Out of the Shadows

The ancient mountains of the Baranthan range dominated the horizon, their vast peaks shrouded in cloud and mystery. They ran unbroken north to south as far as the eye could see, threatening the sky with jagged snow-capped fangs. Few men had dared ascend their considerable heights, and no man could survive their pinnacles, but the tales of what did dwell there were many. Etherna’s children had long been plagued by stories of the aberrant monstrosities residing in the crags, biding their time until an obstinate youngling required their attention and forced their descent. These fables proved to be more than adequate disciplinarians. The Ethernean path to adulthood was rife with psychiatric ills. Prepubescent sleep deprivation and adolescent anxiety were rampant. Acrophobia was not uncommon. Etherna’s youth, for the most part, were kept in check, and the great range’s rugged beauty remained intact and unsoiled by foreign contaminants.

Kroba, the mountain that ruled them all, dwarfed his Baranthan siblings. His summit rose through the highest clouds and was an enigmatic blur even on the clearest of days. It’s rumored that deep in the earth, miles below Kroba’s rocky core, lies the resting place of the ancient ones. They won’t be disturbed there. When they do wake from their lengthy slumber, Kroba’s rumbling will signal their stirring. He won’t give them up quietly. Their struggle will shake the world, warning all that the brief rule of those above is coming to a close.

Another of Etherna’s great wonders, this one made of flesh and blood, moved silently through the pre-dawn darkness below. A mere mortal, he was insignificant to Kroba, but no less extraordinary. Most young men, at 23, were only just beginning to discover who they were. Not this one. A son of Brawn, he was  a battle-hardened warrior, already having experienced a lifetime of adventure. He had feared not the foreboding fables of his forefathers. They had, instead, sparked in him a sense of adventure, steering him not from the paths of the unknown, but inspiring him to flee the confines of the familiar. The tingle of trepidation, chill of consternation, flurry of fret so common to others were foreign to him. Though his life’s journey had only just begun, he had an inkling of his import, and was determined to leave an indelible mark upon a world fraught with peril. It was his hope that tales of his deeds would live on long after he had breathed his last, uplifting and inspiring generation after generation. This needn’t be a concern. Accounts of his exploits had already begun to spread.

He travelled upon the back of a great steed, the tattered cloak draped across his shoulders his only defense against the night’s chill. His silhouette, long and broad, heaved gently as he rode, a boulder-like chin knocking against his chest with each stride. Though enveloped in darkness, his presence permeated the space around him. It was tangible. It moved ahead of him and followed behind, announcing his coming and going to the very ground that carried him. For now, he slept.

His steed, exposed to but undisturbed by the elements, travelled south with the mountains. He glided steadily across the landscape, a swagger to his step heralding arrogance–an arrogance necessary to bear the weight of the figure above. Clearly, he considered himself worthy. The hubris was well earned. He was a perfect specimen–balanced, muscles long and tapered, chest deep and thick. He possessed a shiny black coat broken only by thin lines of white that stretched from pastern to knee on each of his legs. His well-shaped hooves were tough and durable, though in dire need of maintenance. His mane, fashioned into four tight braids, fell to the right and bobbed gently as he walked, in perfect sync with the silhouette above. It seemed unlikely this animal had led a harrowing existence—he had the appearance of a coddled and seldom let out show horse—but he had been a dutiful companion to the man above. Though he had been walking for days, he’d not stop until he reached his master’s destination, wherever that may be and however perilous the journey. The man called him Zorin.

The first light of Etherna’s twin suns flashed across the Baranthans, casting shadows that stretched westward to the distant horizon, ensuring darkness would encapsulate the west side of the range through midday. But the stranglehold of pitch black had been broken. This was welcome, and provided enough light for eyes to be of use again.

The stallion’s pupils rolled toward the breaking suns, and he nickered, signaling to his passenger that a new day had begun. The man’s eyes flashed open, immediately alert. He scanned the periphery, the hue of his irises an impossible light blue. When satisfied all was well, he leaned forward and placed his cheek against Zorin’s warm neck, a symbol of their intimate brotherhood. Zorin stopped, pressed his neck against the man’s face in reciprocation, then continued on.

The man untied a strap that hung beneath his chin, slipped off the cloak, and packed it away. He stroked Zorin’s neck while surveying the world around him. To the east lay the Baranthans. To the west, as far as he could see, there was nothing–except the occasional Visocky tree dotting the terrain near the mountains, their gnarled, leafless branches rising hundreds of feet into the air, summoning a downpour that would never come. During the rainy season they sucked up water streaming down from the slopes above. Over thousands of years they had learned to subsist on that alone. They seemed at home in the desolate landscape. Besides the Visockys, and the alleged Baranthan cliff dwellers, nothing else could survive here long.

