Lost Eight

TWOPride-1

TWO

Pride

Flecks of snow danced chaotically on the wind, as though invisible hands violently tore at them, pulling them in opposing directions. The gale sweeping across the vale caused the white carpet enveloping his feet to shift like sand. The bitter wind battered the length of his tall body, making it difficult to cut a path through the thick ankle-high snow. In the distance, he could still make out the faint light responsible for his current predicament. Like an insect to a flame, he pressed forwards, determined to discover the secret of the light. After much effort, he eventually reached the old wooden bridge, which spanned the width of the river – now partly frozen – that cut a winding path through the length of the vale.

He stepped cautiously onto the icy timber, before stamping his feet hard upon the venerable wooden structure, dislodging the compacted snow from his heavy boots. Despite the fur securely wrapping his feet, his toes were numb, having succumbed to the bite of winter. Taking a moment to relax his tired muscles, he fixed his gaze on the light ahead of him, which was much closer now. The weak glow appeared to be moving along the edge of the leafless treeline – home to the forest dwellers – on the opposite side of the river. The light juddered haphazardly close to the edge of the forest’s border, suggesting that whoever, or whatever, was responsible for it lacked conviction. He quickly regained his composure, before continuing to move towards his objective. The wet thud of his heavy tread died in the wind, the sound stolen by the gale bent on cleansing the vale.

The snowfall on the opposite bank was much lighter than he had expected, likely due to the ground’s proximity to the encroaching forest, which offered it a degree of shelter. In any event, his toes welcomed the changed landscape, showing their appreciation through vigorous tingling as their numbness abated. He forged a path towards the treeline, one that even a child could follow if tasked with tracking him. His movement became more cautious as he approached the dancing light, wary of the potential danger his target represented. Reaching for his double-handed sword, he drew the impressive blade from its sheath, holding it at mid-guard as he neared his quarry. Flecks of snow blew against the flat of the highly polished blade, adorning the steel surface like tiny frost spirits basking in the silvery light of the moon. Whatever was out there, it continued to go about its business, oblivious to the approach of his hulking silhouette. Though he was not as broad as The Blades’ previous Captain, his winter furs enhanced his already impressive build, and he was tall – very tall. Few Freylarkai could better his stature; aside from Ragnar, he could not remember a time when it had been the case.

‘Who goes there?’ he cried, trying his best to make himself heard over the wind’s incessant howling.

As a rule, he spoke softly, and he was keenly aware of the fact – thanks to Rayna’s constant jibes on the subject. Raising his voice, he cried out once more, hoping to garner the attention of whoever, or whatever, it was that lurked amidst the edge of the trees.

‘State your purpose!’

The bobbing light moved sharply, before coming to a complete standstill; his efforts to make himself known had apparently worked. The light remained fixed for a short while, before suddenly withdrawing from his position.

‘Please, stop!’ he cried, hoping in vain that his words would arrest the light’s hasty retreat.

It quickly became apparent that his quarry did not intend to heed his words.

‘Damn it!’ he muttered under his breath, before engaging in pursuit.

Using his long legs to his advantage, he bounded across the snow, which was much lighter in the wake of the neighbouring treeline. After approximately one hundred paces, the light abruptly turned north, dimming in its intensity as it moved into the forest. He veered left towards the leafless trees, using his sword to cut a path towards the fleeting light that faded in and out of sight as it moved deeper into the forest. Branches slapped at his face as he snaked his way between the venerable wooden guardians, trying to maintain his momentum. The light drew closer with his increased speed, but as it did, so also increased the number of tiny cuts and grazes to his face. He dipped his head, attempting to avoid the worst of it, all the while doing his best to maintain his pace as he closed on his target. The leafless trees inevitably slowed his pace, though it became apparent that his quarry also struggled with the dense terrain. He was catching up, although the tired muscles in his legs would not thank him for it come dawn.

‘Stop, please. I do not intend to harm you!’ he cried, hoping that his words would finally have an effect.

Shortly after his desperate plea, the light seemed to falter, falling to the ground. Sensing victory, he channelled what remaining strength he could muster into his legs, snapping twigs and thin branches as he powered through the frozen woodland. His heart thumped in time to the sound of fresh snow crunching beneath his heavy boots. In his periphery, he sensed movement from nocturnal fauna frantically scurrying away, desperate to avoid the tread of his unrelenting advance. Pushing his way past the last of the snow-covered thicket separating him from his target, he stopped abruptly, taken aback by what he saw.

Lying on the ground was a lone Freylarkin, a female, regarding him with wide eyes whilst clutching her ankle. The look of anguish on her face, plus the wide tracks on the ground, implied that she had tripped and fallen as she attempted to evade his pursuit. The lantern responsible for the distant light rested on its side, several paces north of where the Freylarkin had fallen. A trickle of water ran down the side of the glass cylinder, heat from the flickering light within melting the snow daring to settle on its warm surface.

‘Stay away from me!’ cried the female, who was clearly frightened.

‘I mean you no harm.’ he said, reverting to his default softly spoken tone.

He quickly sheathed his double-handed sword, ensuring that it was securely fastened to his belt, before stooping down to offer the Freylarkin his hand.

‘My name is Nathanar. I am--’

‘Captain of The Blades – I know very well who you are.’

‘Then why did you run from me?’

The jittery female grabbed his right arm with both hands, allowing him to pull her to an upright position. She held on to him with a firm grip, whilst trying to plant her injured foot on the ground, now slippery due to the compacted snow beneath them. Each attempt saw her grimace further, spoiling her otherwise delicate features.

‘It is probably sprained due to the fall.’

‘Damn it!’ she snapped, her fear quickly giving way to annoyance.

‘Why were you running?’

