Blood Immortal

by Paul Centeno

  In the meantime, Xel’vakora steered his vessel. Nightfall had arrived, and the iridescent clouds briefly drifted apart. This allowed the crew to see three of the four moons. They were all diverse in terrain, a reflective spectacle of colors that lit the firmament with violet- and amber-tinged rays of light. While the dark elves cared little for such phenomena, it was a beautiful sight to the centaurs. Yet it was short lived what with the thick clouds merging again in the middle of the night.

  A few hours later, Parla’vasa awoke and joined the crew. At this time the wind picked up. Though this allowed the vessel to sail faster, waves formed more violently. Water occasionally splashed on the deck, alarming many of the crew. The farther west Xel’vakora steered his boat, the more brutal the weather became.

  “It looks like we have a heavy storm upon us,” said Xel’vakora with frustration. He glanced at the indigo-haired elf beside him and added, “Sardamir, tell the clan to mount the footropes.”

  “Don’t you think this will panic them?” asked the dark elf.

  “It’s too late for that,” replied Xel’vakora. “But you can at least tell them to be discrete so it doesn’t alarm the centaurs. With the exception of Krekor, they are ignorant of the ocean. There is no need to worry them.”

  “You care that much?”

  “No,” said Xel’vakora firmly, giving him a long look. “I care about an army that’ll wipe my brother off the face of this world. Now do it.” His second-in-command staggered and then, as ordered, started to quietly tell the crew to be ready to rig. Xel’vakora, meanwhile, shook his head and mumbled to himself, “I hate emotions.”

  Within the next twenty minutes, the dark elves were standing on footropes near the spars that consisted of masts, yards, and gaffs. Some also checked to ensure the cords were still strong, many of which had baggywrinkles along the cordage. Excluding the downpour of rain, sporadic booms of thunder, excessive flickers of lightning throughout the gray and iridescent clouds, and ferocious waves that frequently splashed water aboard the schooner, all seemed well. The crew was never more ready for a storm. Xel’vakora was the only one who felt uneasy.

  “I didn’t think a hurricane could be this bad,” he said, bewildered.

  Just then, multiple explosive sprays of water erupted sidelong. The centaurs and elves fixed their eyes northward, gawking at nine serpents rising from the sea with slit-shaped eyes. Their fangs were razor-sharp, and their elongated necks had spiny crests along their backs that looked as pointy as their serrated teeth. Then a gargantuan body of green scales rose from the ocean, water dripping down and falling onto the vessel that wobbled wildly.

  “Get down from the ropes!” shouted Sardamir frantically.

  “What in the name of Crey’falen is that thing?” asked Krekor, cantering away from the gunwale and readying his bow.

  “It’s a hydra,” said Xel’vakora, his face pale.

  “Spirits save us,” said Parla’vasa, sprinting across the deck and entering the cabin as fast as she could.

  Each of the serpent heads gave out ear-piercing screeches, one louder than the other. Not even thunder matched their vicious sounds. The dark elf clan attempted to descend the footropes, but the hydra’s heads lunged at many of them, gnashing fangs into their flesh and either ripping them apart or swallowing them whole. Dozens of dark elves who were lucky enough to make it down safely to the deck swiftly mounted centaurs. Together they hurled arrows and javelins at the hydra, many of which deflected from the hydra’s hardened body.

  There was so much commotion due to the attack and ship shaking as if it would capsize any moment that Aarian awoke. He wore an irritated face, rising from his bed. Before he could bang on the walls and yell out to the crew to stop celebrating as though they had saved the world, Parla’vasa barged into his chamber.

  “Aarian,” gasped Parla’vasa, out of breath. “By the divine, there’s—”

  “Can you please tell those imbeciles to stop making a ruckus?” interjected Aarian. “I’m trying to rest.”

  “You fool!” she snarled. “We’re being attacked!”

  An expression of confusion formed on his tiresome face. “What?” he uttered. “But we’re so far out in the sea. How…?”

  “It’s a hydra!”

  Aarian wondered, was this some kind of sick joke? No, deep down inside he knew that it had to be true because Parla’vasa wasn’t the humorous type. The vessel trembled again, causing him to fall off his bed. With the help of Parla’vasa, he got to his feet and equipped his moonstone armor. Then, unsheathing his sword, he followed her upstairs.

