Horror of Volfjor

An Escape

After a week of wrestling with his thoughts, Hdvan made his way up the mountain path. The speckled frost had melted to nothing more than white freckles on grey skin. Yet still the mountain’s chilled breath brought shivers to his spine through the furs he wore. The voice of the mountain whispered words of discouragement, howling, begging screams as he neared the top. His blue face stung with the icy words of the wind. He thought of his son, of Grota. Their imagined faces when they found out what he was about to do brought heavy shame to his stomach. Vomit of disgust bubbled like lava, guilt burning at the back of his neck. After all this time he had looked after them, now they could look after themselves. They would have to.

He knew it was selfish. So selfish. But what he told himself brought him comfort. No one wants a failure of a father, of a husband. By doing this, they would be left with a draivan they could remember and he would stay in their hearts as someone they could be proud of.

He left the safety of the path’s winding form, climbing up a slope of crushed soil and rock. It lead him to an outcrop hidden by pines. Out the other end of this grove he stood on a ledge overlooking the vastness of the Wolf Forest with the great Crypt Mountains to the left. The green pines covered almost to the horizon. Pockets of glades broke it up. Hdvan could even see the stream where he and his son had caught fish the other day. Here it was a slither of gold like a wound on green scales. Above slithered the Ice Crypts, tiers cut into the mountain. Far on the peaks the snow still lay, providing the draiven the cold they needed to maintain their precious ice coffins. He thought of his ancestors there. Between the columns they stood asleep.

Soon Vander would have a new neighbour. Hdvan wondered what they would carve on his plinth. What exactly would they read out about the war? He imagined most of his achievements would be shared with Vander. There would be something about the time they flew to a surrounded village to deliver supplies. They would miss out the part how it had already fallen, and the horrific slaughter and devouring of the civilians there. Vander had given the order. Burn it all.

“A line of fire round the outside. We must take this opportunity, lest we not find them in such a vulnerable, unprepared position again. Burn them now and they cannot drive further up north. We may save hundreds, thousands of draiven.”

“There could be survivors,” Hdvan urged. “Amongst the wooden homes of the south scurried figures like ants. Draivan survivors. Not for long. They couldn’t be saved. Hdvan knew it. For the good of the war, the good of draivankind, he ordered Narvon to unleash his hell.

Blue rippled down Hdvan’s face. A chill shot up his spine and he shivered, but the memories couldn’t be shaken away. He could swear he still heard the growls in the distance, clear as ice. This low growling grew into a rumble. Hdvan put his hand on his stomach, and ignored it. It sounded again, louder. There were no vibrations from his stomach. In fact, they seemed to come from beneath his feet. The rumble appeared to be coming from the very belly of the mountain. His eyes were guided up the face of the Crypt Mountain, and he saw something fall from between the pillars. Hdvan blinked, thinking his tired eyes deceived him. Yet still more fell. Down the mountainside they slid, one coming his way, pieces coming off as it went. It slid fast, crashing against an outcrop and sending it flying in his direction. Hdvan’s heart dropped. He fled for the cover of the trees - just in time. Ice and rock smashed against the pines. Debris flew in all directions. Tentatively, Hdvan peered out. On the ledge lay a roughly rectangular object with pieces smashed off. From the inside poked a draivan body, incomplete. Arm rising, face near unrecognisable. Hdvan was pinned in place with fear. Surely this couldn’t be happening. All around the mountain, figures fell from between the pillars like snow white tears dripping down the face of the ancient being.

A gurgling sound came from the coffin. Its free hand rose as if pulled by a string above. The smashed ice fell from his body as he escaped his former prison. Hdvan stood still, hands shaking. The trees rustled. From behind, another smashed draivan figure came. This is it, he thought. This settles it. If there was any doubt before, Hdvan saw it squashed as he witnessed draiven rise from the dead. If he could just move… His knees wobbled. The two draiven dead shambled forward, feet dragging as if bodies were marionettes. As they neared him, the first draivan’s jaw opened, hanging only on one side. Finally Hdvan found the energy in his legs. He approached the ledge, looking back to his past. They glided towards him, arms outstretched. It was too much like his dream, he thought. He looked back to the edge. His toes hung over. It was a long way down. Heights were no bother to him, after having flown across the skies on the back of a dragon. His toes twitched. One last flight… No. He had to believe he was sane. This was too strange. About to turn round, he felt hands on his shoulder. The draivan’s hand had twisted into a claw, and dug in to his flesh. Pain. Real pain. He smacked the hand off his shoulder and pushed the ancestor away. The draivan futilely swung claws at Hdvan, hanging jaw moving up and down like a slow bite. He didn’t know how, but this had to be real. What if it was? The village could be in danger. He refused to be responsible for another disaster. Taking deep breaths, he ran past the shambling draiven, through the pines, down the slope and the mountain path to the village. Now he could be the hero he so long craved to be.

