CHAPTER TWENTY

WHERE THE BEASTS LIE

The whispers of the wind are loud when there is no other sound. They scarcely conversed. Their eyes did most of the talking, most of the judging. Shaphas, as is his self-proclaimed purpose, tried to convey the way of Aion to his newly found companions. Tyr, as is his himself, dismissed it with great fervor and disinterest. Patrick, as is his nature, tried to keep the situation civil and friendly while the two conflicting personalities clashed.

There are no Gods! Aion is God! Let’s keep it civil, we should respect each other’s point of view.

This is how the journey to Greybloom lasted between the three, with no action and a lot of pointless bickering. For two days, this was the norm; for two days, it was peaceful… as much as it can be.

Their destination lies in front of them. The infamous village of Greybloom. Nothing much to look at. The village looks like nothing happened here from the dawn of time; if not for the demon in question, it would remain this way. Lost and forgotten in the mundane and the common. An all too familiar fate for most.

They walk through the mud as worn-out faces with blank expressions bid them welcome; staring as if a demon took their souls. The truth is not far off. An old peasant slowly dusts in front of his house as he keeps his wide-open eyes on the village’s new guests. From another nearby house, an old woman stares out of the window as enchanted. Everywhere the same devoid looks from the inhabitants. They go on about their daily routines with no joy or life in dreadful silence. The party looks around as they notice something which catches their eyes; they notice the lack of something. There are no children or young people. Only the old and the tired- only the broken remain. In the distance, a large hall stands in the center of the village.

The largest structure in Greybloom with a bull's skull at its entrance. It stands out amongst the surrounding rabble. A one-eyed king in the land of the blind. Sounds are coming from it, life is coming from it.

“Looks like this is the place,” Patrick says, standing in front of the large hall.

“The journey was pleasant... mostly,” Shaphas says as he glances at Tyr with a modicum of disdain.

Tyr grunts as he looks away.

“The journey was challenging and not without loss,” Patrick says as he looks down with sadness in his eyes. Tyr notices Patrick but averts his gaze elsewhere.

“We have made it this far. Now, all that is left is to see it through the end,” Patrick says as he rallies himself. One deep breath to give him the courage to brave forth.

“True. The demon in question still lies as an obstacle. The final and most dangerous obstacle,” Shaphas dramatically says.

“Let us get on with it,” Tyr says in frustration as he enters the hall.

The door of the hall opens as the noise comes pouring out like a tide, drowning the gloomy atmosphere outside. Full tables filled with an overabundance of food and drinks. People drinking at the tables and some under the tables; bringing a new meaning to drink oneself under the table. Singing and dancing all around; a different world from the one outside lives at the Bull’s Skull. On an elevated floor sits, upon a throne, an old man with gray hair; next to him is a young brown-haired woman with many braids. An unusual sight to behold considering the current circumstances. The old man is less than pleased with the commotion going on in his hall as his right hand never strays away from his forehead. The party of Shaphas, Tyr, and Patrick walk through the oddly placed festival as they approach the old man.

“Greetings, my name is Patrick. This here is Shaphas and Tyr,” Patrick says, introducing everyone to the old man as he bows gracefully befitting a nobleman.

The tired elder raises his look as he quickly evaluates them with a single glance.

“I am Borman. This is my daughter Elena,” Borman says as he half-heartedly introduces himself. The hand covering his forehead takes a momentary break, but only a momentary one.

“A pleasure,” Elene adds as she slightly bows.

“I am the mayor and leader of this village and the previous mayor and leader of the surrounding villages. You come to aid? Have you not?” Borman asks.

“We have, old man. The will of Aion has brought us here so we may rid the world of this abomination that plagues the innocent. Praise be to Aion,” Shaphas adds with confidence.

Tyr sighs in slight annoyance.

“I will make myself at home and take advantage of your hospitality,” Tyr says as he walks away toward the direction of ale and spirits. There is little in this world as good as a free drink.

“The previous leader and mayor?” Patrick asks.

“The previous as if you cannot rule something which is no more,” Elena adds.

“The creature hath destroyed them one by one and killed my people. Now, the once prosperous establishments are only glorified graves,” Borman says as he clenches his fist in anger.