  Stepping outside to the deck, Aarian gazed at the sea monster and staggered back with a look of terror. He accidently bumped into Parla’vasa who sulked and pushed him forward. They then joined the centaurs and mounted them. The prince, like before, rode on Krekor but this time hesitated to attack. He gulped heavily, not sure how useful his weapon would be against such a monstrous fiend.

  By now more than half the crew were dead—eaten alive to be precise. Three of the seven masts were missing, two drifting in the ocean. One of the serpent heads bit into another, causing it to tumble down and crush a couple of centaur archers. Little by little, other spars were being splintered. Aarian noticed this and realized that if he and his companions didn’t do something significant soon to harm the creature, they’d be doomed.

  “I’m sorry, Krekor,” said the prince feebly while looking skyward, “but this time you’re on your own.”

  “There is nowhere to run,” said the chieftain, misunderstanding him.

  Swallowing his fear yet again, Aarian stood on the centaur’s lower unicorn-shaped back and then, after passing the jiggermast, leapt onto bulky futtock shrouds near the mizzen. From that point, he used the cables to bring himself over to the central mast. Observing the prince’s actions, Krekor finally understood what he’d meant and continued to attack the beast using his bow.

  In the meantime, Aarian climbed to the top of the mainmast, boarded the lubber hole, and brandished his glossy sword. When doing so, however, a head swirled toward him, its elongated neck coiling around him. Aarian had hoped for this, promptly climbing its scales. He then raised his blade and started hacking it. Blood gushed out as the head gave out a heinous yelp. Lightning flashed behind Aarian as he continuously hacked the scaly neck, rain pouring over his drenched hair.

  “No!” shouted Xel’vakora, seeing what Aarian was doing. “Prince Aarian, don’t behead the beast!”

  Being so high up, Aarian wasn’t able to hear the dark elf. Furthermore, he was too busy fending for his own life. Another head rose and snapped its jaw at the prince who rolled aside, nearly sliding off. Fortunately his sabatons gave him a decent foothold on the wet scales that were as firm as scutes. He hurled a dagger into the mouth of the other head and, as it withdrew momentarily, he returned to the neck wound and hacked it again and again until he managed to sever it.

  Cursing under his breath, Xel’vakora carved a glyph onto his forearm while mumbling a powerful incantation. Then he targeted the headless stump in an attempt to burn it. Even though fire ignited, it simply wasn’t strong enough. Due to the torrential downpour, the rain doused the flame before it could do any good. Aarian, meanwhile, jumped back onto the lubber hole, never more proud of himself; at least until he turned around. Within seconds, two heads sprang from the stump. Now there were ten heads, and the hydra had become even more enraged by all the attacks made against it.

  The numerous heads twirled and cast elongated shadows over the crippled vessel. Then, its massive body closing in, the hydra rapidly thrust its heads forth and bit centaurs and elves in half—one of them being Sardamir. In the meantime, a new head plummeted toward Aarian who ducked into the lubber hole. That instant, its neck coiled around the mainmast, tearing it off. The prince tilted and fell, slamming down on the deck and yelping as blood leaked from his scalp.

  Instead of retaliating, Aarian briefly observed the battle. He’d just realized that most of the cre
w was missing. Slowly getting to his feet, he tried to find the princess. Before spotting her, however, one of the hydra’s heads sank its teeth into him, yanking him from the deck. Yet when it did so, it hissed as though sensing something evil and tossed him into the ocean.

