Blood Immortal

by Paul Centeno

  “Damn this world!” he cried out, plummeting to the ground.

  Regardless of how hard Aarian tried, it seemed he could never rid himself of his spoiled, brat-like past unless he killed it. Yes, he thought, raising his head. To become something greater, he had to destroy what tied him to such pettiness—his royal bloodline. His whole life he’d lived under the assumption that as the prince of Vlydyn he should always have his way; he shouldn’t have to ever suffer. The reality, however, was that he wasn’t any different than an elf or dwarf. Normally, he’d have compared himself to other humyns, but he was convinced that his race was just about extinct. Yes, he was all alone—the last living humyn in existence.

  The wind stirred again, a lament that gripped him, burying him in this cave. That instant, he saw a shadow behind him. The prince wasn’t alone. He then rose to his feet and turned to face the entity. Not surprised, the crying prince found himself staring at Aarian, not a weeping boy or an apprentice but the Master of Vlydyn.

  Gazing upon Aarian, who wielded Dargain’s swords, made the prince yearn to surrender. Lifting his unarmed hands, he closed his eyes and waited to be struck down. This cleansing and purifying feeling was so meaningful and emotional to him—ridding himself forever of his pitiful past and becoming one with the master. Not a second later, Aarian raised his two swords, about to slice the prince apart. At that precise moment, the wind howled and cackled. Before the prince opened his eyes, a powerful gale manifested and pushed him against a frozen stalagmite that crumbled. Groaning in pain, he noticed that what he’d thought to be his imaginary self was, in actuality, a banshee.

  “By the Nine,” he gasped.

  Swiftly rolling aside, he avoided another shockwave conjured by the banshee. He found himself kneeling beside the brigade of dead dwarves, equipped one of their horned helmets, and seized two double-bladed axes, one in each hand. Ready to hurl his weapons at her, she produced a lamenting hymn that dazed him, rapidly putting him in a mindless trance.

  Sharp icicles split from the ceiling, floating by the banshee. On the verge of launching the icy spikes at Aarian, a katana with a blue aura around its thin blade jabbed into her ethereal form. In an instant, the icicles dropped to the ground. She gave out a shrilling, earsplitting screech that freed Aarian from her enchanting song of death. Afterwards, he lifted his axes, ready to defend himself while he watched the howling banshee disperse like smoke and dissipate until nothing remained.

  Once she banished, he looked ahead and spotted the silhouette of his savior—a katana-wielding warrior whose lamellar armor contained square-shaped scales. Curved horns placed sidelong on his masked helmet were about two feet high. Spikes jutted from his rectangular pauldrons. And the plated faulds he wore were embellished with intricate designs akin to calligraphy. His physical features remained hidden until he took a step forward. When the warrior approached, Aarian noticed his sandals, revealing monstrous feet with a blue-green pigment and long black nails.

  “What in the name of Thay’tal are you?” asked Aarian.

  “Tar gon elf lakar?” snarled the warrior who observed the moonstone armor, his katana steady. Not getting a response, he changed his language and grumbled, “Fel’le elf je-nei vada?” Still, he received no answer. Then, remembering the words and pronunciation Aarian had used, he gruffly asked, “What is a pesky elf doing here?”

  “I am no elf,” replied the prince. “I am a humyn, and my name is Aarian...simply Aarian of Vlydyn. What is yours?”

  “Humyns have been extinct for years,” said the warrior, grumbling.

  “Years?” uttered Aarian, finding it difficult to swallow. “Please tell me, noble warrior, how many years?”

  “Five,” replied the warrior.

  Aarian, slack-jawed, widened his eyes as he hopelessly muttered, “Xen be damned. No, I couldn’t have been in a coma that long. It’s not possible.”

  “I am no deceiver, elf,” snarled the warrior.

  “I’m not an elf,” said Aarian, sheathing his axes and removing his horned helmet. “See? I don’t have pointy ears or strange-colored hai...wait. Forget about the hair and eyes; they’re some kind of aftereffect I received when sealing a hell rift in Vlydyn—it was conjured by a dark elf by the name of Saldovin Keldoran. Have you heard of him?”

  “Tales of him conquering Lar’a’dos have reached us,” answered the warrior, gazing at Aarian’s round ears. “You really are a humyn. Might of Niratredam, you shall be a fine addition to the emperor’s collection of relics.”

