The silver path beneath his feet was gorgeous, particularly when bathed in the brilliance of sunlight or the smooth silver of the moon, but Kosta soon found that traveling was awful.
His feet hurt.
Kosta’s damaged chiton left him woefully exposed, so he now sported a bright red sunburn across his neck, right shoulder, face, and every other inch of skin left bare to the elements.
His skin was caked in mud and filth. Dirt under his nails, dirt in his sandals, dirt behind his ears and in every lock of greasy hair…it drove Kosta half-mad! He’d taken the conveniences of Dytifrourá for granted. Plumbing, hot showers, proper bathrooms, and all the other miracles of magic that made life worth living had been ripped away, and the desolation of the wilds with its omnipresent debris and mess incessantly gnawed at his sanity.
He could admire the beauty of nature, but it was a beauty he was fine to admire from a distance.
Kosta was fairly sure that the sensory overload of grit on his skin and in his ears and places that dirt should not be would drive him to murder if he didn’t get it off soon. Ponds and streams only helped so much, and the remains of his chiton were so filthy that a dip in the water would leave the pool dark and ugly. He missed his brush. He missed his oils. He missed it all. Kosta would learn magics to replace such amenities the moment he was back in civilization.
Worst of all, Kosta’s ears picked up the countless random noises of the forest and screamed danger. It wore on his nerves. So far nothing had proved even remotely a threat, but his instincts couldn’t bear the thought of whatever lay beyond the enchanted path.
A Hesperian runner had even raced past him once, a satchel of messages in hand. Kosta had barely managed to hide before the fleet-footed woman had dashed past. He could only thank the stars that he’d heard the patter of her feet running upon the path and had been around a bend at the time. Such a sight left him thinking of black storm clouds.
Had his parents made it out? Kosta thought they should have so long as they were shepherded by Evanthe and Isidora. Though neither could claim to be the warrior that Headsman Linus was, they were far too powerful for simple raiders and scouts to threaten. Part of Kosta longed to chase them, though he had been set down an entirely different path in his flight from the valley.
Kosta couldn’t ease the sense of being watched. No matter where he was, something had its eyes on him. Sometimes it was just a flock of curious birds. Other times it was a nosy fox or squinty-eyed badger which peered at him from the treeline. Occasionally a few deer crossed the silver road right in front of him, heedless of whatever danger he might have represented.
Few humans passed this way, which at least prevented him from descending into full-fledged panic. Kosta was able to take comfort in a few things: the beauty of nature, the graceful motions of the wildlife, and the vastness of the blue sky above. Yet then he would imagine the soft blue expanse suffocated by storm clouds and his mood would sour.
Kosta turned to spy upon a chubby rabbit instead.
Just the sight of the delicate woodland creatures sent his mind rife with possibilities, and Kosta took a few moments to carve a few new blocks of aspen or pine from the forest. It comforted him as he walked, and he soon had a small legion of well-carved wildlife in the scant remaining space of his pack.
He might curse the ache of his feet and the burning of his legs, but Kosta could at least recognize that he was blessed as a traveler. Nothing dangerous had accosted him so far, and shelter was easy to come by.
Where other travelers along the silver path might have to make do with simple tents (albeit a half-decent one would be twice the size it should and filled with commodities) or lean-tos, Kosta’s magic lent itself well to carving out shelters from stone.
Most often, Kosta simply found a large boulder or mountainside, tested the stone with his magic to ensure the rock was sturdy and wouldn’t come crashing down on him, spent an hour or so scooping out the interior with his magic, and then sealed it up once he was inside.
Afterwards he would collapse in exhaustion, pass out despite the appalling lack of comfort, and wake up sometime in the morning. While every part of him ached from sleeping on a hard bed of stone each night, Kosta could at least appreciate that he was safe. Some monsters would dig right through the rock, but he hoped that they would pass him by.
It was a little discomforting that he hadn’t encountered a single dangerous creature yet. Perhaps Headsman Linus’ purges had extended farther than Kosta realized.
Part of him sobered at that thought. How many times had Clymere walked this same road with her brothers-in-arms in search of dangers? Had she passed by his impromptu shelters sites before?
