According to the Grand Elder, leader of our Eden, there was a mistake in the projections. What was meant to save our world did so, but not in the way anyone had expected. When they bent the fabric of our reality to their will, seeking untapped sources to exploit, they stumbled upon something inhuman. The mathematicians, biologists, and scientists of renown were confronted with what the softer sciences had warned of—the possibility of that which we could not conceive.
What saved the world threatens now to consume it. The breaches must be contained. Without the reservoir, hell itself might yet break loose upon the earth. I have tasted it, sampled it—more than once now. Each small taste of that overwhelming abyss that lies beyond, each brush with that taint, feels like a reflection of mankind’s own corruption. The waste of our very souls.
And yet, I bathe in it. I am drenched in that waste, awash to the point of perpetual, agonizing pleasure. This power, when matched with the other, is why I was drawn there, whether I accept it or not. Every person carried a small piece, but drinking from that untapped well was like tapping into the power of gods.
And thus, the God I found there was dark. And in finding it, so was I.
“Kurt, you have to wake up.” Another ladle of water over Kurt's head was just enough to stir him from a dreamless sleep. “You have to listen to me, Kurt, this is important.”
Kurt opened his eyes to a dark torch lit chamber, Dorian on a knee shaking him. Behind Dorian's prodigious bulk was a clothed figure, hooded robes covering his body, except his hands. His pearly white hands.
Kurt budged to move, but the pain reminded him he had been hit in his everywhere. He stilled, realizing that he could taste iron. He knew he was in bad shape. He smiled at Dorian, glad to see he was hale.
“Do it.” The figure behind Dorian demanded.
“I will, calm yourself Moder.” Dorian replied, not sounding very young. Dorian sighed, reached down and hefted something that reflected light. It didn't take Kurt long to recognize the shape of Ohmer, with or without his coat.
“I can bring him back, Kurt. He's instructed me on the way, which will take time, time I don't have here.”
Kurt's worry must have shown on his face because Dorian's went somber. “I'm going to go away for a while, then I’m going to the Monastery. I have to Kurt, it's the only way to be ready in time. The Elder-”
“Bacchus.” Moder grumbled.
“Yes, Bacchus, self-titled. His real name is so old that I doubt he remembers it. Bacchus has been guarding something, something he covets, and apparently, it's nearly ready. I don't really have time to explain, but I have to ask for your help.” Dorian's gaze was serious but reluctant.
“Wait, wait, wait. You can't just go, what will I tell our parents? What about-” Dorian shook his head.
“Kurt, we've been living a lie. We have a chance to do something good, something really good, but you'll have to trust me.” Dorian looked desperately at his older brother. “Will you give me your trust, brother?”
Kurt rolled his eyes. “Always so dramatic, just tell me already.”
Dorian looked back to Moder, then back to Kurt, steeling himself with a sigh. “Kurt, I've learned a whole lot in the last few hours. I’ve lived,” Dorian stumbled a bit but resumed, “I’ve lived lives, Kurt. I know things about our home now, things about this place that I shouldn’t. There is so much that never should of happened. If my new memories are right, then you're a broken Vessel. You have the capacity to use Priorius abilities, but no way to focus it.”
Moder spoke again, the cracking and clicking in his voice wasn't nearly so apparent. “K-he wants to breed an k-army of you and finds success in k-your line.” His hood came back slightly, just enough for Kurt to notice the disgust written there.
“Since you can't control it, you'll be vulnerable. We can prevent that, but we have to form a pact so I can bind you. If you don’t, you'll be more-.”
“Susceptible,” Moder croaked. Kurt flashed a glance at him.
Not looking away, Kurt asked Dorian, “are you sure we can trust this... thing?”
“No, not completely. He's got his own motives, but he's been transparent about it.” Dorian looked at Moder for a moment then went back to Kurt. “I'm sorry Kurt, we need to do this. The longer Ohmer is exposed the longer it will take.” His voice was worried and rushed.
The concern Kurt felt for his little brother swelled within him. He looked at Dorian, meeting his eye squarely. “Are you sure?”
It wasn't often that Dorian was certain, but at that moment he undeniably was. “Yes.”
Kurt replied, “then whatever you need to do. I've got your back.”