“Help!” he called as he reached the village outskirts. “Gather militia! Escape! The dead rise again!” A few draiven were working. Ledthan the Tanner was readying the skin of a goat, his assistant already boiling another. They looked up, looked to each other, and continued their work. “Hear me! I saw them with my own eyes.”

“Just like you saw the fire, right?” Ledthan sneered.

“I swear it. Did you not hear the rumble? The ice coffins fall down the mountain as we speak.” The tanners looked at each other again.

“A tremor, nothing more! We are no stranger to the complaints of the mountain here.”

“Fools,” Hdvan uttered under his breath as he rushed away, though doubt still nibbled at his conscience. “Open up, Jerte!” he called as he reached the Elder’s hut. “We must evacuate or prepare ourselves for battle! The ancestors have arisen!” The door burst open.

“How many times do we have to go through this?” Jerte yelled. “It is over. We will not suffer your insanity anymore.”

“You would doom the village? Let it be on your conscience. Soon you will see true insanity at our doors.”

“Find yourself some respect, boy!” If he could not save the town, then he would at least save his family. He rushed to his mountainside home.

“Where have you been?” Grota snapped.

“I went to the crypts. Dear, we need to leave, now.”

“What happened, Dad?” Grodosh said.

“A travesty. Our dead no longer sleep. They have awoken.”

“The ancestors?” There was a twinkle in Grota’s eye.

“Pack up what you need. Just what you need.”

“What is going on out there, Hdvan?” Grota opened the door to the cave house, peering through the gap. She sighed. “I see nothing.”

“Nothing yet, my dear. But they will be here soon. Quickly! Pack up some food and furs. Why are you standing there?”

“Come to mother, Grodi.” Grota gestured to her son, who ran into her arms. “Maybe we should part. But we will not leave. Not us. You. Leave us. We have suffered this enough. I cannot…” Blue began to dribble down Grota’s face. “Not anymore…” Grodosh looked at the floor with a face rippling like the waves of the sea. Hdvan’s chest was tight. His heart dropped, cold rushing across his body.

“Gro-Gro… Wh-” He let his breath catch up to him. “You must believe me,” he finally choked. He crouched to his son’s level. “Grodi, you believe me. Do you not?” His son still refused to look at him. Hdvan outstretched his hand.

“You stay away from us,” Grota said. “Before you do us any harm.”

“Grota, I would never… When have I ever-” Screams. Shouting. Grota flicked her eyes outside. They widened.

“What? What is it?” Hdvan burst out the door.

A crowd was gathering in the village. There were cries of joy. Chanting. Draiven danced in a circle. Yet some were running away with looks of distorted horror on their face.

“The ancestors are here! They walk of their own volition!” Instruments were being played, high flutes and rapid, joyful drums.

“No, no, this is all wrong,” Hdvan said to Grota, who was poking through the doorway with a white face. Hdvan’s own rostra shivered light shades, then white, then dark, and white again. “Stay away from them!” He called, marching towards the crowd. Some of them turned around.

“Leave us, maniac!” called one draivan.

“It seems you were right, indeed, this time,” Jerte said. Even Ledthan approached Hdvan and bowed in apology before joining those that danced around the centrepiece. Hdvan pushed his way to the centre. There walked dead draiven. Chunks of ice still stuck to some, clothes dripping wet. Some had been damaged, skin torn off and showing bones beneath like a toothy grin. Others still held an ethereal beauty to their faces, preserved from the day they died. Many of them walked with almost the same grace as a living draivan, but others shambled in a mockery of life. One by one the ancestors arrived from the mountain, flooding the streets of the village.

“Stay away from them,” Hdvan begged, watching in horror as his people danced around the imitations of the ancestors.

“Father?” Grota’s voice could be heard through the noise. Hdvan’s wife stood face to face with her father, face as pure and young as the day his life was ripped from him. Grota put her hand to her father’s cheek, blank of colour other than his purple draivan scales. The dying sun lit up his face in an illusion of happiness.

“No, Grota, no,” Hdvan whispered. In her father’s pure face, Hdvan saw only a beast from the war. Dead hand raised, twisted into the shape of a claw, still dripping with icy water. From its throat something like words were gargled. The mouth opened wider. Its face neared Grota’s.