  “Emperor?” said Aarian, frowning. “Who or what are you?”

  “Ah,” uttered the warrior, grinning and partly showing his fangs through his mask. “I am Warlord Varkagorsa of Warenyth.”

  “My goodness,” said Aarian, his face pale. “You’re an orc?”

  “Do not be afraid, humyn,” said Varkagorsa. “This is destiny smiling upon us. After all, I was tasked to fulfill the pilgrimage of the tundra as warlord of the swarm. You will, however, surrender and come with me. Think of it as a token for me saving your petty life from the banshee’s wailing decree of your death.”

  “Is that so, oh mighty Warlord? Perhaps she was wailing about yours,” retorted Aarian, raising his axes.

  Varkagorsa’s response to this was a coarse laugh.

  “I may not have a soul,” began Aarian, “but I am a bad omen. Those who confront me die, even without my understanding,” —his mind strayed to the sight of the dead hydra—“I suggest you step aside and let me pass so I can get the hell off this continent and obliterate Saldovin.”

  “You humyns always did have a wild imagination,” said Varkagorsa, grimacing while tilting his blade forward. “Your pathetic Nine won’t save you.”

  “I won’t need them,” scowled Aarian, readying himself for battle.

  Varkagorsa was startled by such words but nonetheless charged forward, swiping his enchanted katana at him. Aarian leapt over an attack and then ducked the next. Afterwards, he rolled aside, got to his feet, swerved around a frozen boulder, and dodged a barrage of assaults. Upon backing away from the eighth strike, several stalagmites split and collapsed. This caused the ice cave to tremble.

  Aarian thrust his axes in retaliation, missing Varkagorsa by mere inches. Only once did he manage to hit and clip off a scale on the orc’s lamellar cuirass. Aarian’s swift movements and defensive postures caught the orc by surprise. Only a fellow warlord could evade his flawless strikes, he thought to himself. He persisted with his assaults against the prince who continued to evade him and riposte. In the glaciered cave, between icy stalagmites that glittered, they fought vehemently.

  “You were taught the art of the blade well, humyn,” said Varkagorsa, blocking. “It is unfortunate you are the last of your kind.”

  “If that’s true,” began Aarian, parrying with an axe while sundering the orc’s cuirass with the other, “then I will go out in a big bang—one the demons shall never forget.” Hearing the orc gasp in pain due to his attack, he kicked him in the face and disarmed him. “Surrender.”

  “I surrender to no one!” growled Varkagorsa, unsheathing another katana while glaring at Aarian who hastily released his axes and took hold of the glowing katana on the ground.

  Varkagorsa’s mask had fallen after being kicked. He still wore his helmet, but his facial features were now exposed: thick fangs, ominous eyes, and a monstrous blue-skinned face with a bald cranium—with the exception of a ponytail. He charged toward Aarian again and struck with all his might, trying to slice off a limb. Instead he missed every assault and was pummeled in the jaw with the handle of the prince’s new sword.

  “You will surrender,” said Aarian.

  Falling down to the freezing ground and dropping his other katana, Varkagorsa raised his hands as though yielding. A bit surprised, Aarian allowed the orc to stand. Upon doing so, the orc warrior grinned maniacally. He brought his palms together—eyes glowing—and conjured a fireball, hurling it at his foe.

  “How?” gasped Aarian. />
  The sphere of flame blasted him, sending him through a glaciered wall that melted as a result of the impact. Aarian lay on the ground in shock, his breastplate charred and his face burnt. Before he could move, Varkagorsa reclaimed his katanas and crisscrossed them along Aarian’s neck.

  “Katar vor-bik jah’ta,” said Varkagorsa, smirking. “By the divine Nine... is that how you say it? Yes, by the divine Nine, did I forget to tell you that I am also a warlock?”

  His face healing, Aarian replied, “It seems I forgot to tell you something too.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Varkagorsa, withdrawing with a ghastly, perplexed face. “No humyn could possibly become such a skilled swordsman and wield magic that powerful at your age.”

  “I am no wizard,” said Aarian. “I’m simply cursed with the blood of demons.”