“I have to ask about this festival? It seems less than fitting,” Patrick says as looking around and trying to understand this situation.

“It is wildly inappropriate, but...” Elene says as she gets cut off.

“... but we cannot do anything about it. The men and women who come here for riches, glory, or whatever reasons they have, make use of our hospitality, and then they either go their way or die at the hands of the creature,” Borman explains.

“The inconvenience falls short of the other issue,” Elena says as she sighs.

“The other issue?” Patrick asks.

“The creature seems to be attracted to loud noise. I’ve tried to tell them, but they are either too daft or simply do not care. Probably both,” Borman says as he stands and yells a curse or two at the merry mercenaries; he sits, realizing the futility of his little tantrum, yet it still helps him quell his most vivid dissatisfaction.

“Calm down father,” Elene says trying to comfort the frustrated old man who returns to his original position with his right hand over his forehead.

“If I was at my prime, this wouldn’t happen, but the beast took it all away, and now... what does it matter,” Borman says as he grows silent.

Patrick and Shaphas turn away as they head towards a nearby table where Tyr is sitting.

“He is not coming, is he,” Elena whimpers as if expecting to see a face that is not here.

Making himself at home Tyr grabs a small slice of bread, some vegetables, and a piece of well-cooked meat, and to wash it all down with he grabs a lot of drinks; three full glorious bottles stand in front of him. Drinking the booze as the food remains untouched. There is no room in his hands for both are occupied; if he had an extra arm, he would most definitely grab the third bottle. Shaphas and Patrick sit near him.

“I’ve seen you got us drinks,” Shaphas says as he extends his hand towards one bottle as Tyr stops his hand.

“I’ve got my drinks. You can get your own,” Tyr says as chugging his booze, still ignoring the food on his platter.

Shaphas stands as he grunts with dissatisfaction; he walks away to find a bottle of his own amongst the jolly mercenaries.

“I cannot question the will of Aion, but this man...” Shaphas says as he shakes his head while walking.

Tyr’s anger and annoyance diminish as more and more liquid happiness enters his body. This is good stuff, he concludes. If there are any words to go by in life, those would have to be that a drink a day keeps the bad away.

Why am I here, Tyr thinks? Why am I traveling with these people? What is the purpose of all of this? Should I get up a leave? I think I might.

Patrick taps him on the shoulder. Was he there all along, Tyr wonders?

“I’ve noticed you weren’t in the best of moods for a while now,” Patrick says with a serious expression.

Tyr grunts as he focuses on his three bottles.

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I had a good... friend. He was killed in a robbery. Killed while trying to protect me from my foolishness. The robbers were caught, and they got their due, but I never thought it was enough. It left a deep scar. I’ve tried getting back to my everyday life, but the memory always loomed over me. This is my naive attempt to try to move on from my foolish past and you’ve got drawn into it. Olaf got drawn into it. I may be a fool, but... I guess I am a fool,” Patrick explains while keeping his emotions in check.

Tyr puts down the bottle as Patrick’s words jolt an old memory.

Dressed in black armor, a young Tyr holds, in his arms, another man dressed the same; blood pours through the cracks of the black iron.

“We should have escaped,” the young Tyr says, starring the dying man in the eyes.

The man laughs as blood pours from his mouth.

“Since when have you done something not foolish,” the dying man says as he laughs; he stops as the wounds cause too much pain.

“I am a fool,” a young Tyr says.

“That you are, my friend. That you are. Sadly, you are not the only one,” the bloodied man adds.

“Don’t speak. You can still make it,” a young Tyr says, knowing his words to be false.

“No. It is over for me, but it is not over for you. Go leave me and next time... next time don’t hesitate. Promise me you will not hesitate,” the dying man says as he tightly grips Tyr’s arm.

“I promise,” a young Tyr says.

He smiles one last time as he embraces death’s icy grasp; the dying man is not dying… anymore.

Young Tyr stands up as he puts on the helmet of the dead man; a helmet with the number 47. In front of him lies a battlefield where other black-armored men are fighting endless waves of enemies.

I am death;

I am death incarnate;

Those who look at the eyes of death;

Shall know eternal...