Kurt woke up alone and peeled his face out of the frozen mud. The predawn light let him see well enough to understand he was in the woods, but little else. Inspecting the face print he had left in the mud, he chuckled to himself. That is the best-looking mud in the valley, he thought demurely. Dorian's staff and travel sack were there, but his was gone. Opening the sack, he found the water canteen and drank deeply. He inspected himself as he drank, noting his state. Other than his numb face, he felt fine, though there were some peculiarities. His boots were very worn and were tight despite being well broken in. His Tunic too was a touch smaller than it should be, chaffing at his sides and constricting to his chest. He undid his belt, flaring the tunic open enough to reset it, the cool air rushing to his meet his clammy skin. Still tight, he thought as he finished looping his belt and clasping it.
Kurt stood, moving his jaw and mouth about, trying to get some feeling back in it. He hadn’t known when, but his facial hair had begun growing in, the stubble of which he scratched idly. It was then that he realized his clothes weren’t smaller, he was bigger. Dawn was just beginning to rise over the valley mountains. The crisp air was calm, stagnant. The meadow he had been placed in was grassy, which didn't really add up. Using the sun for guidance, he headed north until he found a trail. He followed that trail until he had found a larger one, and so on until he was somewhere he recognized. Just a brief six hour walk from here. He smiled at the sunlight warming his skin and the thought of home.
Kurt halted as he thought of home, what had happened to his brother? Where was Dorian? Why couldn’t he remember?
You have to find me, Kurt. The memory crossed his mind in vivid detail. It was jarring and unnatural, and Kurt took his time on his walk trying to figure out what had happened.
Despite the time alone, and delving through his memory as best he could, he couldn't recall a damn thing about where he had been. He remembered talking with his brother, about what he wasn't sure, and that he had to find him, but not right away. He knew it like he knew the Wilds, not that he could recall all of it exactly, but he understood the way of the Wilds. Every time he tried to recall what Dorian had said to him an image flashed across his mind. Dorian, looking at him, not as the child he was but as the young man he was becoming. Older than Kurt remembered, but clearly stating, “Kurt, the entire valley needs you to find me.” That was it.
It bothered him to no end. His mind working in circles as he tried to remember where they were and what they were doing, what had led to this, and why he felt Dorian had been too trusting. Blackened balls Dor, what am I gonna tell mom?
Kurt's musing was cut short as he came to the top of a rise. He could see Metan from there, a usually impressive view. His breathe caught as he saw the smoke billowing upwards, and even from there he could hear screaming.
He ran, ran like Kressor was on his heels. Ducking, twisting, and vaulting himself over fallen limbs, sliding through the mud, he cut a direct path to the outskirts of the village. As he approached, he heard a woman screaming. No, not a woman, a girl. Kurt followed the noise, as he approached the sound of laughter echoed from behind a small house. It belonged to one of the Weaver families.
Skulking along the edge of the house, he peeked his head out slowly. Three men, Kressian by their looks, had a girl tied down. Kurt thought her name was Estelle but wasn't certain. One of the men busied himself trying to take off her clothes, the other two laughing at their friend's attempts.
Fury warred with disgust in Kurt's mind, and fury won out. As nimble as he could, he stalked his prey, paying especial attention to the Kressian's blind spot. The muddy soil was slightly more solid in the village, enough so that the grass over it kept he boots from making noise as he approached. He didn't snarl, didn't exhale, the only noise that came from Kurt's person was the hum of his staff and the thud of its impact. The second one hadn't even realized what had happened before Kurt lanced the man at the base of his skull. He collapsed, dropping to the ground and convulsing. The third man, still attempting to strip his victim was becoming audibly frustrated.
“Could one of you dogs give me a hand here, this one's a hand full, but she'll be twice as fun for it when we've got 'er ready.” The lowlife chuckled but in an agitated and hungry way. His irritation was noted absently by Kurt as he spotted a stone club on the ground, one that had likely belonged to one of the men he just downed. He picked it up, hefting it in one hand and checking its weight. He walked up behind the rapist, with sneer of disgust written on his face, he paused there.
