Chapter 38: Synec, Son of Syna, Sellis of Sehiaha
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“Aez, Rok, Don, Saer; Koe, Hat, Yen, Laed; Tin, Wae, Kuer, Zox. Rise, ravage, and feast.”
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Synec dodged a spear over the shoulder, the shaft whooshing past his ear, then leapt, spinning over the ground, cloak billowing, as a snilbog’s Gakar sword cut the air where his legs had been moments before. He landed, snatched the spear out of the first snilbog’s hands, and rammed its butt into the snilbog’s face before swinging it around, cracking the snilbog with the Gakar in the ribs. Snilbogs were usually weak and cowardly, but in groups they could be dangerous if underestimated. Tarn and his pet llort seemed to be handling the archers well enough, but the trick to a snilbog ambush was always the troops they left in reserve, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The unarmed snilbog collapsed to the ground, falling onto his back as he grabbed at his face, sputtering and snarling. Synec quickly stabbed it through the neck with a swift jab, then squared up with the other snilbog, still holding his sword, circling Synec a few paces away. The snilbog shouted something, and Synec heard responses from nearby. He risked a look over his shoulder, then snapped his head back onto his target. Logan and the others weren’t behind; maybe they’d managed to get away?
The snilbog let out a battle cry, then ran straight at him. Stupid. He crouched, preparing to counter the snilbog’s charge, then leapt backwards as two spears much the same as his own whistled towards him from either side. Too close. I’m getting rusty. Three snilbogs burst from the brush, their bone armor rattling, cackles, and garbled grunts emanating from their grotesque maws. Their black teeth shone through their green-lipped leers, snapping and biting, reveling in the anticipation of feasting on his flesh. Fools. A lost tribe, hiding in a backwater forest; they’re lucky to be alive, to be ignored. Synec threw his spear at the snilbog in front, the one he’d hit before. It didn’t have time to react to the spear streaking towards its chest, and shrieked in anger as it was struck, impaled, and thrown backwards by the force of the impact. Synec charged forwards, now unarmed, at the nearest of the three newcomers.
He sidestepped a sword, then kicked the snilbog in the head. Being nearly three feet taller than the snilbogs, kicking them was easy enough. The unfortunate snilbog was upended, flipped upside down, and killed as its skull hit a rock beneath it, shattering the bone. Instead of being discouraged, the other snilbogs were enraged. They rushed at him, screaming in their mutilated speech, and leapt at him. Synec was in a trance of combat; his mind emptied of extraneous thought as his training took over. A palm connected with a snilbog’s chin, sending it flying, careening into the open air. A shin struck bone armor, crumpling the snilbog over his leg, breaking its ribs and spine. More snilbogs surrounded him now, more than he’d anticipated being in the ambush to begin with. He’d certainly drawn their entire front flank, and possibly even their reserves.
One snilbog sat back, hands gripped tightly around a spear. He was taller than the others, perhaps five feet, and clad in a bone armor more intricate than practical; his chest, arms, and legs were all covered, and he bore more resemblance to an undead than to a snilbog. For a helmet he wore the skull of some local—for Synec knew not to which creature it belonged—animal plumed with feathers and furs. His spear too was taller than the others, and topped with a diamond-shaped blade some twelve inches long. He must be their commander, but Synec was unaccustomed to snilbog leaders who didn’t join the battle.
Synec stood crouched, ready, his body relaxed but poised for combat. In a wide circle around him stood no less than thirty five snilbogs, more than his entire original estimate. Gakar swords, their jagged, serrated blades the hallmark weapon of the Eastern snilbog tribes, were held in some hands while spears were held in others. Only two archers remained, and these stood to either side of their commander, arrows nocked and ready in case he broke through their ranks and charged the leader. Synec’s hand lowered to his sword hilt, the blade beckoning him to use it, begging to be released from its scabbard. One last time, old friend?