If there was one advantage to his solitude, it was that Kosta practiced endlessly. There was little to entertain him beyond carving, and he had to do something to keep his hands (and thus his mind) occupied. Kosta didn’t dare let his thoughts wander to that day. No, he kept himself busy and pushing forward until he collapsed in exhaustion.
Even carving honed his magic, flexed it and trained his control and ability to let that power flow, but he did far more. Breaking down and sculpting the raw stone into his shelters, which he always took some care to make sure were at least clean and elegant, was a good workout. The light of his soul thickened like syrup, folding upon itself to become denser and more potent drop by drop.
Kosta was no Merakian who had descended into the deepest depths of the Dream, nor a mighty Kleosian who manifested their fantasies into the waking world. And he certainly wasn’t one of the half-divine Aretans who remade the land with their every stride.
But he had power, and he had the will to improve. That would have to be enough.
He couldn’t risk his safety by driving himself to the edge, and thus his hungry attempts at exploring the art of animation never bore fruit, but Kosta never stopped working.
When he heard a noise from the trees, Kosta would turn with an outstretched hand or the tip of his staff shining bright to Project a barrier. It was draining, but it comforted him.
When he was weary of carving, Kosta would hold a small chunk of limestone recovered from one of his shelters and grind it to dust with his magic. It was a cathartic experience.
When he was tired of that, Kosta would pull out the poorly maintained xiphos blade that he’d looted from the Hesperian scout. On its own, the blade was a beaten mess. The leaf-shaped blade’s edges were chipped and dull in some areas, but Kosta couldn’t care less about that.
It was a scaffold, nothing more.
Sharpen. Heavy. Lengthen.
A grey haze hung over the blade, pulsating from Kosta’s grip, and it shimmered as a spectral power Overlaid the physical blade. The manifestation was razor-sharp and far more potent than the poor excuse for a sword. Kosta was no expert at wielding a blade despite some practice with Clymere, but it comforted him to have another weapon in hand.
It was nothing compared to the solid weight and ease of the illusionary weapons conjured by Headsman Linus. Each working took several seconds to complete, and a strong enough hit or foreign magic would shatter his Overlay and leave him holding nothing but a mundane, half-broken sword.
This was normally as far as Kosta pushed it. Clymere had dragged him again and again to the training fields, and he just needed something to swing at her.
But now he experimented.
Kosta shaped the grey blade which wrapped around the solid form of the xiphos. He tugged it to be longer, kneaded the phantasm into wilder and exotic shapes. There was beauty to be found in its unfamiliar conformations, and Kosta even smiled as he managed to mold his power into stranger and stranger forms.
An ax.
A long spear.
A hammerhead.
Some were inspired by weapons he’d seen in Dytifrourán or Hesperian hands and others by the arsenal conjured by Headsman Linus’ mastery of illusions, or the strange molten white of the Mantis’ pure white magic as it flowed between form after form.
He did not linger on the Mantis. He refused to. She was too confusing, a killer who had snuffed out their hopes of resistance and slaughtered Headsman Linus, yet had shoved him out toward safety.
Far too confusing. It was easier to lose himself in the practice.
Each working was terribly slow, especially now that Kosta realized just how fast seasoned warriors were, especially those who amplified their bodies with magic. They were blindingly quick and agile. While more practiced forms like the xiphos blade he preferred were easy to shape and mold, any of his new experiments such as shaping the Overlay into a spear took nearly a minute to tug into being.
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Clymere was right. He was a turtle. And what could a turtle do when its shell was broken?
But Kosta practiced. He honed his skill over the course of long days on the road. He forced magic to the forefront, sapped his spirit dry, and resolved to be better. Kosta would never be caught unprepared again.
And day by day, his power came to his command a little bit faster. Still steady, still slow, but it flowed somewhat smoother.
Despite the necessity of protecting himself, Kosta found himself twice as interested in honing the array of tools that he could manifest. While he was certain to avoid any other situations in which his hammer and chisel would be his weapons of choice again, the art of war had little appeal to him.
He grit his teeth and kneaded his power into the proper form. A wavering grey chisel and hammer manifested in his hands, forced into existence by his will. They were small, faint, and liable to shatter at a moment. Manifestation without a physical base to Overlay upon was always more difficult, but something about materializing ideas and thoughts from nothing more than his imagination and magic sang to him.
Kosta would need this skill one day.