“About gods damned time-” was as far as he got before Kurt caved his skull in. He removed the club to the sound of squelching and held down his bile long enough to get Estelle untied. The tears running down her dirty face broke his heart, knowing that nobody deserved that kind of treatment. She clung to him for a moment, blindly grateful. When she finally let go, Kurt gave a sad smile and looked down at the animal he’d put down. She looked to the dead man for a moment before the bile brewing in Kurt's gut had finally had enough. He began dry heaving, realizing that he had just killed a man, he felt a shock to his psyche that he wasn't prepared for. After he caught his breath, he looked up to see Estelle using the stone club to pulverize the two men that were laughing before. They'd never laugh again, Kurt thought, but he also knew that he could reflect on that later. Now, right now, was the most imperative thing, and it would be until he found his family.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Estelle Weaver!” Kurt shouted at her, she turned to look at him and he could see the pain on her face. She dropped the crude weapon, gore slogging off it as she did. She suddenly couldn't take it a moment longer and buckled on herself. Kurt came to her quickly, holding her up. He hushed her, and comforted her, to the best of his ability. When enough of her senses returned, he gently cupped her face looking into her eye.
“What's happening?” He held her eye, and made sure his face matched the gravity of his query.
Estelle stepped back and seemed to center herself. Then she spoke so quickly that Kurt couldn't understand her in the least. He put his hands up and murmured, “slowly.”
Estelle took a long breath. “The Kressians. They've been raiding for weeks, we've got aid from the priests, but something has happened. We haven't heard back from their camps in the last few days, and they've been raiding our stores, stealing women...” Her voice quaked towards the end, and she shuddered involuntarily.
“My father, where is he?”
“Your father? Oh, the cook, right?”
“Yes, is he in the village?”
She shook her head.
“My mother? Is she still in the village?” Kurt's voice was beginning to sound desperate, he knew, but it couldn't be helped.
“Yeah, she's holed up in the trapper's trade house. I was going to go there with the other women, but I wanted to grab some of our food stores. The whole village is going hungry, and I...” She tapered off.
Kurt shook his head, “I'm sorry but there's no time. Let’s get there, grab your club and let’s get the hell out of here.”
The approach to the trapper's house was a muddy affair. The grounds had been pulverized, and the sloppy muck was riddled with arrows and corpses. The rank smelling area had been cleared of every tree within the immediate area, and surrounding the trapper's house was a new gate, the entry closed. Every fifteen yards or so a small watchtower had been built, with people sitting in each.
Kurt patiently waited, looking for anybody outside the gate. After a few minutes he helped Estelle up and assisted her along as he began waving his staff about frantically.
“Help!” He shouted, trying to make sure he didn't startle them to firing before he had a chance to explain who he was.
As expected, a warning shot was fired that landed uncomfortably close to the two of them. He couldn't understand what they said, but he made out the words “Kressian dog” along with the bile expressed in the woman's tone.
“I am Kurt Hunt! I need to see my mother, Rita!” Kurt shouted
The woman signed for them to come closer after a brief discussion with the others posted on watch. Estelle and Kurt did so, but neither of them dropped their hands. After a brief conversation, they were allowed access. As the gates opened, the visage behind sundered what remained of his innermost child.
The people of his small village had erected tents on the open lawn, and on the opposing side, a stack of burnt bones stood taller than he was. The dead stacked there were covered in black spots, their skin a pale white, incongruous to the black lesions that seemed to pulse in his vision.
“Plague struck just after they started coming. It affects some viciously, others not at all. Some recover, others,” the woman from the watchtower said as she followed behind Kurt. She looked over at the pile of bones and shivered. “Been a constant blaze for two weeks now.”
Just then an older woman came up to them, she looked fragile and gaunt. Her hair was a mess, and the worry lines on her face were remarkable.
“Esty? Esty!” The woman shrieked, and Estelle shouted, “momma” in return and ran towards her mother. Kurt smiled at her, glad to have played a small part in the reunion.
“Speaking of mothers, yours is inside, nursing and scheming. A testament to fortitude, that woman. I swear, Kressor's Black Knights could be charging the gate, and that woman wouldn't move an inch.” She spoke in a way that made it sound like small talk, which it was. He honestly didn't want to engage in small talk, not after seeing the pile of bones, or seeing the state of his village. Despite himself, he knew that the woman was making small talk for a reason, likely to get his mind off the horror of what happened to his home. He knew all these people, if not in passing then he knew them well, or knew their family. There was a pile of burnt bodies rotting not fifty yards away, all of them people who had influenced his own life in some way. He decided not to disregard this woman's good intentions, and, putting on a brave face, began to banter with her.