The commander shouted, and several snilbogs broke off from the circle, sprinting at him, weapons readied. One last time. He drew Lillian. The faint light that’d slowly waxed to daylight dimmed momentarily, shrouding the forest in darkness. Lillian, his Blessing and his Curse, shone brilliantly. The sapphire in its pommel came to life, drowning the snilbogs in fluorescent blue light, stunning them. Synec sprang into action, flashing between bodies and cleaving them apart, his sword reaping arms, heads, legs, and separating bodies in two. Synec’s mind was consumed by a serene calmness; he was lost to the fight. Blood splashed in fountains of maroon lifeforce, painting his clothes and soaking the soil. Shrieks and screams pierced the air, but the snilbogs could do nothing but fight in fruitless resistance in the face of Synec’s onslaught. He danced between them, each step light and quick, each stroke of his sword effortless. The glowing sapphire left a glowing trail in its wake, a banner of light like a pathway through a museum of the dead. Corpses littered the ground, and slowly the screams, the shrieks, the agonized cries of futility and rage quieted, until Synec stood before the commander and his two archers, sword out to his side, gemstone and eyes glowing blue.
The snilbog stared at him, mouth agape. The two archers cried out, drawing and firing on the Sellis. Synec’s arm moved in a blur, batting away the two arrows with his sword, his eyes flickering between the incoming projectiles then locking back onto the commander. Synec began stalking forwards at a walk, slowly shortening the fifty or so feet between them. The archers fired again, their arrows once more deflected.
Deep beneath the frozen lake’s surface that was his mind, Synec felt something stir; felt something awaken. A creeping chill began to crawl up his forearm arm from his hand where he gripped his sword, and he knew his time was coming to close. He picked up his pace, jogging now as the snilbogs fired their arrows again. This time he was only able to deflect one, the other slamming into his shoulder, causing him to stumble before he regained his footing and redoubled his charge. The snilbog leader slammed the butt of his spear into the dirt and shouted something at his subordinates, his face stricken with anger and fear. Seeing how close Synec was to being upon them, one archer gave up on shooting again, turned, and began running away into the forest.
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The commander watched him leave, uttered what could only be a curse, then began spouting at the other one while staring at Synec. Another arrow flew towards him. He managed to turn in time to avoid it with only a grazing wound to his chest, then he sprinted the remaining steps to the two snilbogs and thrust his sword upwards into the snilbog archer’s navel. The blade passed through its armor and skin like a ship’s bow parting water, its point sprouting through the top of the snilbog’s skull. He slid the blade free, his arm up to his shoulder ice cold. Sleep, son of Syna, sleep, my battle-weary child.
The snilbog commander staggered backwards, readying his spear. He thrust at Synec, but the Sellis caught the haft just below the spearpoint and pulled the snilbog towards him, yanking him off balance. Synec swung his limp arm, sword still clasped in his icy grip, to intercept him, letting go of the spear. The snilbog released his spear and fell, narrowly ducking under the sword. He tackled Synec, throwing him to the ground, and scrambled to get on top of the man. Synec scrunched up a leg, kicked the snilbog in the chest, casting him back. He stood, breathing heavily. Icy tendrils crawled from his shoulder over his chest, creeping across his neck, pining for his heart. His breaths came raggedly, and his mind slowed. “A little longer… just a little longer…” The snilbog yelled, hissed, bellowed at him, the sound high-pitched and throaty: inhuman. It drew a short Gakar style knife from a sheath on its side, and raised its arms in challenge. Synec tried to lift his sword arm, but he could not. The snilbog snarled again, and took a hesitant step towards him. Forgive me, father, mother. Synec looked down at his sword, the movement of his neck a battle against the cold stiffness that was already claiming his body. The tip of the sword was gone; half of the blade had already faded away, the rest slowly disintegrating, the metal evaporating into glowing blue particles that drifted up towards the gemstone. The silver wolf carved into the pommel stared up at him, its dull eyes shining eagerly, hungrily. I return to you at last. He fell to both knees, his torso swaying. He heard the snilbog approaching, still snarling, jeering, shouting.
Synec mustered all of his remaining strength and forced his head back up to face the snilbog commander. Synec poured all of his willpower into his gaze, suffusing the look with the killing intent honed and mastered, forged over decades of bloodshed and training. The snilbog froze in place just a few feet away from him, then looked past Synec, seeing the field of corpses and severed limbs behind the lone human. He looked down at the archer, lifeless and brutalized, his skull split open and his blood watering the flora below. He returned his gaze to the eyes of the man before him, their blue glow that was just moments ago a blazing inferno now cooling to embers: fading. Those eyes promised to take the snilbog with them into death.