It was draining. However Headsman Linus had conjured up countless illusory weapons with weight and substance was beyond Kosta. Just a few moments of maintaining the illusions was enough to leave beads of sweat rolling down his forehead despite the cool mountain air, and he dismissed the working with a gasp.
Honing his ability to Overlay and Project ensured he would have more tools at his disposal at well. He’d been able to shape the magic that came from each strike of his chisel for a long time and mold his power into specific forms for some time, but Kosta hoped that this would result in a rich development of that technique that may open all sorts of doors when it came to his art.
It was slow progress, but progress nonetheless.
Kosta was weary from his efforts by the time night fell. His spirit ached, tugged into a hundred different threads and woven into countless forms, yet there was a deep satisfaction settled into his veins.
There was little trouble finding a rocky outcrop to settle into for the night—mountains sprouted like weeds in the lands surrounding Dytifrourá. The silver road wound through them like a luminous thread, shimmering with the magic inlaid into its stones, and huge rock formations and spires loomed over it like great trees.
So he simply ducked into a small nestling of stone off to the side of the road, well-disguised in case any rogues or Hesperian scouts passed by in the night. It was already half a cave, one of the stones large and hanging off a mountainside, and Kosta found it simple work to carve away at one of the massive rocks to crash it down to block him in and properly shield him from any attackers.
He winced as the enormous sound echoed all throughout the night, but simply took a little extra care to seal up any nooks or crannies with his magic. It was simple to grind up small stone and stitch its pebbles into the gaps outside, although Kosta made sure to leave some areas uncovered for ventilation.
Kosta’s heart ached as memories of Clymere nearly knocking herself out a dozen times through reckless use of fire came flooding to the forefront.
Since most of the structure was already suitable, Kosta only had to do the minimal work to shape it into a functional hideout. Grey magic sliced and carved and molded, and by the time he finished he was panting with exertion. This would be a simple task normally, but he’d been exhausted by his workouts all day. That wasn’t even beginning to mention the countless miles he’d trod.
His sandals were near falling apart now.
While constructing a cave shelter was hardly his best work, Kosta couldn’t help but add little flourishes here and there. Etchings of himself, half-bent with exhaustion, with hammer and chisel in hand. Carvings of Dytifrourá. The agora, the walls, his workshop. Scenes of his family, though he struggled to recall many happy times to put down.
Crude and simple things, but some of the tension wound up tight inside of him eased.
Kosta did this at every shelter to leave his mark. When the carvings were complete, he simply signed ‘Kosta’ below. Would anyone ever peer upon these? Likely not. His shelters were sturdy, but it took only one great storm to topple them. Time would not wear them away, though. He had inlaid enough magic for that.
So once he was satisfied with his work, Kosta collapsed upon the cold stone floor. He shivered, grasped for his staff, and raised it high. What little remained of his power brushed against brass and the phaetra core inlaid within, and he couldn’t help but smile as the trickle of his strength activated the staff’s magic.
The phaetra danced merrily, its rosy-bronze shining brilliantly in the darkness as it brought the cave to life for a brief moment. Sweet summer air filled his nostrils. Warmth bled from the core in waves and soon Kosta found the chill vanished, although the little relief would only last for a short time before the night’s cold press would steal the heat away.
Perhaps the blessed warmth would last long enough for Kosta to fall asleep. That was all he could hope for.
He laid his sheathed xiphos blade aside, carefully leaned his staff against the stone wall, shrugged off his chiton and sandals, then wrapped the fabric around the thick leather straps of his pack.
It was lumpy, full of metal, stone, and various trinkets that he’d gathered. Hardly a comfortable pillow. But it was better than the ground. Kosta didn’t have any better options, so he made due.
Sleep came swiftly. His body cried out in relief as he curled up upon the stone. The heat his staff had brought only a few moments’ respite, but it was enough for him to pass out on the floor. Kosta turned fitfully, dreams fraught with rain and wind and ash, and it was only the sheer exhaustion which kept him drifting in the ocean of slumber.
‘Dytifrourá!’
Spears clashing against shields.
Fierce gales.
Clymere’s gasp as Whiteflame—
Kosta woke all too soon, shivering. He tasted ash in his mouth.
