Hubris - 7. All Fall Down

The stench twisted his stomach in knots. Bile rose up in his throat. He pressed the back of a hand to his mouth before the foulness could escape him. The crack of a twig almost made him cry out in terror. He twisted around to discover the lycan had not moved from his spot, but remained crouched where he stood, tracking the movement of something Crowe could not see. The muzzle of the rifle moved in line with the Okanavian´s gaze, a thumb resting on the hammer.

Crowe tried to follow his lead. Tremors of terrors shook his body like a house in the throes of a storm. The ground shook beneath his feet. Is my mind playing tricks on me or is the ground actually shaking? The question was soon answered with movement to their left. The curve of something large lumbered through a line of trees, obscured by living darkness. Crowe felt his mouth go dry with the metallic taste of fear. He caught the unmistakable flash of a black eye, watching them.

¨Twin o´rre,¨ Barghast warned with a low growl, reaching for him. Crowe let the lycan pull him closer, his inside of his mouth tingling with numbed horror.

The muzzle of the rifle was pointed at him. No, something in front of them. The instant the practitioner was out of the way, the Okanavian slammed the hammers of the rifle back and pulled the trigger. Barghast rocked back with the burst of gunfire, smoke puffing into the air. Stifling silence followed, clawing at Crowe with trickster fingernails. The staff thrummed in his hands, ready to release chaos. Is it gone? Are we safe?

Nothing moved at first.

A laugh broke the stillness, high-pitched, joyous, and very human. The muzzle swung around. BAM!

¨No!¨ Crowe shouted at the lycan. The practitioner waved at him wildly before the Okanavian could fire another shot. ¨What are you doing? That sounded like a person!”

An amber eye turned to regard him; the other remained fixed ahead. Crowe took a cautious step back. He’d yet to see Barghast stand so still or look so feral.

A burst of movement to their right. Another to their left. The outline of human bodies speeding from one tree to the next. “We see you!” a high-pitched voice called; it was impossible to tell if the voice was male or female.

“We're going to get you, we’re going to get you, we're going to get you!” sang another.

Barghast barked something in Okanavian, his tail pointed at the sky like a blade. Crowe knew it to be a war cry and gave into his own fear. He unleashed a volley of fire at the next flicker of movement. Together lycan and practitioner burst into a run. Peals of thin hyena laughter broke through the trees again followed by a monstrous roar. Barghast stopped long enough to kneel. This time Crowe jumped unhesitatingly on his back, trusting that the Okanavian would catch him. Sure enough the lycan held him in place and they were off, racing through the woods.

The sorcerer snatched a glance over his shoulder, trying to catch the thing that chased him. “Faster, faster, faster!” He punctuated each shout with a slap on the arm. The mouth of a hungry maw opened behind them, threatening to devour them whole. Crowe flattened himself against the Okanavian’s back. The jaw snapped shut an inch from his back and he thought he caught the fleeting glimpse of a bear’s face.

Barghast feinted to the left before the beast could take another snap at them.

The sound of rushing water pulled them West through a final shot of trees into a clearing. A river raged before them, water frothing around jagged rocks; they stood close enough to it. Crowe could already feel the water’s sting. Barghast turned so that their backs faced the tide.

The beast found them. It sauntered towards them, eyes glittering with a rare and frightening intelligence. Away from the cover of the trees, there was enough light for Crowe to see the creature was a bear. It let out great huffs of breath as it advanced, forcing the lycan to back closer to the water. They were at a dead end. The beast was too broad to have any hope of running around it. With a charge of mana, Crowe unleashed another plume of flame. Black eyes as dark and absolute as the Void itself zeroed in on him and somehow the practitioner knew, a chill racing up his spine at the thought, the beast would not forget him. For a brief moment the beast was thrown into brilliant focus and Crowe could see that the beast’s flanks, once brown, were covered in patches of a black mossy substance.

Pale faces broke the shadows around the beast, mouths stretched in cheerful grins. Their voices sang high above the crack and the clatter of the river’s tide. Their eyes were black empty reflections of the bear's. Something's changed them, the practitioner thought. They're not what they're supposed to be anymore.

The bear pawed at the dampened soil, building up to charge. Barghast patted Crowe’s thigh, talking in Okanavi, backing towards the water. His arms tightened their hold on the practitioner. As the lycan took his first step into the water, the bear charged. A wall of kinetic shot from the end of the practitioner's staff in the hopes it would slow the creature down. It didn't. It shrugged off the blow, bounding straight through it. It barrelled into the water with a bloodthirsty bellow, powerful muscles dominating the tide. It towered above them, a magnificent claw raised above its head for the killing blow. Its eyes glittered with triumph.