The snilbog commander fled, his bone armor jangling as he ran into the depths of the forest, away from the quickly fading glow of sapphire blue light. Synec watched the snilbog go, then fell forwards onto his outstretched arm and rolled over, lying flat on his back, looking up at the monolithic trees. It really is a beautiful forest. Who’d have know that this place was here all along, a hidden gem, tucked away beyond the touch of the Protectorate and the sovereign nations. Pine needles drifted down from high above. Funny, he’d never noticed them before, but now they fell like snow onto his cold face, a final kiss before death. He’d failed at nearly everything in his life until this point. He’d failed his family, his parents, his sisters, the Sellisencia: he’d failed himself. Sleep now, be free of your mortal worries. Join me, son of Syna, child of mine.
A white wolf’s head, several times larger than even the pack leaders he’d seen in Sehiaha, coalesced in the air above him, sucking out the glow of his sapphire gemstone and taking ethereal shape above. A flowing white mane that danced in an unfelt breeze formed next, growing over a strong neck, shoulders, lithe muscular torso, and front and rear legs. Finally the tails sprouted, whishing back and forth slowly, calmingly above. Three… I did well, then. “Sari…” he whispered. The majestic translucent wolf lowered to the ground, then padded over towards him. You did well indeed, my child. Now sleep… It touched its snout to his forehead and he closed his eyes, a sensation like icy water flowing through his veins overtaking him, carrying him away.
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“Puggie, to me!” Tarn cried out, swinging from Jaber’s chain stuck into a branch high above, Jakar whipping through the air towards a pair of snilbogs below whose bows were trained up at him. The llort roared, his thudding footsteps towards Tarn confirmation of his understanding. Jakar sliced into one of the snilbogs, lopping off an arm and knocking it to the ground. The other one shot at Tarn, but his arrow flew far behind him. Before he could get another shot off, Pug had his fingers wrapped around the snilbog’s arm, crushing it in his grip. Pug whipped his arm to the side, flinging the snilbog into a tree where he collided with a sickening crunch. Even as a toddler, the llort’s strength was supernatural.
Tarn lengthened Jaber’s chain and lowered himself to a running landing near Pug. There were no more snilbogs in their immediate vicinity that he could see, and the llort needed attention. The llort mewled softly, a crying, whimpering sound that was far quieter than the wails from the cave but still hurt his ears. “Oi puggie mate, you have to settle down, there’re more’v ‘em out there. Come here, let me ‘ave a look ‘atcha.”
The llort was bleeding from numerous wounds. Arrows poked from his grey skin like bristles, each short black shaft concluding in hole of torn skin that streamed thick blood. Gouges of flesh had been stripped from the llort’s arms and shins, the aftermath of several sword and spear strikes. The swords left nasty, ragged tears, and the spears had cut straight scores through the skin that, though cleaner and shallower than the wounds inflicted by the serrated blades, still bled profusely and clearly hurt. Those, Tarn wrapped with gauze as the llort sat and whimpered. The arrows he left in. He didn’t have time to treat the wounds at the moment, and hopefully they’d be better off if he didn’t remove them; Tarn didn’t know how llort anatomy worked, but he couldn’t imagine that Pug could get away with losing much more blood and still survive. As he tied off a bandage around a cut across Pug’s arm, an arrow whizzed by him, followed by a second, and a third that struck Pug’s calf. The llort cried out in pain, standing, and raising his head to the sky in another roar fresh with rage.
“Pug, we have to run! This way, towards Logan and the others!” Tarn shouted, getting to his feet and taking off at an angle in between where they’d been ambushed and where Synec was fighting with the other snilbogs. “Didn’t want to have to use these, but bloody ‘ell, might as well!” Tarn tilted his head to the side, still running, and yanked a bead from a lock of hair behind his ear. It began to pulse faintly. He threw it over his shoulder behind him, careful not to hit Pug who was tight on his heels.
“I know you don’t like fire, sorry puggie!”
The bead bounced and rolled, then came to a stop. Its pulsing quickened in tempo, the once slow glowing and fading now a rapidly throbbing flash-flash-flash. The bead shone brightly, its normal sandy beige coloration replaced by a bright orange, then burst apart into an inferno. The forest came alight with orange fire. Flames spread out in a pool behind them, racing out in every direction. It licked at their heels as they ran, climbing up trees and consuming bushes, mushrooms, underbrush, and saplings alike. Pug let out a new sound, a bleating wailing reminiscent of when Tarn and Logan had first discovered him. A moment later, Pug’s wails were joined by pained shrieks from the snilbogs behind, caught and consumed by the fire.