Water splashed into Grota’s face and she stumbled back. Her father was on his side, rolling in a small puddle. She looked over to her husband, who was doubled over, panting amidst a patch of dry ground. Grota’s face turned to red rage.

“Attack not the ancestors!” called the Elder. “Away with you, heathen! I henceforth banish you from the village.” A few draiven attempted to take Hdvan by the arms and drag him away. Hdvan struggled but couldn’t resist in his tired state.

“These are not our ancestors! They are an imitation!” he called to the Elder.

“Then they are a good imitation,” came a familiar voice. From across the street came a face Hdvan had hoped never to see that day. Faded, purple scales with sagging skin on his neck and dark scales around the eyes. The draiven carrying him let go.

“No… Did you just…? How could you…? No, it is not you.” Hdvan shook his head with eyes shut. When his eyes opened, Vander remained. His mouth opened. He seemed to be saying something… Forgive me? Hdvan’s face flushed. I do, he thought. I do.

“How?” Deleth walked up to his father. “How are you here? I saw your body in the crypts.” Sheer joy was on his face, with mere flecks of apprehension. His father glided towards him. His feet touched the ground. His body hunched. Hands twisted into claws. A jaw of jagged teeth closed around the neck of its victim. Gargles. Screams filled the air like heavy rain. Now they understood. Hdvan kicked the corpse of the Garu off Deleth, blood spraying into his face. The Garu leapt at Hdvan, but he forced his fingers into its eyes, pushing it to the ground. There it flailed, like a beetle on its back.

“Deleth! Tell me you have not succumb.” Vander’s child held his neck with both hands.

“I do not blame him,” he gargled, “I do not blame him.” Eyes closed, his face darkened as he gave out one final shudder, and was at peace. Hdvan put his hand on his heart. It was as though he looked upon the face of his dead friend once more. This time, he felt directly responsible.

All around him the beasts were jumping on draiven, slashing and biting at them. The village was surrounded, draiven being attacked and downed from all directions. They ran, but the beasts caught many. Grota ran to her husband, holding him.

“I am so sorry,” she choked. “You were right this whole time.”

“Never mind about that now,” Hdvan whispered back to her. “Inside, everybody!” he called to the village. “Barricade your doors!”

“Dad!” Grodosh ran from a Garu, through the chaos and to his parents. Hdvan went up and punched the Garu that was chasing his son. As it hit the floor, it bore the face of Yolshul. Hdvan shook his head and put his hand to his temple. The beasts dissolved back into the shape of the ancestors. Still they clawed at the living. “Y-you were right,” Grodosh stuttered, hiding himself in his father’s cloak.

“Grodosh, what are you doing out here? Listen to me, quickly. You follow your mother and get in that house. You barricade yourselves in and stay quiet. Do you hear?” Grodosh nodded quickly they ran to their home. “Stay safe,” he said to them. “Know that I will protect you, even in death.” They called to him but he ran on into the madness. “Those that cannot fight, into your homes with you! Barricade your doors! Those that can-” he grabbed an ancestor and wrought it to the ground, allowing a family to rush inside their home. “Take up arms for your village! Defend your home! The Draiven call for the militia to summon once more!” He ran to the hut of the Elder, banging on the door again. “Jerte, I need your help to summon the militia. Will you blow the goat horn?” The door swung open. Jerte stood with a bloody arm, horn in hand. A loud blast erupted from the goat’s horn. “By your side, my friend.”

“To the center!” Hdvan and Jerte called, along with any who had joined them already. “Here we make our stand, together we are stronger!” Bursting out of homes and streets, battling past the tide of ancestors were Draiven of the village with improvised weapons, called to battle by the horn’s summon. Ledthan and his assistant came with their tanning knives, the assistant dropping by Hdvan’s feet two buckets of water. They looked at each other and shared a knowing nod of appreciation.

From nearby buildings, draiven came and brought desks, pieces of wood, anything to throw in the way and build a makeshift barrier. The blacksmith and his wife came with their hammers, smashing out of their way any who were in their path until they joined the line. The militia held the ancestors at bay with simple spears of wood. In their faces was an inevitable reluctance to attack those that bore the faces of those they knew. Though most simply kept the puppets away, the blacksmith and his wife hammered away at the crowd, getting themselves exposed.

“Cursed blasphemers!” they cried as they buried their hammers into the heads of the dead.

“Skallaban! Get yourself back into line!” Hdvan called. “Linush, you too!” But they were surrounded, Skallaban’s hammer left in the skull of an ancestor as he fell.

“My love! Back you fiends, you will not have him!” Linush pushed the dead away, protecting her beloved’s body. Her fellow draiven saw her plight, pushing forward and retrieving them both.