The man breathed in the fresh morning air and sat back in the saddle. Intricate braids, identical to Zorin’s, were draped across his shoulders, the knotted ends resting against his chest. He slid his knuckles beneath the knots and flipped them back over his shoulders, then thrust his arms to the side and turned his palms to the sky, offering himself to the new day. After a moment, his open palms closed into fists and he forced them backwards, stretching his muscles, tight after a short night’s sleep. They bulged inside the chainmail he wore. His body seemed chiseled from steel or some unbreakable stone that deemed the straining links unnecessary. He was a statue, chipped away at and perfected over the years by an expert sculptor. Few had been blessed with his looks or strength. They ensured notice. Though he didn’t flash it often, he had a smile that could melt the heart of the hardest of harlots. Men feared, respected, and loathed him in equal measure. Most paled in comparison. But there was something even more remarkable about him, something most would never even know. The blood running through his veins was Ripidian.

The man reined in Zorin and reached toward the waterskins dangling from his saddle. He shook each in turn. Liquid sloshed around inside of one. He dismounted, formed a makeshift bowl with his cloak and poured the remaining water into it. He presented it to Zorin, who lapped it up fervently. The horse stopped drinking before it was gone, vigilant about the amount he consumed. The man lifted the cloak to his own parched lips and finished off what was left. He slung out the cloak, laid it over Zorin’s neck, and scanned the horizon to the west. Nothing.

The man grabbed a homemade tap from his saddlebag. The crude little device—a short wooden pipe whose underside was sharpened to a point at one end and formed into a lip at the other—was a lifesaver. He approached the nearest Visocky, jabbed the tap into its trunk, and held the empty waterskin beneath the tap. Water dripped from the tap’s lips, then became a trickle. Once the waterskin was filled, he topped it and removed the tap. Water streamed from the hole that was left, down the Visocky’s trunk, and out onto the ground. The man closed his eyes, silently thanking the tree for its gift. His eyes opened, and he watched the water a moment before turning back toward Zorin. The stream had already slowed and, within minutes, would heal completely. He turned back to Zorin, replaced the waterskin, and pulled himself back up into the saddle. They continued on.

An hour later, the man glanced to the west once more and, after days of seeing nothing, spotted what he had been searching for. He squinted his eyes, trying to ensure what he saw was real, and not the figment of a desperate imagination. A small city flickered in the distance, well beyond the receding Baranthan shade. It promised shelter, rest, a stiff drink, and hopefully, the pleasure of a wench’s company. His lips formed the tiniest of smiles, an insignificant crease across his great square jaw. He slapped the haunches of his mount. Zorin snorted in reply. The man wrapped a scarred, calloused hand tightly in one of Zorin’s braids, just above the withers, and turned the animal west. He leaned forward, tanned animal hide popping as he pressed his feet into the stirrups, readying for a sprint.

“Ride.”

They raced away. Their braids came to life and whipped about them like battle flags in the wind. Zorin’s galloping hooves were invisible as he scuttled across the scorched and stagnant earth, a dusty haze the only indication contact had been made with the ground beneath. He was possessed of a new and sudden vigor. The man smiled. He knew his partner well, for their needs were the same. He would ensure Zorin’s were met before his own.

But the needs of both would have to wait.

Four men appeared in the distance upon steeds of their own. They almost seemed a mirage, materializing out of nowhere. As they came closer, Zorin, leery of their intent, came to a trot. Twenty feet from the edge of the Baranthan shadows, he stopped. The men strode just into the dark and reined in their mounts. All was still.

The great man knew men such as these. He read them like a book. He saw all he needed in a matter of seconds. It took years for a horse and rider to develop a harmonious relationship, but these men were clearly uncomfortable in their saddles. They had not yet become amicable with these animals. It was rare for a man to have more than two horses over a lifetime, and even more odd that a gang of four would need to replace their mounts at once. The men wore new and ill-fitted clothing over unclean bodies. Their packs were overstuffed, a sure sign they carried property that wasn’t their own. Each portrayed a feigned look of innocence, indicating the quartet had less than honorable intentions. If all that wasn’t enough, the blood encrusted heel of one of them meant, at least fairly recently, he had been involved in a violent altercation. These men were amateurs, and of little concern, but, even so, he desired to be on his way. He had visions of a hot meal, cool mead, and a warm woman. He was in no mood for bloodshed, but these weren’t the type to simply nod their heads and pass by. Like clockwork, blood heal, clearly the leader of the group, spoke.

“Headed to Dwall, stranger?”

“Aye.” There would be a slight delay in the great man’s plans.

Blood heal nudged his horse forward and circled the great man slowly. He eyed Zorin like a breeder considering the purchase of a new stud, then returned to his place at the head of the posse.

“Beautiful animal. Cohordian?”