“Tyr!” a voice calls as it breaks him from his memory.

Tyr quickly stands as he draws his sword.

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

“Tyr? Are you okay?” Patrick asks, looking at the battle-ready man.

Tyr gains his composure as he sits and sheathes his blade.

“Do not hesitate,” Tyr murmurs as he sits, grabbing the bottle.

“Do not hesitate? Thank you for this, friend,” Patrick says as he faintly smiles.

Friend? Do I deserve to have another man call me a friend? I’ve been alone for such a long time; sleeping alone, eating alone, drinking alone.

It doesn’t feel bad to not be alone. Should I stay for a while? I think I might.

Tyr does not hesitate.

The feast inside the Bull’s Skull continues as the entire spectacle resembles a wedding celebration more than a mercenary gathering.

They chatter loudly, chew food, and gurgle drinks loudly; everything- so loud. The so-called mercenaries consume without reservations or manners, as loud and bad singing reign supreme. Seemingly unstoppable.

Suddenly, they hear an earth-shattering scream in the distance; it halts the jolly men and women. Silence overtakes them. Outside the great hall, the old villagers quickly return to their abodes as they close the doors. Hiding out of sight.

“It is time,” Borman says as his hands shake.

Elena takes out a dagger, gripping it tightly in her hand.

“I will not end up like the rest,” Elena says.

Borman extends his hand as he holds the hand of her daughter to comfort her. To give her courage.

“What the hell is that?” a mercenary yells as he pulls out his sword.

“It must be some animal,” a female mercenary says as she looks around, unsure of her own words.

“What animal would make those noises?” another mercenary adds as he puts down his bottle of wine.

“You are all just chickens,” a fat mercenary munching on a piece of roasted chicken leg says as he takes another bite.

The mercenaries look around in silence; a moment passes as nothing happens.

“It must have been the wind,” a mercenary with a spear says as he laughs; others join in the laughter.

The feast continues. But the moment of peace does not last long. Another scream; closer and louder.

There is no mistaking it anymore, the rumors are true; the men and women in the Bull’s Skull draw their weapons as they stand battle-ready.

“Can it be? No,” Tyr blurts out as Shaphas notices his usual bitter expression turn to worry.

“Tyr?” Patrick asks as he looks at Tyr; legs shaking, just like in the ruins.

“Be ready. Do not falter. Do not hesitate,” Tyr yells as he stands with a sword in hand.

The air turns heavy. They can almost feel it in the air as cold sweat flows; they can smell it. It smells of death. Putrid. The door opens as a powerful gust of wind enters; blowing and knocking down everything in the hall.

Borman reaches behind his throne as he draws an enormous axe; too large for the old man to efficiently wield. He holds in quivering hands.

From the darkness arises another darkness- a black humanoid beast. Nightmare made manifest!

In murderous zeal, it rushes inside at a spear-wielding mercenary; he stabs it as the spear bounces off the monster’s thick hide. With one swing of its arm, it breaks the mercenary’s head as his helmet with the head still inside flies away.

Taller and bulkier than any man, the monster with the heavy black hide stands as fear incarnate. No eyes to see its prey; it senses it. No mouth to devour its prey; it breaks it. No remorse; only death.

The female mercenary and the fat mercenary gather courage as they flank it with axe and sword; their attacks fail as the monster’s hide stops the cold metal. The dark monstrosity grabs both of them by the throat as it lifts them; with great strength, it breaks their throats as they fall on their knees- blood gushing out. Fear encompasses the rest as most try to run away; they fail, and for their folly, they leave a tribute of blood and flesh. In the beats of cracking bones.

“No! This cannot be,” Tyr says as he grips his sword.

“We have to attack,” Patrick says as he fidgets in fear.

“Stop! Don’t move and don’t make a sound,” Tyr commands.

“But...” Patrick blurts out as Tyr looks at him with intense; he backs down in silence.

Shaphas stands in the ready but heeds Tyr’s advice as every bone in his body is telling him this is no time for foolish bravery.