  “The prophecy!” blurted Varkagorsa. “Can it be?” He fixed his eyes on Aarian’s red ones and shuddered with anxiety, coming to the realization that the humyn wasn’t lying. Then the orc bowed. “Can it be that you are the Dralekar?”

  “Drale...what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Forgive my barbaric behavior,” said Varkagorsa. He rose to his feet, handed him one of his katanas, and added, “You must come with me, humyn of immortal blood. I will escort you to my fortress, none other than the impenetrable Warenyth. If you pass the Challenge of Titans, I shall explain everything.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE AGELESS EMPEROR

  Deciding to trust Varkagorsa, especially since he had nowhere else to go, Aarian followed him out of the glaciered cavern. Fortunately for them the blizzard had ended. Together they traveled southeast toward the misty fjords. The tundra of Niratredam stretched throughout the region for miles.

  During their journey Aarian explained what had happened to him since being attacked by demons in Vlydyn. The only thing he left out was him being a prince—he wanted to be rid of his past and become something greater. Varkagorsa was speechless for a while, hardly believing what Aarian had experienced. Hearing this made him even more confident that Aarian was more than just an ordinary humyn. Yet he still kept this to himself, continuing to guide his new companion through the harsh icescape of Niratredam.

  Soon they reached a partially frozen marsh. Once again the wind picked up. The mist embraced them, making it difficult for them to see ahead. Varkagorsa, however, knew exactly where to go. This made Aarian feel somewhat at ease.

  “Are you all right, humyn?” asked Varkagorsa.

  “I’ll be fine as long as we reach Warenyth within the next year,” replied Aarian, giving out a small chuckle.

  “It’s not more than a day’s journey,” said Varkagorsa.

  “Good to know,” said Aarian. “I was worried it would be much longer considering what I’ve been through.”

  The orc laughed in a grunt-like tone while advancing. When passing through the expanse of the tundra littered with mosses, lichen, tiny shrubs, glaciers, distant fjords, and icy mountains, they spotted many animals. White-furred mammoths with thick tusks roamed around the eastern region eating hoarfrost grass while a unicorn drank from an unfrozen pond enchanted by a water nymph. Meanwhile, indigo-feathered hippogriffs flew across the glaciered region.

  “Hippogriffs?” uttered Aarian, surprised.

  “They’re probably migrating,” said Varkagorsa. “To the far north, beyond the glaciered cave where we were, lies Qamardon—the dwarven kingdom. They tend to be drawn there since those inane dwarves always feed them in order to tame and ride them; at least until they’re able to actually use those strange sky ships without crashing them.”

  “The dwarves?” replied Aarian. “Are you on good terms with them?”

  Varkagorsa snorted and said, “Their king, Thiegen Coragi, has sworn to one day invade our fortress on their flying boats. Thiegen doesn’t care about honor or peace. He thinks that if something looks monstrous then it must be evil. If I were you, I’d stay away from those foolish dwarves. That is, of course, unless you truly are the Dralekar.”

  “Can you please tell me what this Dralekar is?” asked Aarian.

  “Our esoteric ways have remained a secret for eons,” said the orc. “I intend for it to stay that way lest the dwarves slaughter my brethren.”

  “Warlord,” began Aarian, sighing, “I am the last humyn in existence, and demons have infested my…they have infested Vlydyn. Even now as we speak, the Mor’vyi’dou are probably torturing or killing the Quel’de’nai, if they haven’t already.”

  “Your point?” grumbled the orc.

  “It’s only a matter of time before Saldovin and his clans, as well as the demons, invade Niratredam. When that occurs, the secrets of your people will be lost forever. There is no harm in telling me about Dralekar.”

  “Patience, humyn,” said Varkagorsa. “Even if that is true, which it may very well be, we still have plenty of time to discuss this.”

  Aarian grimaced under his breath, continuing to follow the orc. As time passed, the wind became more violent, pressing hard against their bodies. The bitter cold weather didn’t bother Varkagorsa; however, since Aarian wasn’t accustomed to such a climate, he was severely weighed down, especially since his breastplate had been damaged by the warlock’s spell. He tried his best to keep up with the orc, but by sundown he found himself in the same situation as the previous day—painfully freezing and feeling as though he’d be affected by frostbite at any given moment.

