For a moment, Charan's hands unclenched, then he was hit by the falling form of Denor Kara doing his best impersonation of a boulder. Whether the curses worked or Charan simply tired, Denor didn’t ponder long. He pulled himself up, scratched and battered, disentangled himself from his former friend, and stumbled up the ladder and out of the crevice. He sprinted down the slope and promptly fell over, and his continued boulder impression, didn't stop rolling until he was precisely three hundred steps away from the cursed place, finally allowing himself to catch his breath.
The passage behind him closed, and there was no sign of old man Litarn or the pursuing dead.
Pulling himself into a sitting position and shaking off the snow, Denor stared directly at the sun, hurting his eyes in the process. He promptly gave up his hunt and traipsed off in defeat.
As twilight thickened like the finest of Ledo’s suspect soups, the bonfire roared higher and brighter, flinging sparks with a generosity only a fire in a heroic simulation of a man’s youthful upbringing could muster. They just didn’t make fires like that any more, these modern flames didn’t even know they were burning!
The festival was in full swing, barrelling towards the night with the unstoppable force of a runaway Aurox cart.
Luck had certainly smiled broadly upon the peculiarly-named youngster Ild this year. He had tracked and blasted, with much grunting and groaning from the tattered shape of him, a boar, a pair of deers, and an entire warren’s worth of rabbits. The menfolk joked that Ild’s curiously yellow eyes, normally the subject of much ribbing, gave him an edge with a blaster. When squinted just right, they seemed to sharpen his aim considerably. Now, Ild was the loudest shouter and the most vigorous arm-waver around the bonfire, clearly compensating for the fact that he had just about survived being mauled by a bloodthirsty pack of killer rabbits. No girl, not even the most aloof, could resist his invitations to dance. He spun them in wild, intricate steps, his feet weaving patterns that would leave any pretzel envious. The other hunters, along with their fathers and brothers, were just as jubilant, swigging fermented brews of suspect origin and dancing with abandon.
Well, all except for Salko. Poor, pampered Salko, who could barely muster the strength to shoot a couple of marmots all day. He would have to endure another year of ridicule before he could try again to earn the title of man. But it wasn’t just Salko who abstained from the festivities, as he was only the second most embarrassing member of the village.
Denor was conspicuously absent from the revelry. That morning’s eerie encounter had left him in no mood for chasing goats or leopards or proving his manhood. As he trudged back from the cemetery, the sight of fat marmots and a shy deer did nothing to stirr his hunter’s instincts. His mind was preoccupied with darker thoughts. The ghostly meeting with his deceased comrade and other fallen warriors, the sinister glare of old Litarn, and the frantic command to “catch the boy” haunted him, casting a shadow over his thoughts.
The most unsettling part was Charan. Loyal, fearless Charan, who had once blasted a giant lynx to save Denor, was now obeying the frail old man’s command to capture him. This was the same Charan who had always stood by Denor’s side in boyhood brawls, no matter the odds. The only boy who could stand his company despite Denor’s terrible socialising skills. Denor could still feel the phantom pain of Charan’s grip on his forearm as he had tried to drag him down, even as his lips whispered, “Run, Denor…”
Yeah, okay, it probably wasn’t good to have traumatic flashbacks this early into proceedings.
On cue, Denor’s mind wandered back to another traumatic flashback: the spring skirmish with the Temrit. Too young and incompetent to join the fray, he had been relegated to watching from the roof of his home, which stood atop a hill overlooking a broad meadow. The roof’s corrugated panels had groaned under the weight of the boys crowded there. Despite his suspect eyesight, Denor had tracked his friend Charan’s every move. The boy’s armor had been comically oversized, and the pistol looked unwieldy in his youthful grip, but his every action radiated audacious courage and a fierce, joyous rage. So there was only one way it could possibly end.
As if encouraging the inevitable, Denor had felt a swelling pride in his friend, mixed with a fierce envy as he shouted encouragement. So intensely had he watched, so deeply had he immersed himself in the scene, that he began to imagine it was he, not Charan, who was shooting through the screaming red foes, kicking away their black dogs as they lunged for his legs, and yelling in triumph, head thrown back, exposing his throat. It was Denor’s neck, then his chest, in his mind’s eye, that took the blast, causing him to gasp and fall back, choking on black blood... The pain in his throat had been so vivid, so sharp.
It turned out that hero-worshipping a barely-trained boy was a bad idea.
Denor had nearly tumbled off the roof, catching himself at the last moment, his fingers scraping against the edge and causing cracks to form in the panelling.
He had expected Ledo to give him such a beating for that, but the man just drank heavily that night and passed out in the corner.