“That's my mom.” Kurt commented, smiling wistfully. “Dorian would tell me sometimes that she practiced her glare on stones when we were away, you know, to keep her edge. He also used to say that that was how our house was built.” He chuckled for a moment before he remembered what he had to do. He choked up a bit, so he kept his mouth shut thereafter.
Gratefully, Kurt was led to a wash basin and a bit of privacy before he had to see his mother. Before leaving, the watch woman said, “no mother should see her child as disheveled as you are. Clean yourself up before you head in, or I'll be cleaning you up off the floor later.” She chortled at her own joke, and Kurt smiled, amused.
He stole a moment to himself, practicing the breathing techniques taught to those who study the hunt. Kurt popped his neck, stretched his arms, and prepared for Hell. He took a long breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. “You're ready.” He said, flat like the stagnant air outside his mother's headquarters. Here we go.
Kurt knocked twice and slowly opened the door. His mother was facing away from him, staring at a large chalkboard. Mapped on it was a representation of the trapper's house, the gate that had been erected around it, and the adjacent structures of the town. High to the northwest was a circle with the word “outpost” written in it. A line had been haphazardly erased that ran between the outpost and the gate. On the far right of the chalkboard was a series of various lists, food stores, population, house, outpost, arrows, defensible party, offensive party, weapons, and so on. The population had started at over one thousand but had been crossed out and so had the next number and another after. The population of Metae was always a point of contention. There were many moving pieces to their population, outposts, small settlements, even families that lived outside the village. Though there were several thousand in total throughout the Wilds, less than half actually lived in or around Metae. Even less than that were individuals that stayed within the trade houses or lived within the limits of the village. The further out one went, the faster the vegetation grew, which was why this place had been so important to settling the Wilds. On her desk were more detailed reports but scattered everywhere. Kurt glanced at them as he approached, including one that said, “Lost to the Plague of Bacchus.” The list was numbered, five concentric rows listed, the last entry was numbered “278. James Smith.”
Kurt frowned at the mention of the name and knew that his mother had family ties with him when she was just a girl. They were friends, nothing more, but the loss of her oldest friend would be a mighty blow, even to a woman of his mother's caliber.
“Mom, I'm so sorry.” Kurt wheezed out, trying not to scare her. “I know he was your friend. I don't know what happened, or where I've been. But mom, I have to tell you something awful.” Kurt choked out the last bit, his eyes watering slightly. “Mom, are you listening?”
Kurt came around the edge of her desk, only to see his mother with her mouth open wide. Her, and the baby cupped in her arms, were both snoozing away. Blackened damn.
Kurt slowly moved up and lightly touched his mother's shoulder. “Mom,” Kurt whispered as he gave her a soft shake. Her eyes bolted wide open, and the next thing he knew was on the floor. How the hell had that happened?
“Oh, by the Gods! Kurtis!” His mother was pulling at his shoulder, and he managed to sit up. Things were spinning a bit but no matter. He levered himself up and stood to meet her eye. She seemed so small now.
“Nice to see you too, mom. Now could you please tell me, what the hell is going on!” He didn't mean to shout, but it was too late. The baby started crying, and the scowl that lit his mother's face was priceless. Was she like that with Dorian?
After ten minutes or so, Rita Hunt displayed her competence at mothering in the same way she displayed her competence at everything else, with thorough absolution. She had the babe slumbering in her arms, then softly placed her in a small wooden crib. Standing, she looked over her oldest son. She seemed to be impressed for a moment, after grabbing Kurt by the shoulders for a moment she smiled, nodded, and slapped him across the face. "Where in seven hells have you been, boy?!” she said, outraged. Kurt knitted his brow, and held his cheek. “Ow” he voiced, drawing it out. He took a long breath and looked his mother in the eye. In her fiery, burning, terrifying eye. If there were a way to say it softly, Kurt couldn't think of it now, so he just said it.