  Sinking deep into the depths of the ocean, Aarian felt dizzy and could barely move. His vision severely blurred, he wasn’t able to see much other than the hydra’s diving heads, which were reaching out for more fallen prey to feed on. One of its victims was Krekor whose brawny body was mashed apart in an instant. When he witnessed the chieftain’s awful fate, he thought of Parla’vasa—what if this would be her fate too? An irrepressible rage abruptly took hold of him, his eyes gleaming red. Despite the insidious wrath lurking deep within him, he wasn’t scared of it. As a matter of fact, he embraced such frenzy. Rage unleashing, his body burst into hellfire, and that was the last thing he remembered happening.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FORGOTTEN TUNDRA

  Utter darkness surrounded Aarian, making him feel blind. No matter how hard he tried to see, it was pitch-black. Was he standing on solid ground, drifting deep within a sea, or floating in the air? Whispers of an unknown tongue filled his ears, the tenor and tone diabolical. He then smelled charred flesh. The dark place where he resided started to light up. Yet this wasn’t due to the sun’s radiance. Rather, what illuminated the realm was an inferno that rapidly approached and enveloped him.

  Excruciating pain was only the beginning of Aarian’s torment. He screamed horrifically with third-degree burns throughout his body, his searing flesh melting like wax. All that remained of him was a scorched skeleton. Then the tormenting twinges somehow dissipated. As abruptly as the agony had embraced him, it faded, leaving him numb and in shock. At that moment, Aarian was able to see with eyes of fire. Izabaldo stood before him in a peninsula of hellfire—seventeen feet tall, wings expanding, and horns bigger than the prince’s body.

  “You belong to me,” said Izabaldo, his laughter booming.

  His thunderclap-like cackle was deafening to Aarian who closed his burning-red eyes. He screamed at the top of his lungs, resenting this nightmarish experience that felt so damned real to him. His shrilling scream shifted, becoming an outcry of anguish. He then knelt down, his bones cracking. Aarian desperately wanted Izabaldo to end his miserable existence. He knew that he’d done terrible things and didn’t deserve to be granted a soul by the immortal Nine, but he could no longer bear such agony.

  Moments later, a blizzard stirred. The coldness of death gripped him, dousing the flames within and around him. Izabaldo snorted, diminishing into the shadows as a gentle light approached the prince. Fatigued and defeated, Aarian felt hopeless despite Izabaldo withdrawing. When the light embraced him, he somehow felt a glimmer of hope. It soon became ice-cold; from one extreme to the next. Though shivering madly, he preferred the freezing weather.

  Upon accepting the icy climate, he awakened from his nightmarish coma, finding himself lying in an arctic tundra. Behind him lay a shoreline overlooking a partially frozen ocean littered with glaciers and gargantuan fossils of a ten-headed hydra on which hoarfrost grew. He also spotted grisly carvings along the thick bones due to monstrous claws. His brow furrowing at the brutal marks, he wondered what kind of fiend could do such a thing. But more bizarre to him was his present location.

  Turning to gaze at the stark continent, he saw a rocky permafrost landscape consisting of shrubs, moss, and lichens. Massive icecaps stood to the west, fjords lay to the east, and snowy mountains were in the far distance up north. He shuddered from a gust of freezing wind, starting to apprehend that this was most certainly not his intended destination.

  “This can’t be right,” he said while staring at the remote mountains, incredulity overwhelming him. “How did I end up in Niratredam?”

  Looking back, he observed the coast carefully. This time he ignored the hydra’s carcass, trying to locate any signs of wreckage. Yet not even a single piece of wood lay along the frozen seaboard. Then he scouted the shoreline for his crew. Despite reconnoitering the area for a little over an hour, he didn’t find Parla’vasa, Xel’vakora, or anyone for that matter. Aarian refused to believe that he was the only survivor; however, the bitter-cold conditions were worsening by the second.

  With no other choice, Aarian left the glaciered region in an attempt to find shelter. As he strode through the tundra, toward the northern mountains that stood ninety-thousand-feet high, snow started falling. The wind increased, slowing his movement. With no helmet to protect his frail face—ears and nose stinging—he felt as though he’d be affected by frostbite within the next few minutes if he didn’t find a safe haven soon.

  “Zartos, bringer of the sun,” began Aarian, his red eyes squinting at the white star beyond the insipid sky, “I ask for your protective warmth. Please shield me and anyone who may have survived with your fiery soul.”

  He urgently continued to reach out to the Nine as he feebly traveled across the partially frozen soil. Calling out to them within his mind despite the cold blasting against him, he hoped with all his heart for a miracle to occur. Though, when nightfall arrived, and his joints had nearly become frozen stiff, it became evident to Aarian that the immortal Spirits had forsaken him long ago.