As the festival’s noise and frenzy grew, the son of the gunsmith felt ever more isolated. He had a burning need to share the strange, unsettling events of the day, but with whom? His friends were lost to the heady pull of fermented alcohol, the cheerful bonfire, and the flushed faces of dancing girls. What could they, inexperienced boys, possibly offer in the way of advice? They wouldn’t believe him anyway. Only someone wise and seasoned, the polite way of saying ‘borderline senile’, like old Hevath, could make sense of the eerie occurrences. Or at least talk to him so much that he’d completely forget about the trauma due to the invasive boredom.
Determined, Denor decided to risk confiding in him. The difficulty lay in catching the old man’s attention amidst the revelry. Hevath, like the other villagers, was engrossed in the festivities, fuelling himself with wine and food while watching the young folks dance, even if he was much too old to join in the festivities beyond observance. Denor struggled to find a moment to voice the thoughts that were burning a hole in his tongue.
When he finally did, it was a disaster. Hevath listened with only half an ear, the other half tuned to the bawdy songs of the tipsy women. Their hair, as black and coarse as a horse’s mane, streamed over their shoulders as they sang with eyes glittering, their voices so powerful the stars seemed to quiver. Though that may have been the mild hallucinogens in the suspect grog. When their voices fell silent, the men took up the song, their voices rumbling like bears disturbed from hibernation. Denor was unsure if the old man had even registered his agitated, incoherent tale. But when he finished, Hevath turned to him and sighed reproachfully.
“Get it all out of your head, my boy!” Hevath declared, his voice a mix of weariness and sternness. “Are you upset that you weren’t allowed to join the trials? Thought you’d bring back a tale to outshine all the deer and boar carcasses, eh? It’s too far-fetched! Dead and buried warriors can’t mine iron. Their hands can’t be warm and strong like the living’s. Did old Litarn annoy you somehow, and you’ve decided to cast him as a sorcerer and lord of the dead? Do you know that if it weren’t for Litarn, you wouldn’t be here at all?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Why’s that?” the boy muttered, confused and angry, watching one old man stick up for another like they were in some bizarre old man club. He was much too young to realise how accurately his thoughts had described galactic matters.
“When you were born, a terrible disease swept through our lands,” Hevath said, shaking his head in time with the village’s ceaseless singing, or just to dislodge the effects of the booze on his addled brain. “Men, women, and children were debilitated, and died off like mayflies at dusk. Old Litarn was everywhere, running from hut to hut. Groans filled every corner, death lurked in every shadow. If not for his miraculous ointments and medicines, our entire village would’ve perished, to the delight of the wretched Temrit and Trunian invaders. He saved us all, Denor, including you, because he prioritized healing the young. They said the newborns around that time suffered brain damage, but that hasn’t been verified.”
“So what!” Denor burst out passionately. “Just because he once saved someone doesn’t mean he’s excused for dabbling in dark sorcery now!”
“Denor, listen to me,” Hevath said, his tone shifting to one of stern finality. “Forget about what you’ve just told me, and don’t share it with anyone else. If this nonsense reaches Litarn, he’ll be deeply offended, and rightfully so. Your old friend Charan, whom you’ve painted as a cowardly traitor, will be even more hurt. Do you think he can’t hear us now? Few know this, but I’ll tell you: the souls of those who died a valiant death hear when the living remember them. They are drawn to the voices of friends and family, and, though invisible, they stay close by. Charan hears you, and he's very sad right now. You’ve wounded a friend who died a glorious death.”
Denor felt the hot sting of frustration and disappointment rise in his throat. The wise, seasoned Hevath didn’t believe him! The wise, seasoned Hevath was still very drunk, and not talking a lot of sense. What chance did he have with anyone else, less wise, seasoned, and experienced? He stood up, waved his hand in hopeless resignation, and wandered off, away from the bustling festival he felt so disconnected from.
Passing by a group of villagers who were merely watching the dancers—either because of their age or an overindulgence in the wine—Denor nearly brushed against a bent figure draped in gems. It was Litarn, swaying drunkenly to the rhythm of the dance, eyelids drooping, his dry, hard fingers clicking like broken twigs. Around him hung that strange necklace of gems, fitting tightly together like a lizard’s scales. Denor couldn't recall ever seeing the old man without this decoration. Numerous amulets made of polished stones adorned his chest. During festivals, Litarn always bedecked himself more than anyone, even the most foolishly adorned woman. Some claimed he had a taste for the fabulous, but Denor didn’t know what that meant. What Denor did know is that none of these trophies were earned by Litarn himself. All the bones, skins, and horns were gifts from the villagers, tokens of gratitude for healing wounds, delivering children, stopping bleeding, soothing stomach pains, and other medicinal favours. Litarn never went hunting, nor had he ever joined a battle against the red-skinned Temrit, or the armor-clad Trunians, at least not in Denor’s memory.
