's demise, but there were whispers of something having been awakened in the depths of avarice, something whose appetite could not be sated.
The western side of the Nonym range was covered in forest, mainly birch and fir. Korel picked his way along a faded trail amidst the trees, his thoughts wandering back to younger days . . .
* * *
After being placed in prison upon the false word of his brothers, he had lamented recent events, not fully understanding the sundering of his place within the family. His cell was cold and dank with dripping moisture, like the oozings of a plague that afflicted the very ground. After a few moments, Korel's fellow cellmate, a man of large muscular girth and a thick disposition, spoke, "So, I see the wardens have taken to locking up fair boys with fair attire. 'Tis truly a crime to have such fairness and not be sharin' it with us poor lowly brutes. Even the common man appreciates a taste of the fair." A plaintiveness touched his voice.
Korel returned, "Such brutishness is sometime chosen rather than bestowed, and it seems that such fairness as you have is hidden deep. But I see it in you yet."
"Be that as it may," answered the other, "I will have that fair robe of yers very soon . . . and perhaps a bit more." With that he lunged at Korel, who dodged the other's grasp and spun to face him again.
"I do not wish to harm you," Korel said. "This robe is yours if you will be content."
But the man, now fueled with rage, spat back, "Nay, I will have all I want, and no charity from brats will tame the heart of Gregor Kinson!"
With that he sprang again, anger fueling his speed and strength. Korel did not move, remaining perfectly still. But just as Gregor's fist closed on him, he shifted with lightning speed, took hold of Gregor's wrist, and began to squeeze. Still Gregor came, grabbing Korel's robe near the center of his chest and lifting him off the ground, pressing him against the cell bars. Korel adjusted his grip slightly as he held Gregor's wrist and continued to grip ever tighter. In response, Gregor groaned with an effort designed to literally press Korel into the bars, an attempt to fuse him with the living metal as a permanent fixture of the cell itself. But as Korel's grip became tighter, lines of strain appeared on Gregor's face and a slight grinding sound escaped his wrist. Then, as Gregor's wrist suddenly gave way with a sickening snap, he sagged to the floor cradling his new deformity.
A low-toned wail escaped Gregor's clenched teeth, bringing the prison guard to the door. But when the guard queried, neither Korel nor Gregor would speak. However, the story was soon revealed through a cursory interrogation of the adjacent prisoners. Incredulous, the guard asked, "How does a mere boy break a man's wrist, let alone the wrist of the strongest prisoner?"
Korel answered flatly, "I am a weaver from my earliest memories and my hands have learned dexterity at the loom, strength at the spindle—lessons they have not forgotten. As a child, my father taught me the arts of war and these arts serve me from time to time." Astounded, the guard passed the events on to the captain and soon Korel found himself summoned, standing formally before the captain of the royal guard . . .
* * *
Korel was startled from his musings by a subtle movement at the edge of sight, coming somewhere from behind him. Night was falling quickly now as a wane amber glow radiating at the horizon's edge caramelized the last rays of the dying day. He looked back down the mountain's contour as he neared a small highland valley and spied a figure slowly lumbering out of the plain and onto the first foothill, disappearing beneath the forest growth. There was something wrong with the way the figure moved, in a sort of lurching motion that was slow yet determined. Something else bothered Korel, too. He had meticulously watched all possible pursuit across the plain and there had been none for leagues in any direction. But now, despite his vigilance, someone was following only a mile or two behind and had somehow crept up outside his notice. As he pondered his options, Korel decided this valley would the best place to confront the follower . . .
Night was full now. With all his plans laid, Korel crouched, waiting for the follower in a black silence too complete to be natural. He could sense the other, its distance shortening as the forest seemed to contract upon itself. A fire blazed in the clearing, throwing shadows upon rocks, cliffs, and the looming scrub, phantoms growing upon the razor's edge between light and obscurity. An intense sulfuric heat grew within the fire, with all the forest swaying in illusion to the erratic tempo of the flickering light. The sky began to make slow spirographic patterns in the night, the stars pinwheeling upon their celestial axis, time and direction slowing, turning, melting into the valley's own essence. Korel began to drift, his mind caught in the slow current of his own life, carried back toward earlier days.
* * *
Korel stood mute before the captain of the guard, the confines of a small courtyard surrounding them. The captain's face held an amused smirk. "So you are a fighter. You don't look like a fighter—more like a pampered merchant to me. But if you would be a fighter, there are two important things to know: how well you fight and why you fight. Let us answer the first query." Without warning, the captain pulled a whip from his hip and lashed Korel across the left shoulder.