  Snowflakes were starting to fall while the warriors approached ice shelves. At first the flakes fell lightly. When the duo reached a wide fjord with glacially-carved walls, however, it changed into a blizzard. Fortunately the orc had a boat moored to a partially frozen dock that protruded from the shoreline. The ship only had one mast with a banner depicting crisscrossed claws covered in blood.

  “We’re traveling on this?” asked Aarian, looking at the flimsy vessel with a skeptical expression.

  “Do you want to swim?”

  Aarian sulked and boarded the ship, at which point the orc warrior removed the rope that kept the boat at bay and used two oars to scull through the fjord. Either side of the mountainous valley was forged with glaciered coastlines. The bitter-cold water was filled with icebergs that had, over time, fallen off the frozen shelves.

  “Are there any sea creatures here?”

  “None,” replied Varkagorsa.

  “Good,” said Aarian, sighing. “I’ve seen enough monsters to last me a lifetime. Problem is, I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of them.”

  “No, you haven’t,” said Varkagorsa confidently.

  Thrown off by the orc’s tone, Aarian gazed at him suspiciously. However, he wasn’t too concerned since Varkagorsa felt he was of some great importance. In due time, he turned to the fore and observed the dazzling panorama of Niratredam’s easternmost fjord. The coastal shelves of ice on each side stood at least a thousand feet high.

  Between the frozen walls, high above the duo, hung an aurora with greenish-blue glows shimmering like heavenly fissures. Among the wavy aurora floated iridescent clouds spread far apart, myriad white stars flickering, and the four colorful moons of Yunedar. At last Aarian could make out the fourth moon, an amber- and red-tinted celestial body of majesty. To him, he’d never seen anything more beautiful than the firmament overhead Niratredam.

  The farther they traveled east, the more the inlet zigzagged, eventually bringing them to a wider expanse. Here they could see the fjords’ watercourses from all corners of the icy continent, which met together in a vast lake. Directly ahead, Aarian saw an enormous fortress of black steel on an island that lay in the center of the water. Aarian stared at Warenyth in awe. Its crenellated battlements, parapets, and corner towers astonished him the most. The city was twice the size of Jerelaith.

  “Your homeland is deathly cold,” began Aarian, “but I must admit it is quite stunning, Varka.”

  “Varka?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Aarian abruptly
, a bit panicky. Seeing the expression on the orc’s face made him hesitate as he created a lie in his mind and went on, “I have a strange tendency to occasionally give foreigners nicknames. ”

  “In this case, you are the foreigner,” said the orc. “But perhaps I shall let your impudence slid this one time.”

  “Impudence?” said Aarian, baffled. “It’s still your name.”

  “Varkagorsa is my name,” he said furiously, unsheathing his blade and swinging it over to Aarian’s face. “It is a sacred name that was given to me by the emperor. Only he may change my name. Not some mongrel humyn.”

  “Hey!” snapped Aarian, pushing the blade aside with his gauntlet. “I am no mongrel.” He wanted to reveal his true heritage to the orc. Yet something held him back. “Listen, if I happen to be this Dralekar you spoke of, then shouldn’t I be given a little respect?”

  Varkagorsa gave him a deadly gaze and then snorted, sheathing his enchanted katana. He then seated himself, grabbed the wooden oars, and continued to bring his ship toward Warenyth. Aarian, taking a deep breath, sat as well. The waves picked up, causing the single-masted boat to sporadically bob. This disturbed Aarian until he drew closer to Warenyth.

  Observing the foreign design of the steel fortress made him calm down. Warenyth, at least to Aarian, looked as if it had been forged by the divine Nine: an immense kingdom where every building was connected as one ultimate lair fit for a titan. Colossal stone pillars rose from the permafrost ground as foundations for the steel bridges that were linked to various strongholds and watchtowers.

  “Amazing,” said Aarian, his breath taken away by the empire that was built on an arctic island. In addition, he was stunned seeing that the structures were adorned with gargoyle-shaped sconces along the walls holding lit up torches. “Varkagorsa, how are you able to prevent the fire from blowing out in this weather?”

  “I hurled a fireball at you and you’re asking me that?” replied the warlock, his ferocious expression changing to an amused one.

  “Fire of Zartos,” said Aarian, impressed. “This kingdom must be enchanted with some of the most ancient and powerful magic. Warenyth is truly grandiose. How could you not believe in the Nine after witnessing such a sight?” he asked.