As Denor passed the tinkling and colorful old man, he glanced back, feeling a sharp prick of awareness. Litarn was staring at him with small, light eyes, nearly white. They held no trace of drunkenness, only wary anger. It was clear the old man had seen Denor talking with Hevath and was now trying to decipher the outcome of that conversation from Denor’s dejected posture. The boy responded with a defiant grin, thinking that if Litarn had the power, he would incinerate him on the spot with the white fire of his pupils, just as they burned the carcasses of diseased sheep.
Strangely, the overt hatred in the strange man’s eyes didn’t frighten Denor; it invigorated him. The despondency brought on by his talk with Hevath vanished, replaced by a cheerful rage. If he had doubted himself before—wondering if he had simply hit his head during one of his many falls while hunting, conjuring these terrible visions in a dream—Litarn’s glare dispelled all uncertainty. Denor was no liar or fool; the old man’s venomous look confirmed that he had indeed stumbled upon a dark secret.
Well, he was almost certain. He had hit his head a number of times recently, and there was a vague ringing in his ears at all times now. He was sure it was just fine though.
Hate? That’s something else that was fine! He, Denor, hated Litarn just as fiercely, especially for what the sorcerer had done to Charan. Cheerful, reckless Charan, whom Litarn had somehow pulled from his frozen yet glorious grave and turned into something unrecognizable. Denor vowed to see whose hatred was stronger, and who would emerge victorious, flying utterly in the face of sense and reason as per usual.
With his father drunkenly revelling with other women by the big fire, Denor was spared from domestic reproaches and questions that evening. Thus nobody cared when he slipped back home, but instead of going to bed, he climbed onto the roof of the hut—a favorite secluded spot when he wanted to be alone. The roof, covered with a layer of heating panels as was customary in Andronian villages, retained warmth during the long winters. In summer, the excess heat would be expelled outward. Now, the autumn brought a happy medium, and Denor stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, recovering from all the bruises and scratches of his failed attempts to hunt. One of the roof’s significant advantages was its concealment; no one could see him from below. This privacy was invaluable when he needed solitude but didn’t want to stray far from home.
Exposing his face to the needle-like light of the autumn stars, Denor began to think. First of all, who was this old Litarn? Famous warrior? Hardly! Lucky hunter? Not in the slightest!
Then why did he command such respect among the village folk? Was it really just because he could nurse babies, treat livestock, and whisper to bleeding wounds? Could that truly be enough for his voice to carry the same weight at the men’s gatherings as old Hevath and others who had been wounded in countless battles? Who was he really, and why did he have a secret underground lair beneath the cemetery? That wasn’t at all suspect and certainly didn’t sound like the machinations of a complete and utter villain.
Denor recalled the sharp, white-hot gaze the man had given him recently, like a needle heated in the fire. It struck him that he had often noticed the peculiar power of that look before.
When the annual scanning of the villager’s powers happened, the man was always excluded. Was it because he was so old and diminished, like drunken Hevath? Or could this sinister old man really be a sorcerer from his grandfather’s tales? How could he go about confirming this?
The boy stood up, resolving to find a way. He reached the edge of the roof, lost his footing, and tumbled down into the darkness. Picking himself up, he cursed his poor luck and ran back toward the forest. A decision had been made: he would declare war on the white-eyed old man! Because if it was one thing everyone knew, it was that evil sorcerers were always defeated by plucky teens! That’s what all the stories had told him, and they couldn’t possibly be wrong.
First, he needed to return to that cemetery dungeon, activate the terminal somehow, and meet with Charan. The dead boy hadn’t had time to explain what exactly Litarn had done to him after pulling him from his fresh grave, and, more importantly, why. But the son of a gunsmith was no fool (according to a poll of one, himself); this time he would go only when he was certain Litarn was still in the village. How to be sure though, absolutely sure beyond any reasonable doubt?
He could either try and steal the power scanner and try to get a reading on the old man, but if they villagers omitted him already then it might have been because they already knew… plus the scanners were locked up tight.
Or he could have to keep a close watch on the old man, as much as possible without raising suspicion, hoping that he made some fatal mistake that revealed himself, which could take forever.
So he had no choice, he had to go to the lair again.
Having made this decision, Denor skirted the festival and lingered in the trees out of sight, contemplating. The sounds of songs, clapping, and stomping were still coming from the direction of the big fire, but they were growing weaker and more disjointed. The festival was winding down. Only the young ones, hot, intoxicated, and rowdy, clustered in their own little group, intended to carry on until dawn. Denor had no idea doing what, because he was exceedingly sheltered.
Despite this, and partly because of this, he no longer heard or envied them, as he retreated deeper into the forest, lost in his own thoughts of retribution.
Soon he would return to the sorcerer’s lair, and find out what was really going on.