‘Because it is well past curfew; I assumed that you were probably one of the guards, though I did not expect to see a Paladin on patrol, especially in these conditions. I thought your kind sat by warm hearths, drinking and eating fine foods.’

‘I do not just sit behind a desk, in case that is what you are thinking.’

‘So you enjoy running around at night, chasing down females.’

He had not expected such disdain from the Freylarkin, who apparently held a grudge against those responsible for the safety of the domain’s inhabitants. He decided to probe the cause of her disrespect, but thought it best to allow the irritable Freylarkin time to cool off first. Besides, it was freezing, despite the onset of dawn.

‘We can discuss your contempt for those who protect you later.’ he said, maintaining a stoic expression as the female scoffed at this remark. ‘I need to get you home; it is freezing out here.’

‘I can make my own way back.’

‘Really? Show me.’

He watched in amusement as he abruptly withdrew his right arm. The Freylarkin crumpled to the ground, her sprained ankle unable to support her sudden weight. The irked female muttered several curses, causing him to laugh aloud.

‘What is your name?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Well then, none of your business, perhaps your sobering condition has prompted you to review my offer? Or will pride stay your hand?’

‘You think that your rank demands respect.’

‘No, I believe that common decency warrants respect. Enjoy the snow.’

He turned his back on the petulant female and began walking south, back towards the river. Although he wanted nothing more than to uncover the Freylarkin’s story, there would be little to gain by conversing further in her present state of mind. Instead, he decided to take a leaf out of Rayna’s book by playing a hunch.

‘Wait!’ cried the female.

He smiled to himself, before resuming his apathetic demeanour, turning to face the ungrateful Freylarkin once more. Choosing to remain silent, he regarded the female coldly with his piercing blue eyes.

‘My name is Lyra. My tree is not far from here.’

‘Have you reconsidered my offer?’

Lyra said nothing, her resentment towards him continuing to hinder her bargaining position. However, she had given him her name – that meant something. Perhaps it was prudent to meet the Freylarkin half way, he mused. Closing the gap between them, he stooped down, offering his hand once more. Lyra sighed heavily, after which she grabbed his hand with a fierce grip.

‘Thank you.’

He loathed his current host. Everything was so much harder when one was small. The passage south had been arduous – each tiny step had been a joke. By his estimate, the journey had taken twice as long as it should have, despite the weather, which had improved. Initially, possessing the body of a child had seemed like a good idea; children were innocents in the eyes of adults, meaning that he could commit the most heinous of crimes, whilst protected by a web of lies. No one would suspect such dark and devious behaviour from a child. However, in practice, things were very different. Where once the Freylarkai had scurried from his path, now, he was forced to navigate his way around others. He missed his inadvertent former host, Krashnar, who, in retrospect, he had taken for granted. Although the irksome wretch had been a struggle to coerce, nonetheless, the shaper had been a powerful ally with a useful ability. The runt he now inhabited was neither, commanding little respect and with no ability. Even opening doors was a challenge, due to his host’s lack of physical strength. In hindsight, his decision to dominate the young female’s mind had been a mistake. Indeed, coming to Freylar had been a mistake.

Since his arrival in the domain, he had met with a string of disasters, although his ride with Krashnar had been an entertaining one at least. Ravaging Freylar’s former queen, Mirielle, and bringing her rule to its knees had been a delicious experience. Never before had he experienced such ecstasy. Even the joy of plucking the soulless corpses of the released from their graves failed to surpass the rapture he had experienced when forcing himself upon Mirielle’s exquisite porcelain body. He had played a good hand with the abysmal cards he had been dealt. Yet despite the success of his depraved antics, without his own body through which to sample Freylar’s delicacies, there was something fundamentally missing. The absence of his true form meant that he would never attain the pleasure he so desperately sought. The Narlakin he had the misfortune of encountering shortly after his arrival in Freylar had robbed him of his potential, enslaving his soul for countless passes, during which his physical body had long since rotted away. Assuming he could locate his decomposed remains, his knowledge of soulmancery would enable him to resurrect his original form. However, nostalgia played tricks on the mind. In reality, his decayed cadaver would amount to little more than tattered rags hanging from ancient bones. He needed a new form, a fresh host, one carefully selected from the breeding stock of his own kin. Without a suitable physical form, he had reached the limit of his current potential. Unless he obtained a superior vessel, he would remain forever stunted in his current form. If only Krashnar had not been so fixated on revenge, he mused. Together they could have achieved even greater things. Although, a time would have eventually come, when he would have deemed it necessary to part ways with the tormented shaper in order to achieve true greatness. Perhaps losing such a valuable host, in favour of the inferior body he now inhabited, was the impetus he needed to evolve. Still, at least his current host was easy to command – a true puppet – unlike Krashnar, or the wretched Narlakin that had imprisoned his soul. An eternity had passed during his incarceration within the soul stealer. At first, the disembodied experience had been torture. After trying everything he could think of to escape imprisonment, he eventually resigned himself to his new existence, and in time learnt to communicate with the other souls trapped within the Narlakin – of which there were many. Most were Freylarkai, yet there were other species, some of which were foreign to Freylar. He learned that the Narlakin was in fact ancient, and that it had roamed the lands, steadily consuming souls, for an eternity prior to his capture. He wondered if the nightmare jailer remained trapped within the blade shaped by Krashnar. Or instead, whether the Narlakin had been set free, allowing it to continue to enslave everything in its path. If indeed freed from its incarceration, it was possible that the soul stealer had long since been released; perhaps the Narlakin had met its end during the battle for Bleak Moor, he mused. The bloody confrontation – which he had helped to orchestrate – between the Narlakai and the Freylarkai had seen heavy losses on both sides. As such, there was every chance that the venerable Narlakin had finally met its end.