Korel grimaced in pain but did not cry out as blood began to well through his robe. Stone-still he stood as a second strike scored his right shoulder. But as the third strike arced through the air, Korel snatched the tip of the whip in his fist, nearly pulling it from the captain's hand. The captain then drew a second whip from his left hip and scored Korel across the chest. Twice more the captain drew blood before Korel grabbed the second whip tip, now holding a tip in either hand. The lieutenant, who had been watching from the side, picked up a scourge and began lashing Korel's legs. With a deft move, Korel dodged the scourge, let go of both whips, and sprinted toward the corner of the courtyard, where a sapling grew. As the captain and lieutenant gave chase, he gripped the sapling near its base and tore it from the ground. The sapling was nearly eight feet in length and Korel held it like a battle staff, small clods of dirt still falling from its roots. The captain and his lieutenant, career fighting men both, drew up in a calculated approach, their swords at the ready.
The captain raised his sword, and with a wicked thrust the real battle began. Blow after thrust after cut rained down upon Korel as he and his adversaries pirouetted about the courtyard in an almost choreographed dance of violence. Sweat poured from their bodies as the battle became a labor, swords thrusting with a workmanlike fatigue and Korel doing the heavy work of blocking the unending barrage of attacks. After several minutes, the swordsmen finally began to weary, and sensing his opportunity Korel countered with a series of top-heavy blows, first disarming the lieutenant and knocking him to the ground, then spinning into an overhead strike, which impacted the captain's wrist with a nerve-stinging crack, his sword clattering on the paving stones. Korel tossed the sapling aside and approached the captain. As he came within arm's length, the captain pulled a knife from his breast coat and dove at Korel, the dagger sweeping in a downward arc. He caught the captain's wrist and began to squeeze, the same as he had done in his cell only hours earlier. The captain dropped his knife but with a lunge broke free, spinning to a stop in front of Korel, the smallest trace of a smirk on his lips.
"Now that we know how well you fight, let's see why you fight," a mild, lecturing tone hanging on the captain's words. Then, with an a
brupt about-face, he strode from the courtyard, locking the door behind him.
Another door opened along the opposite side of the courtyard, and a man bound by his wrists walked in across the far side accompanied by two soldiers. His bonds were cut and the soldiers left. The man, wizened by age, was close to six foot four, with many scars on his arms and chest, his white hair flowing from his head to his shoulders. One lock was tied at the center-top and lay back past the nape of his neck. His entire body rippled with cords of muscle. He was thin and gaunt but radiated a strength and power infused with the sinewiness of much suffering. His blue eyes blazed madly with a lethal intensity that seemed to bore into Korel's soul. The man held himself with a regality long-practiced but now fraying at the edges with insanity, a wild power radiating from him.
"What have you done with my son!" the old man shrieked, his body becoming instantaneous motion as he leaped toward Korel with terrible speed and grace. Although unarmed, the man emanated swift death with every quick and poetic movement, a ballet dancer showing his victim a glimpse of mortality's end. Korel blocked the first few blows, using every ounce of his speed and skill. But it was not enough. A blow to the chest took his breath and was quickly followed by a kick that sent Korel sprawling on his back. In that pain-filled moment, he knew he could not win against such manic fury and understood that if the other wished to take his life, he was powerless to stop it. Looking up through a befuddled fog, he saw the man crouching over him, mad blue eyes boring into his own. But then a rapid transformation came over the man's face, a soft tenderness born of love's recognition, a connection as though the mind of the other was reaching into his own thoughts and being.
"Are you my son?" the old man asked as he cupped Korel's face in his hands, searching its features. But even as he asked, he began to weep. A high-pitched wail escaped his throat and glissandoed down into a mournful sobbing as the old man turned to crouch in a fetal-like squat. With his back to the man, Korel could sense his vulnerability. The knife recently dropped by the captain of the guard lay only a few feet to one side. Korel could take it up and slay the man or simply choke him to death as he hunched. But even as these thoughts flitted across his mind he rejected them, sensing that the old man was a victim of tragedy's whim. Sadness for the openly weeping man melted any vengeful dust gathering at the edges of his own selfpreservation. Yet the other seemed to sense his fleeting intent, his lamentation falling away in an instant. He abruptly stood to look directly over Korel, his prostrate form still lying sprawled on the courtyard stones.
The Korellian Odyssey: Requiem Page 2
