Darius Chapter 43

The Southern Islands were one of the most serene locations on the Continent, boasting crystal blue waters, vibrant mangroves and flora, and plentiful meat by way of fish, turtles, and other sea creatures caught in huge nets dragged along the depths of the bays. At the right time of day, around noon, the tide would rapidly go out, leaving glittering shells and other treasures of the sea sprinkled on the beaches, with the Island children romping about collecting them – fighting over the bluest shell or the one that sounded most like the ocean when they held it to their ears. This quality was highly desired, despite the sound of the ocean surrounding them all day and night.

It was approaching that eventful time of day, and the children were gathering in their dozens. They turned and gossiped amongst themselves when they saw a man and horse approaching from the west. The man turned in the saddle to look out at the small waves lapping at the shore, and the children began pointing at him and the empty sleeve where his left arm should’ve been. He trotted past them, barely seeing anything outside of the path he was following.

Heldrus had traveled a long way. After cauterizing his wound, Heldrus had passed out, only regaining his consciousness when the fire had died out and he began to shiver in his sleep. He awoke in a haze, expecting to look down and see his entire body made of the red scales that covered the underkind and Peskimir.

Peskimir.

He’d tried not to think of her over the past week, but he didn’t have much else to do whilst he trekked across the Continent. At this point, he’d traversed almost the entire perimeter of the Continent, save the most extreme edges of the west, and the plains of the east. Thankfully, he didn’t have to travel back through the Tralmont Mountains – he'd been able to skirt further south and dodge the memories.

During the ride, he’d taken up conversing with his horse. Inspired by Peskimir’s naming of Bingo, he’d named his horse Hawthorn, after the bushes he’d played in as a kid. He used to hide in them and stalk the soldiers, leaping out and attacking them with thin branches or his bare fists. They usually played along, but he got the occasional smack when he picked a bad target like an old general or uptight noble.

As the children picked up the most appealing shells, Heldrus intersected with a small dirt path leading straight north. He turned his horse to the left and went back to his comfortable position slumped against the horse's neck. The one benefit he’d managed to garner from losing most of his arm was that there was less body to organize now. When he slept on his side – after it stopped being painful – he didn’t have to find somewhere for his forearm to rest, it had already found its resting place in the dirt under that group of trees.

By now it’s probably mashed up in some fox's belly. Hope I tasted alright. Crispy skin, I’d imagine.

When Barringvale came into view – recognizable by being the only building of note in the last week – he hurried his horse along. He and Hawthorn had been conserving energy since they reached the Southern Islands, waiting to burst forward once the southern capital was something less of a daydream.

He might’ve fallen asleep at a few different intervals, because the journey up to the gate seemed to happen in three different sprints, and the amount of daylight lessened with each one. Over the last couple of kilometers, the ground steepened, eventually leading him high enough that he could turn around and see the Southern Ocean.

When he made it to the rear gate, he must’ve fallen off his horse, because the next time he woke up, he was lying on a bench in a warm room. His arm was freshly wrapped in clean bandages, and a red light shone across his chest from a stained-glass window. For a moment, he thought the disease had taken him.

Bit on the nose there, thank you window.

He had to remind himself that talking to his horse was tolerable, but personifying inanimate objects was more likely to have him branded as crazy.

He sat up, noticing several other people in the room, all in beds or on benches like he was. Six pillars stretched to the roof, and two beds sat between each pillar, with one at each end, totaling twelve beds. Next to his bench was a bowl of oatmeal, with a knob of butter and a scoop of honey in a small dish next to it. He took the bowl and set it on the bricks enclosing the fireplace, waiting for the oatmeal to heat. When his stomach couldn’t wait any longer, he plopped in the butter and stirred through the honey.

He hadn’t had a hearty meal since eating at the Healing House, and this bowl of gruel gave him the same feeling of ascending to the flavor heavens. Butter had never tasted so smooth, and honey never so sweet. He finished it in no time and as he looked around for somewhere to wash the bowl, a nurse came in.

“Ah, sir! Good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Heldrus stared at the lady’s pale face for a moment before replying.

“Groggy. And I really need a piss. Did my arm look okay without the bandage?”

The nurse laughed and helped him to his feet, guiding him to a wooden door that opened to an unpleasant smell and a bucket in the corner. She stood outside and talked to him while he urinated.

“Your arm had begun to fester. We thought we might have to remove it up to your shoulder, but the doctor wanted to try maggots first, so we let them eat the rotten flesh for a few days, and it cleared up. You were very lucky.”

Heldrus squirmed at the thought of maggots eating him alive. He had seen jars of his little saviors resting on the ledge above his bed.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“And my horse?”

“Taken into the stables and given a big sack of feed and a thorough brush.”

“Thank you. Barringvale loves its handouts, doesn’t it?”

Heldrus came out the door and the nurse walked in, taking the bucket and throwing the contents out a window onto the gardens below. The flowers down there were very well fertilized.

“It does to a point. Now that you’re up and about, I’ll have you out of here in no time. Then you’re on your own. Anyone I can get for you? Doesn’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“What are the chances of getting me Prince Marth Ranvost? He knows me as Heldrus Avongold, though he might think I’m dead.”