“Stay in line, draiven! The most important thing is that we stick together!” Forming a semi-circle around the Elder’s hut and the center of the village. Having drawn in enough energy, bursting at the seams, he reached out to the water in the buckets, twisting the water into spears, he threw them in to the crowd, knocking them to the floor. “Fight, Draiven, for Volfjor!” In the presence of their magic wielding dragon rider, veteran of the old war, the Draiven’s faces shone with inspiration. They pushed forward as a line under Hdvan’s command. In their eyes glistened a newfound respect for their fellow Draivan, and a ferocity to defend their homes. Jerte brought out a gift to Hdvan. “Where did you get these?” he said.

“A gift from the city, for providing militia in the war.” The crowd of ancestors was bulging out of the center space now.

“Distribute them, quickly!” Jerte gave out the Draivan scimitars to the Draiven in the back lines, who passed them to the front, Hdvan’s spears hurtling overhead. He had drawn in more mana than he needed, keeping the levels high and muting the effects on his life-force, filling the gaps where it wore thin. Yet already he felt a creeping ache in his joints, his heart beating fast.

“Why do they not stop?” Ledthan yelled, furiously slicing at the ancestor, his blows glancing off his ceremonial armour. At last he aimed at the neck, his knife easily slicing into the cold flesh with the sound of crushed ice. Ledthan himself flinched as the knife entered the body. The force of his blow knocked the ancestor back, but it was not floored. Further down the line, a Draivan with a scimitar connected her blade with an enemy arm. She hacked at it, screaming.

“Aagh forgive me, mother!” the arm dangled by mere tendons.

“These are no mortals…” Hdvan said, doubled over, breathing hard. On the floor a hand still moved, twisting and dancing like a leaf. “This is the work of magic,” he said to Jerte. It was just like the splinters of wood that morning he had conducted dream magic. They had floated like the force of another was controlling them.

“By whom? There is no mage alive able to animate so many things at once.” Indeed it would have to be an extremely powerful force to control generations of deceased Draiven. A force capable of holding tremendous amounts of mana, in a trance-like state. A force like… a sleeping dragon.

“Narvon!” Hdvan called. He went through the same things as Hdvan. Somehow, he thought, he knew, they were imprinted on that highly advanced, intelligent brain. Maybe he had a conscience after all. As his body slept, his life-force continued to be active. Now his bound mana was seeping out and playing havoc with the environment around him. Sleep walking, with magic.

At least, that was his theory. Dare he leave? Driaven die, and he must abandon them once more for the greater good. Even his family, locked up in their home, he would be abandoning them to save the village. In Vander’s shadow, Hdvan rose to make the choice this time. What would he have done? He marched into the Elder’s hut.

“What do you seek? Another sword? I fear I have given them all out,” Jerte said.

“A lamp” Out he came with one, and went to climb the hut.

“Where are you going? You cannot abandon us now!”

“I seek the sleeping dragon. I fear I must leave you now, to save you all. Have faith in me. Have faith in Fate.”

“Let me go! Let one of us bear the burden. Let it not be you.”

“It must be me. I am the only one who has the ability. I will not be responsible for the death of another village. Not my village.” Jerte was silent. He put his hands on Hdvan’s shoulders.

“Make haste. Let Fate know that I believe in you. Our protector.” Hdvan nodded and climbed up the hut’s wooden façade that joined the rocks, snuck behind the battle and in to the streets.

With a sapphire face, heavy feet hurriedly carried him once more past the blueberries, to the foothills in the shadow of the Crypt Cliffs. He had to wake Narvon, even if it was the only idea he had. He knew if he did, there was a chance of the huge dragon lashing out by instinct. And with so much energy being absorbed and affecting his life-force, disrupting it could be fatal. The great opening of Narvon’s home loomed above him like gates to the underworld. Reluctantly, he entered. His lamp light caressed the rocky walls and floor as he passed. A ripe stench and humidity filled the air. It was like walking through cobwebs. How to wake a sleeping dragon… he pondered. A beast many times more powerful than a draivan. It had never been attempted in recent history, so the priests and their books tell. As he went deeper, he felt his fate draw closer. The air grew thin, his breathing laboured. His lungs tired with the constant work they had to put in, mirroring his tired legs stumbling quick over rough ground.

He would be the first of his kind, he thought to himself. At least, the first of his village. Hdvan, the Dragon Waker. Is that what they would call him? It sounded clunky. Anyway, he was doing this to save the village. Wasn’t he? Hdvan wasn’t sure anymore. The Saviour of Volfjor? No. He told himself he wasn’t doing this for the titles. For the village. For his family. For the dignity of his own memory, he marched deeper into the mountain. The ancestor spirits looking down on him bore heavy like the weight of the very Crypt Mountain he crawled beneath.