But he wasn’t there. No, Kosta was still in his cave sanctuary. Still staring up into the darkness and the brief glimmer of sunlight that fell through the holes he’d drilled into the shelter’s roof.
Yet he froze. His worn instincts screamed.
Kosta wasn’t alone.
Snuffling. A fetid scent, like musk and half-rotten meat. The fall of heavy footsteps beyond the stone walls.
Bang.
Something massive crashed against the stone.
Bang.
The snuffling redoubled. Kosta could see little through the tiny gaps left in the stone, but he saw something soft and black press against the tiny fractures in the stone.
Bang.
Dust fell from the overhang.
Bang.
Kosta finally leapt to action as the gaps widened. The black nose shoved itself as far into the shelter as it could. He was a whirlwind as he flung his chiton messily over his shoulders, grasped his brass bark staff and sheathed sword, and strapped his pack onto his back.
He brushed the stone with his hand and channeled power to it, reinforcing the material with his grey magic. The power which infiltrated the stone rang with every new blow. Whatever was outside attacked again and again, seemingly invigorated by the use of magic, and dread pooled in Kosta’s stomach.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The third blow smashed Kosta’s working apart. He had the strength to maintain it, but Kosta realized it was a futile effort. Every blow came swift and relentless, driven by raw muscle far beyond Kosta, and in an odd rhythm as well. Rather than an even ebb and tide as one fist pounded into the rock and another pulled back, it was sequential. Unending. As soon as one strike ended, another began.
Instead, he fell back, pressed his hands to the roof, and allowed his magic to flow through the receptive stone. He had primed it last night as he invested little bits of his power into the construction, and those traces sang back to him, slightly amplifying the rush that flooded from his hands.
Bang.
Stone gave way beneath a heavy fist. Kosta’s heart pounded as a fragment of stone flew inward and left a gaping hole in the side.
The black nose was back, fully visible. A wolf’s nose. No…a dog’s nose.
Then the head pulled back and Kosta’s eyes squeezed shut.
Had he been cursed? It was the only explanation for his shit luck.
A monstrous beast snuffled at him from outside his shelter. It was built in a grotesque parody of a human, though heaped with thick cords of muscle piled high as a mountain upon its broad frame. The creature’s shoulders stretched thrice as wide as Kosta and it was hunched due to the sheer weight of its flesh. Four enormous arms sprouted from its shoulders, each thick enough to rip a man’s head off with ease. Two trunk-like legs supported its bulk.
Upright it might have stood at six and a half feet, yet in its hunched state it was a little shorter than Kosta.
Its thick hide was covered in a blanket of dark, spotted fur stretched taut around its vast frame. He couldn’t help but notice that its fur appeared strangely soft—some mad part of Kosta wanted to pet it.
While its body was largely reminiscent of a grotesquely musclebound human other than the additional pair of arms it sported, the beast’s head was an altogether different story. A slavering dog stared at him with black eyes, reminiscent of the molossus breed, its great head covered in thick brown fur. Floppy ears were erect as it sniffed, as if tasting Kosta’s magic, and drool dripped from its jowls. The creature’s nose snuffled eagerly.
Kynokephalon, a dog-headed man. Or a parody of one, anyways. Headsman Linus had hunted them on several occasions—Clymere would never speak much of those bloody nights. All Kosta knew was that they never went down without one hell of a fight.
Legends said they were beloved children of the Lifestitch Aretan, one of those slain in the Westscour. In centuries past, they had been loyal hounds. Faithful servants. It was said they could speak as well as any man, if not better, and boasted grand works of art and magic in their society.
Perhaps some still did.
But the ones Kosta knew of through stories and whispered fears were monsters, lost to bestial instinct long ago without their progenitor’s guiding hand.
A bark like thunder rang out across the landscape, as if heralding its arrival. Kosta could only hope there wasn’t a pack of these damn things. The kynokephalon snarled at him. A fluffy brown tail wagged cheerfully behind its hulking body as the beast sniffed deeply of Kosta’s power.
Four fists pounded again and again. Stone crumbled. Kosta’s magic infiltrated the roof.
And with a ferocious bark, the kynokephalon shattered a man-sized hole through the rock wall and came bounding through with a snarl on its lips.
Kosta stared at its musclebound frame, its peeled lips, and fierce white teeth.
He could only pray his half-thought plan would work.