“Aye.” The man upon Zorin’s back enjoyed intellectual discussion and debate as much as the next man—conversation kept the mind and wit sharp—but these common horseback thugs weren’t worth the thought it took to form words.

“Bet he could fetch a high price.”

“Were he for sale, yes.”

“Everything’s for sale at the right price. We’ve got coins.” The man grabbed a leather purse attached to his belt and gave it shake. Coins clanged audibly inside.

The great man never glanced at the purse. He had never been one swayed by riches.

“Maybe we could make a trade.” The leader glanced back at one of his cohorts. This one was morbidly obese and had an unsightly boil on his cheek the size of a bear tick. He threw his arm back to retrieve a small pack dangling behind his leg. He was unable reach it. He tried again and managed to get a bit closer.

Blood heal turned his face back toward the great man and rolled his eyes.

The great man stared back.

The third time was a success for the fat one, his tremendous girth finally granting access to what he wanted. He placed the pack on the saddle between his legs and opened it. He reached inside and brought out a handful of jewels and gold medallions. Were they not in the shadows, they would have sparkled enticingly in the sunlight. In the trade cities, the contents of the pack would have fetched enough for even the most indulgent and pampered of lifestyles to continue for years.

Blood heal spoke again. “How about it, stranger?”

“I said he’s not for sale.” The great man had tired of this conversation. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

He tugged Zorin’s braid gently. Zorin went right, giving the group a wide berth. Blood heal turned his mount and walked with them. The fat one followed. The other two kicked heels into their mounts, encouraging a trot. They pulled up along the opposite side of Zorin and slowed to a saunter. The great man looked into the eyes of each of the men in turn. He saw no fear. Confrontation was something they were no strangers to. The great man reconsidered his previous assumption. They weren’t amateurs. They either didn’t care who knew of their deeds, or were simply unaware that there were other more civilized ways to conduct themselves. This made them dangerous. Another gentle tug stopped Zorin. Without needing encouragement, Zorin turned so that the great man faced blood heal once more.

Blood heal smiled.

The great man did his best to keep the peace. “I seek no trouble. I’ve ridden for days with little water and no food. I simply desire drink, meat, and peaceful slumber.”

Blood heal continued to smile. “You’ll have it, but you’ll have to walk on your own two legs to get it.”

“I request again that you let me pass.” The great man reached behind his left leg and threw back the flap of a jungle cat hide sheath, revealing the transparent hilt of his broadsword. He noted the fat one’s surprise before continuing. “I’ll not ask again.”

The fat one spoke. “Is that an Infernian blade?”

“Quiet,” blood heal interrupted.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“We know what it is, but a man’s weapon is only as strong as the one who wields it. We’ll have that blade as well, stranger.”

The great man was impressed by blood heal’s tenacity. He smiled. With his right hand, he reached across his body and pulled the sword from its sheath. He held it before them. The sword was completely clear from hilt to tip, its blade razor sharp.

During the standoff, the twin suns had continued their rise over the mountains. Their rays had nearly rescued the men from the shadows. The great man pointed the sword’s tip at the sky, extending his muscled arm fully so that the blade was thrust up into the spreading light. It shone beautifully, reflecting and refracting the sun’s rays like a fearsome prism.

The man glanced at the blade himself. After all these years, he was still in awe of its beauty. This clear blade had never been meant for use, but he felt those who made it so long ago would make an exception in his case. Every drop of blood it shed, every bone it shattered, was to make the world a better place. Every strike a blow against evil.

He turned his attention back to blood heal. Neither spoke, as the blade had, as usual, stymied discourse.

Zorin chose this moment to break wind. It hissed out for a full five seconds, rustling his tail in the still morning air. Within seconds, all were enveloped in its fetid invisible cloud. Zorin had long suffered from intestinal trouble, especially on long treks where meals were often unavoidably exotic. The great man was untroubled, though always impressed at the ferocity of the blasts. Over the years he had learned to cope. The surrounding band of misfits, however, became clearly distraught, as did their horses who whinnied quietly and tramped about in distress. Were they able, they would have no doubt stood solely on their hind legs and covered their nostrils with their front hooves until the wave passed.

The fat one voiced his distress, speaking for them all. “Son of a... What the…”

Blood heal, doing his best to calm his mount, raised his hand, putting a stop to the fat man’s words. When his horse was calmed, he spoke again.

“Alright, stranger…”

This time blood heal was the one interrupted, though it’d be heresy to say he ever knew what by. The great man had tired of the dialogue, and, with a quick downstroke of his sword, sliced completely through the leader’s neck. Before anyone else could register what had occurred, he twisted savagely to the right, brought his sword back across his body, and, with a tremendous backhand stroke, sliced through the belly of one of the men behind him, nearly severing him in half.

All was quiet once more. The great man turned and stared into the shocked eyes of the fat man.