As he went deeper, Hdvan felt himself weaken. He reached out to absorb a bit of mana, of which there was much in this dark cave. Torrents of it were being pulled in deeper towards the innards of the cavern, such that Hdvan was almost pulled under the currents and ripped off his feet as he tried to suck some in for his own. Some powerful force was drawing energy to it. He was on the right path. With his newfound strength, his march onward brought him to the source. The rocky corridor expanded to a wide chamber. Nestled into the rock as if it was soft twig and leaf, was Narvon.

“Well, boy. Never thought I would see you again in this life time.” He was curled up, his head curled round to his body, tail round his head and his wings over his whole body like a blanket. Hdvan didn’t know if it was the mana he had taken, or some effect of Narvon’s hibernation, but the chamber was very warm. He regarded the peaceful, sleeping giant, like a baby bird in its nest. Hdvan couldn’t bring himself to wake it, looking down upon this great beast as a parent would check upon their sleeping child. He thought of his own child, Grodosh. The reason Hdvan was here. Holed up in their house with Grota, a herd of ancestors turned into dangerous puppets outside.

Hdvan gently called out Narvon’s name. A whisper, nothing more. Tentatively, he called it louder. No response, as expected. Narvon’s belly moved up and down every few minutes, filling his enormous lungs then exhaling slowly, a draught across Hdvan’s scales each time.

“Narvon.” Hdvan’s stomach lurched at how loud it came out. Careful, it seemed to say. You might actually wake him. He ignored this voice. “Narvon!” he shouted. His heart beat faster. Releasing all that energy in a shout gave him a rush. He shouted louder, left breathing heavy. He approached his partner and put his hand on the iridescent scales. So warm. How could he harm his child? he thought. Yet, by not waking this one, he could potentially sentence the other to death. He patted his exposed belly. Then a bit harder. He futilely poked his scales, knowing he would feel nothing. He stepped back, remembering the time in the campaign down south he had fallen asleep outside the camp and been woken up by the rain. Mana gathered, using it to collect what little water was in the air and from the puddles in the cave, building a small ball of water that hung from his palm, then throwing this ball at Narvon’s face. His body tightened in anticipation of Narvon’s rebuttal, but none came.

Hdvan’s body felt heavy, and he collapsed to his knees. Pressure built behind his eyes, cold on his face.

“What do I have to do?” he called aloud, echoing around the chamber. His throat wailed with sounds of sadness. He drank in more mana to help relieve his weakness, again pulling on the whirling winds against resistance. After rising to his feet, invigorated, a new plan washed ashore in his mind. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Using mana as a rope, he reached out to Narvon. Hdvan shivered as this rope made tender contact with the Aurora’s life-force. Memories flashed through his mind as he attempted to reach Narvon’s consciousness, feeling the unique connection through all they had been through, every moment they had shared. Finally, he mimicked the presence of his dragon’s soul, binding himself to it. Now the two souls were connected, bound as one. Gripping tightly to his rope that swirled inside the maelstrom, Hdvan pulled. He felt light-headed as it tugged back on his own life-force. He had to resist, just long enough. Eyes closed, he could see the spiralling purple and blue, white and turquoise with his tendril dipped in the whirlpool like a fishing line. If he could pull his life-force just enough, perhaps it would shock his body into waking. No one had to be hurt.

Hdvan strained. His heart went weak. The pressure at the back of his head and eyes let up a little. Hdvan drew in more mana, strengthening his line, and tugged against the might of the dragon with every ounce of his being. The slightest of movements. Yellow eyes flicked open like a flame igniting. With the flicker of a falling sensation, Narvon felt a great disturbance and awoke. With so much energy still coursing untamed through his body, his life-force was weakened. His body couldn’t cope. Uncontrolled magic rose up his body like hot vomit and Narvon shot up fire with one last red breath. Hdvan cowered, covering his face with his arms as the scorching fire pushed him to the ground.

The crowd of dead that had taken over Volfjor collapsed in heaps, littering the streets of the village. Grodosh and Grota peeked out the door, hearing the noise of death end with a clamour of bodies hitting the floor. The chaos had ended. They didn’t know how, but his father, her husband, had ended it. By his own hands, on his own terms, he had sacrificed his life to save his family, and what was left of the village. When the bodies returned to their plinths, they would be joined by one more sculpture. A hero of the war, a hero of the village. Forever, a hero of draivankind.