“I don't know where I've been, mom. The last thing I remember clearly was coming across a Kressian encampment four or five hours to the northwest and running for our lives.” Kurt couldn't keep eye contact and had to look away. “Hey, hey!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Where is your brother?” She said, controlling herself but seemed to fray at the edges. "I... I don't know. I have to find him.” Kurt said, defeat heavy in his voice. “What do you mean you don't know?” She replied through gritted teeth.
There was a trick to dealing with his mother, one he had figured out a long while back. Whenever Kurt had done something to earn his mother's ire, he had found that dissembling was the absolute worst thing he could do. Instead, he had learned to stand upright and provide the information he knew as though he were reporting to the leader of the Trapper's house, which he was doing, after all.“The last memory of Dorian was on the earliest slopes on the range that separates the Wilds from Kresson. He was being dragged away by something, I was unsure as to what it was. It was the first day of the year.” His face and tone were flat, his shoulders were straight, but his heart was breaking.“The first of the year?” She near whispered, her eyes wide and tearing up. She shut them, and the teardrops ran down each cheek, leaving wet arches on his mother's face.
Teardrops. Teardrops?
Something about that rang in his mind, it echoed there, and for whatever reason his mind raced at the notion. Like a song he couldn't get out of his head, it persisted.
“Wait, the first of the year? That was weeks ago, months. We're only a week from the spring equinox, how could you have lost all that time?”
Kurt shook his head, half trying to clear it, half trying to make sense of it all. “Mom, what happened here?” He stared at her blankly but stared he did. His mother's glare was formidable, and though he would never venture to match it, he felt that he could hold his own.
Rita looked up at her son and saw that he was fortified and absolute in his query. To see her own child stand before her as a man swelled her chest with pride, Kurt could tell, and she melted ever so slightly. After a long sigh, she began. "It has been a trying few months, my boy. For the life of me I don't know where to begin. So, I'll start with the day you left. Mid-morning my water broke, and I went into labor. I sent runners after you, but we had no word before your sister, Teresa, had been born. After a day passed, I sent two groups looking for you. You had mentioned taking Dorian to that meadow, four hours or so northwest, so I sent both groups in that direction. I received a report that they had found signs of human movement, but little else. The next day I receive report of a skirmish at the edges of the Wilds, possibly Kressian, three dead and two wounded.” She sighed and continued. "We immediately started fortifying, and since the Weaver witch decided to reject the council vote to call for aid, we decided to take precautions at the trapper's trade house. I sent out other parties searching the area for you two, and your father and I feared the worst.” She paused for a moment, collecting herself. "When we couldn't find you, your father decided to take matters into his own hands. He gathered several of our best, men he had trained with when he was young, and they made a small fortification halfway between here and where you two had gone missing.” She sighed, looking pensive. “After a few weeks most of the men were tired of waiting around for aid that might not be coming. Of course, I had sent several individuals to make the weeklong journey to the Monastery Temple, but we still have yet to receive word or aid, and though I begged patience, the plague made the decision for them. In an attempt to take the fight to the Kressians, and to help prevent the spread of plague, they left for your father's encampment. We haven't heard word from them in weeks.” Kurt's mother, Rita Hunt, was the strongest person Kurt had ever known. She'd seen death, loss, and wore the burden of leadership like she was born onto it. That was why Kurt was shocked to hear the sob that escaped his mother's throat, and before he knew it, Kurt was holding his mother. He comforted her as best he could, told her it would be alright, but he knew deep down that there was something wrong. When she finally settled, she looked at Kurt red eyed, and said, “you will not, and I repeat, will not be leaving this camp to search for your father.”
For a moment, Kurt saw Dorian sitting there in front of him, his deep brown hair greasy and reflecting firelight. You have to find me, Kurt. I need you to find me. The entire valley needs you to find me, for all the people, not just our house. For everyone. I need time, but more importantly I'll need you. Kurt, you will be our champion, find me at the tournament.
The flash of memory happened in an instant, but it settled on his bones. “Kurt, are you listening to me?!” Kurt looked to his mother, hating himself for the lie he was about to tell. “Of course, mother. I'll stay here, I'll stay safe. Dad will make his way back, we just have to be patient.” Despite his self-loathing over the bag of bear scat he just spewed, and the eyeing look his mother gave him, she bought it. Bought it enough to set him up with a bunk inside the trade house, and within an hour he was asleep. He slept like the dead, because he knew it would be the last good sleep he'd have for a long time.