  Bitterly cursing under his chilly breath at Daela’han for having no compassion or mercy, rage took hold of him again. The hoarfrost forming around his face and armor dissipated without him even acknowledging it. His hatred consumed him further. This wouldn’t be how he’d die, Aarian conceded. The dark elves would pay dearly for this, particularly Saldovin Keldoran, he zealously thought to himself while walking upon an icy field void of vegetation.

  He was gradually approaching a snow-covered valley. The northern mountains weren’t so remote any more. A marsh littered with liverwort lay slightly west of him, beyond the multiple fjords he’d first seen by Niratredam’s icy shoreline. He eventually found it difficult to see what with the fog forming around the marsh. It was spreading like a plague for miles on end. Soon it enveloped him and the environment where he’d been treading for the past eight hours. When blinded by the dense fog, he gave up on scouting the hazardous landscape and simply traveled straight.

  After an hour, he finally reached the snowy valley. Aarian could barely feel his legs at this point. Though the fog dissipated, a freezing mist took its place. He was able to see, but it was so damned cold that he preferred the blinding fog near the southwestern marsh. And being caught up in a horrendous blizzard didn’t help. Yet, thought Aarian, it was far too late to turn back. He had already traveled so far. Why turn back now? Fuming with anger, fiery hatred filled his veins; this would-be “adrenaline” was the only thing keeping him alive as he pressed forward, snow blasting against his pale face. At this point, weighed down by the storm, he started limping.

  “You and your damn ice can go to hell, Lólindir,” he wrathfully announced to the air, his teeth jittering.

  Just then, in the near distance, he discovered a black spot to the east. Repeatedly blinking and gawking at the sight before him while wheezing as if he’d run out of breath, he realized it must be a cavern of some sort. He irrationally guffawed, a hint of madness in his laughter. Not waiting any longer, Aarian changed his limp to a wobbly sprint over to the cave nestled into a mountain.

  “I won’t worship you yet, Zartos,” he said weakly, struggling not to fall. “Just a little more…almost there.”

  As soon as Aarian entered the cave, he tripped on a small rock and fell flat on his face. Luckily for him, snow had built up by the entrance, breaking his fall. Exhausted by the debilitating journey, Aarian didn’t even attempt to stand. He simply closed his eyes and dozed off for the remainder of the night.

  When dawn arrived, the prince awoke, finding himself covered in snow. Even though it wasn’t as cold as the previous day, the blizzard was still ongoing. Gasping in pain, he pushed aside the snow that had blasted over him throughout the night and leisurely got to his feet. Hi
s whole body felt achy, particularly his legs—no doubt due to walking for an entire day without rest. Considering himself lucky to have found the cave, he stopped complaining and stepped deeper into the dim cave.

  The jagged passage was covered in ice, glittery akin to sapphire. Wind stirred inside, a melancholy whisper luring Aarian like a spell cast upon him. He eventually entered a lair with frozen stalagmites and spiny icicles jutting down from the glaciered ceiling. The icy walls were so sparkly that Aarian could see blurry reflections of himself. Midway through the dazzling chamber, from the corner of his eye, he thought something lurked inside. Alarmed, he turned to look. Yet nothing other than a few skeletal dwarves lay there.

  Aarian sighed, relieved that it was simply his imagination. After all, he had no weapon; he’d lost his sword since falling unconscious within the depths of the Crey’falen Ocean, the tide incidentally carrying him here. He started to wonder how he’d be able to travel to Lar’a’dos. Would he ever be able to leave Niratredam? Simply thinking of ways to survive was stressing him. A voice within him said to give up—the voice of a young prince still living a sheltered life in Jerelaith, the capital city of Vlydyn that was now nothing more than rubble. Another voice, however, told him to stand strong and never surrender no matter what—the voice of a grown man attempting to surpass his apprenticeship and become a master.

  Struggling to follow the latter voice, Aarian gritted his teeth, teary eyed. Clenching his fists in shame, he gave out a defiant roar, punching a now cracked stalagmite. If it weren’t for him wearing a gauntlet, he probably would’ve broke his hand.