The nurse contemplated.

“I mean, he’s pretty easy to find, you can just go to the castle and request an audience. Whether or not he has time for you is a whole different matter. That’s a job for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll uhh – leave, then? Just like that?”

“Just like that. Your bed won’t stay free for long.”

Heldrus left the room and descended a few sets of narrow steps before he was on the ground floor. He’d never understood why hospitals seemed to be built up high – it surely made things so much more difficult when carting around a limp, unconscious person like himself.

When he came out onto the Barringvale streets, he felt like he’d been dropped in the middle of Mouse’s Melee and told to find home. Everything was foreign, and people milled around him, bumping into him like he was invisible. He slotted in behind a cart that was traveling up the hill, and he followed along, taking in the sights and smells. After passing the soldier’s barracks, he peeled off to the left, looking out east over the plains where the setting sun couldn’t cast its light. The darkness was shifting as the millions of blades of grass swayed in the wind.

“Heldrus?!”

A familiar voice called out, but he couldn’t place it. He spun to his right, and standing in a cordoned off smithery was Marth Ranvost. A team of blacksmiths worked behind him, and the area was bright with the fiery light of the forge and enough candles to cook a pig.

“Marth? I was just headed to the castle, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing? What are you doing? Where’s your arm? How did you get here? Explain!”

Heldrus stepped inside the Barringvale Forge and found a chair. He slumped into it and rested his good arm on a bench.

“I...Peskimir and I escaped out west. We went to the Tralmont Mountains, and she touched this plant...turned into this...monster. An underkind, I’m sure. I touched one – caught the infection – and had to cut it off.”

Marth sat down in front of him, a look of concern written across his face. Heldrus was not the man he’d known just over a month ago.

“What do you mean she turned into a monster? And underkind? An infection?”

Marth thought back to the day he and Darius had gone to the Temple in Erinstone, and he had sat outside on the grass, eating his sandwich and fretting about the possibility of the underkind’s existence. After a few days of the world not ending, he’d passed it off as paranoia. Heldrus was far from acting normal, but if he’d seen them with his own eyes...

“I’m sorry, I’ve been riding and starving for a long time now. I’ll try to explain. Around the base of the Tralmont Mountains, there are these bright red flowers. Peskimir touched one, and she got infected with...something...it turned her skin red and scaly, eventually taking her over. She grew claws and fangs and tried to kill me – like a wild animal. I found a passage into the mountains and there were thousands of them. They were growing more, harvesting them from egg sacs. I got touched in the escape and had to take my arm off so I didn’t become one myself.”

Marth sat in disbelief, understanding Heldrus’s disheveled look and feeling terribly sorry for him, even though he knew he wouldn’t want any pity.

“Heldrus...that’s terrible. You went through so much. And you went in their lair? If it’s okay, can you tell me what it was like?”

Heldrus looked uncomfortable thinking back over the last weeks, but he wasn’t going to waste his opportunity to tell Marth what was coming. So far, it seemed like he might be the Continent’s best hope of mobilizing a force against the underkind. He’d expected to be brushed off as a madman.

“It’s a huge network of caverns – miles long. The main room is a giant, hollow area that is swarming with human-sized – maybe a bit smaller – underkind, and amongst them are these larger brutes, monsters that would be four or six times larger than you and me. They order the smaller ones around. The most frightening part is a giant purple orb in the middle of the cavern. It makes this sound that gets in your head and...”

He trailed off, not wanting to delve too deep into the impossible things he’d seen. Marth got the message and didn’t press too much more.

“So, what do we do? Are they coming as we speak?”

Heldrus raised his arm in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture and averted his eyes, looking around the Forge.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. They chased me all the way to the mountain exit, so I might’ve activated them or something. Hawthorn and I bolted so fast – we galloped until we couldn’t go any further – I wasn’t looking behind to see if they were following me. If they were, we better be ready.”

“Aye. We have another issue on our hands, too. Erinstone.”

He didn’t know how Heldrus would take the news. The poor guy had lived a far more hellish month than Marth had.

“I thought you would. If they haven’t already, they’re going to attack. Silfor and her lot will be raring to go – I'm surprised my mother hasn’t sent Marcough through your gates, telling you to surrender. That pudgy scum would eat you out of house and home while he’s here.”

Okay, he took the news rather well. Noted.

“There’s one last thing, and it kind of ties in with the whole underkind thing.”

“Mhm?”

“You know that ancient guy, Rath? Fought all the original underkind with magic weapons and machines?”

“Mhmmm.”

“Yeah, well, Darius here has his powers. He’s been pumping out magical weapons for about five days now. We’ve got a sword for you to try out, and I think you’ll like it.”

Heldrus stood up, his curiosity piqued. He picked his way through the clanging and banging made by the five blacksmiths nearest him, making his way to the rear where a young-ish man was shouting the same three unintelligible words again and again, striking whatever came before him.

A sword went under the anvil, the man yelled ‘Et-mino!’ and struck the blade, then a servant ran forward and picked up the shimmering green blade. It was a very industrious process – and each weapon was apparently magical in some way.

Erinstone has no chance.