The fat man looked at his companion whose abdominal contents had spilled out onto his saddle. The man, dying, slumped over slowly, his eyes narrowed to slits but still open. He seemed ready for a nap, searching for a place to lay his weary head. Apparently, he found his horse’s neck acceptable. He lowered his cheek gently onto it and shut his eyes. It all seemed intentional, a dramatic show. The fat man was reminded of the thespians he had seen perform once when he was a younger man.

The curtain closed on the performance, he turned his attention back to blood heal, who seemed to be pondering something as he stared blankly at the great man. After a few seconds, his head slid off his neck and fell twisting to the earth below. It bounced twice on the cracked ground before coming to rest a few feet away, his open eyes staring to the southeast. His body slumped towards the fat man, but his feet caught in the stirrups and kept him from falling out of the saddle. He was suspended, slung over sideways like a headless, horseback stunt rider, his stump spraying long fountain-like jets of crimson out at his subordinate.

The fat man was unable to avoid the first few spurts. He cursed and backed his horse up in an evasive maneuver.

The other man left alive was a great behemoth, the only one who could legitimately stand and fight with the great man. He peeled his eyes away from his neighbor’s dangling intestines and stared at the back of the great man’s head. He seethed in anger. He would put an end to this immediately. He ripped off his shirt with a frightening war cry that made the fat man flinch. He yanked out his own sword.

The great man turned and looked, curious to see the performance. The behemoth brought the edge of the sword to his chest and sliced a deep gash across his sternum. Blood dripped down his powerful torso. He brought his other hand up and ran his fingers down the blades sharp edge, wiping it clean. He slung his hand out, flinging the blood away.

The great man looked back at the fat man, who was confused and frightened by the display. “He puts on quite a show. I’d say he’d be a great fit for the theater.” The fat man, more bewildered than he had ever been, made a mental note to never attend the theater again. For nothing could surpass the spectacle he had witnessed this day. The great smiled.

The behemoth screamed with a rage that would petrify most mortals, and dismounted, a clear challenge to the great man.

One of Zorin’s back legs shot up, his hoof striking the man with a crushing blow right between the eyes. The man’s neck shot back violently. There was an audible crack as the man’s spine gave. He crumpled to the ground, useless and silent.

The smile never left the great man’s face. The fat man, on the other hand, knew his time had come. He had had a hell of a day. He could only hope that his life would ended quickly. He closed his eyes as the man’s horse stepped towards him.

“Open your eyes, Portly,” the great man requested.

The fat man opened his eyes. The clear blade appeared and sped toward him. He watched in what seemed like slow motion, frightened, but with a morbid curiosity about what the death blow would feel like. The sword seemed to glow in the sunlight. He would be killed by an Infernian blade. At least that was something. A strange warmth escaped from him and spread throughout the front of his pants. His mother would be so ashamed. Visions of the lawless life he had chosen flashed before him. He hoped beyond hope that the few good things he had done would encourage the gods to somehow show favor upon him. He felt the blade slash into his body and was pleasantly surprised at the lack of pain. A strange warmth escaped him once more, but not from his bladder. He reached toward the mortal wound in a useless bid to stymie the flow. Then all went black.

Sometime later, the fat man opened his eyes. He was dazed and struggled to familiarize himself with his post-life accommodations. He lay on the dry ground of a vast wasteland, surrounded by the dead bodies of his gang. Mountains dominated the horizon to one side. He turned and looked the other way. Five horses were retreating from him. Four were loaded down with packs. The other, a gorgeous black steed, carried a man upon his back.

The fat man reached toward his cheek to feel where his death blow had been delivered. There was only a tiny amount of blood, and his boil, hanging by a thin strand of flesh. The great man had attempted to remove it instead of his head. He had not fully accomplished his goal. The fat man grabbed the soft sphere and yanked it away, snapping the flesh-string. The sting proved for certain he was still alive.

He rose, dusted himself off, and glanced after the great man. He considered calling after him, wanting to thank him for sparing his life. Maybe he should thank him for removing the boil as well. He had always loathed it. Then again, what he least wanted was for the mercy he had been shown to be reconsidered. It was not his desire to anger the great man.

His fear was bettered by curiosity.

“Stranger!”

The man stopped and calmly swung his head around to glance back. He was clearly in no mood for further interaction.

The fat man reassessed what he wanted to say. He needn’t say anything really, but curiosity had gotten the best of him. He blurted out what he had been wondering since they had first stumbled upon one another. “What’s your name, stranger?”

The great man smiled once more. “I’m Bronan.”

The fat man nodded. Now he had a name to accompany the story he had to tell.

Bronan turned and continued on to the city of Dwall, leaving the four hoodlums behind, another reminder that he was out there, a shimmer of hope in a world of shadows.