Those who attack get killed and those escaping get murdered; in the macabre of death. The creature stands in front of Elena as she stares at it; Borman lifts his axe and with all his might slashes across the monster’s neck. The axe barely cuts the surface as tiny amounts of blue blood come pouring down; the unfazed creature turns around as it thrusts its mighty arm through Borman’s chest. Retracting it, Borman’s guts spill on the floor. The brave old man falls as all life vanishes from his eyes. Elena faints as the eyeless one grabs her, making its way out of the Bull’s Skull.

There is a sign of relief on Tyr’s face as he notices the blood lust fading; he might survive this encounter?

Emotions swirl inside Patrick’s mind. The smell of death, the sight of blood- the demon. Patrick lunges forward at the beast without thought. Gathering what courage he has, he breaks the chains of fear, gathering what strength he has he does a mighty swing with Olaf’s axe as he pours his all into this one attack. What bravery! What power! What heroism! Empowered by every fiber of his being, he does his attack as it strikes the creature’s hide in... failure. His al is not enough to even put a scratch on it. The mighty monster hits Patrick, making his body fly across the hall as if swatting a fly.

From the side, Shaphas appears as he puts some liquid in his mouth, and spits it out as the liquid turns to a blue flame burning the creature. The beast screams as it drops Elena; it madly swings its arms as it hits Shaphas, who blocks it with his mace. The force of the impact throws him flying a short distance. Tyr approaches as the creature grabs Elena and flees with great speed. The beast still aflame runs out of the Bull's Horn.

He rushes to Patrick who lies broken on the ground; blood on his body, blood in his mouth, and blood all around.

“Tyr? Tyr? Is it you?” Patrick asks as he searches with his hand for he cannot search with his eyes; he breathes quickly, gasping for every breath.

“It is,” Tyr says as he holds on to the dying man.

“I’m, I’m...” Patrick tries to speak, but the blood gushing from his mouth prevents him.

“Don’t speak. You will be alright,” Tyr says. Knowing the truth all too well.

“I...I...I... I’m cold... so cold,” Patrick says.

“Don’t speak. You will be alright...” Tyr repeats as he holds Patrick. He remembers his past, he remembers this exact situation.

“You were right, Tyr. Still, I am glad I’ve...” Patrick says as he takes a succession of fast breaths and finally one deep breath... his last one.

The noble child in search of glory and heroism lies dead. Patrick, once full of life and joy, lies here covered by blood with broken bones. Tyr stares at the fallen comrade as words fail him. He stares at the eyes once full of life. Now, only an empty void remains.

“So light. He is so light,” Tyr says as he closes Patrick’s eyes.

Shaphas stands as he dusts himself; he checks his body to be sure everything is in order.

“Is he?” Shaphas asks as he stands near Patrick’s body.

“Can you give him burial rites as you did at the mountain pass?” Tyr asks, staring at Shaphas with blood-red eyes.

“I can. Are you sure you want me to?” Shaphas asks, looking at the distressed warrior.

“He said he would like to be sent off in the same manner as Olaf,” Tyr says as he grabs Patrick’s body and carries it outside.

“Were those his words?” Shaphas asks as he scratches his head.

Outside, further from the village of Greybloom stand Tyr and Shaphas near the body of Patrick.

Shaphas throws his liquids as he chants.

Let this lost soul find its way to the warm embrace of Aion;

let this one find everlasting happiness;

for the life-time of suffering and trials come to an end;

for the true journey begins now;

from fire you began;

to fire you shall return;

In the end, there is only fire and Aion.

He throws the last liquid as Patrick’s body bursts in blue flame.

“Thank you,” Tyr says as he looks at his former comrade. Looks for one last time.

Both gaze in silence at the noble youth.

“What do you plan to do now?” Shaphas asks, respectfully.

“I am death. I am death incarnate. Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr chants as he grips his sword.

“I understand,” Shaphas adds gripping his mace.

“The creature is supposed to live in the waterfalls near here?” Tyr asks.

“As far as I know,” Shaphas adds.

“Good,” Tyr says as he moves.

“Wait!” Shaphas yells as Tyr turns around.

“I shall also go,” Shaphas adds.

The two opposing characters joined by blood go forth. They go forth with blood in their eyes and vengeance in their heart. This world is a place where beasts lie and beasts shall covet other beasts. So is the way of the life.