Before the claw could crash down on them Barghast thrust Crowe away from him. The bear’s paw slammed into the water. The current tugged at Crowe, pulling him into a freefall. Ice-cold water closed in on him from all sides, filling his lungs. He kicked up, reaching, blind and afraid. His head broke the surface. He snatched in a breath, shaking his head, searching this way and that. Barghast nor the bear were in sight.

“Barghast!” he managed to shout. An invisible hook tugged him down once more. He kicked, bouncing once more, rebelling against nature's greater force.

“Crowe!”

The sound came from somewhere behind him. The practitioner thrashed about frantically. He saw a head poke above the surface of the water, arms reaching for empty air. More shouts Yards of water separated them. Crowe squinted at a spot ahead of the lycan: the edge of a waterfall. Water plummeted over the edge, tumbling through open air.

“Barghast - turn around, turn around!”

But it was too late. Barghast never saw the edge of the cliff coming. One second he was there, a small dot against churning white and black, and the next he was gone as if he'd never existed at all.

Crowe screamed in despair; it sapped him of his strength; worse than the fear of dying was the fear of dying alone. Teeth clenched, he let the tide take him. He clung to his staff for dear life - somehow he’d managed to hold onto it when the river had stolen everything else from him: his pack with his joints in it, the map he’d freed from the dead scouts, the provisions he’d managed to collect throughout his travels, his new lycan companion who he'd just begun to build rapport with, and soon it would take his life. Through chattering teeth he managed to say, “May I find splendor in the Eternal City - “

Before he could finish his prayer a bestial roar sounded over the water. It could not be! The bear’s head poked out of the water behind him. The tide must have grabbed a hold of it the same way it had everything else. Will this nightmare ever end?

Death in front of him and death behind him. Which way was more painful?

For a moment he had an unobstructed view of his fall: a fifty foot drop through open air with a four hundred pound predator above him. He had just enough time to utter a final prayer and suck in a deep breath before gravity seized him once more. The air battered his face, slapping the air from his lungs. It felt as if every organ in his body had come unmoored, threatening to burst through his mouth which hung open in a silent scream, the drop’s end rushing up to meet him. If the fall kills me, maybe it’ll kill the bear too. Maybe Barghast -

He hit the water. The impact erased all thought from his mind, engulfing him. The surface shrank further and further until he felt his back slam into jagged rock, dislodging pebbles from the dirt. He let out a scream only for water to fill his lungs. Something else hit the water above his head and he saw the bear’s body sink past him, its weight pushing it to the bottom of the river.

You have to move, a voice fluttered urgently in his mind. That fall isn't going to stop it. It looks like a bear but it isn't. Something happened to the bear to turn it into something else. You saw those people…something happened to them too. It will happen to you if you don't move.

With a final push of will, Crowe shook himself from his stupor. Hand still around his staff, he kicked to the surface. He fought and clawed his way to solid ground, struggling to stay conscious, kept afloat by the terrible knowledge the bear would be on him in any second -

“Twin o’rre!”

A broad shadow fell over him, blocking the moon from view.

“Barghast,” Crowe managed to breathe.

The Okanavian hoisted the sodden practitioner into the air. Crowe clung to him for support on unsteady legs. He's alive! I’m not alone -

He caught a glimpse of the sky as Barghast lifted him onto his shoulders once more, toting the practitioner away from the river, panting and whining, his fur sodden and pressed flat against his broad frame. The light of Metropolis glowed from the sky, either a beacon of hope or an omen of doom portent. Either way he knew it would lead them to their destination, Timberford. Barghast saw it too. He shouted something in Okanavian and then they were tearing through the dark again.

They were not alone. Human shapes danced around them, taunting them with cat calls and songs with glittering black eyes as empty as the bear’s. This time Crowe did not hesitate. He fired volleys of blue light at them if only to see them dance nimbly out of the way - anything to keep them at bay.

Barghast stopped long enough to point, muttering. Crowe looked. His heart skipped a beat. Not with dread but with hope. Lights! Lights through the trees! “Run, Barghast!” he shouted. “Run, run, run!” Human shapes surrounded them now, closing in from all sides like a pack of wolves. He was too exhausted to keep them at bay any longer.

They broke through the last line of trees. The Okanavian lunged forward without breaking step, a machine of strength and vitality in his own right. Ahead of them a door opened. A rectangle of light in the dark. The bright flash of muzzle fire. Enough time to think, We’re dead, we’re dead. But they weren't dead because the shot wasn't meant for them, the shot was meant for something behind them. Just before they reached the door, Barghast lifted Crowe from his shoulders, carrying him in his arms. No sooner had he set the practitioner on his feet, he was backing the sorcerer to the wall, blocking him from a new threat, his hackles raised in warning.

Crowe raised his head. His eyes followed the double-barrel of a shotgun to the broad hands that held it; further yet to the bearded face, eyes squinted down to narrow slits with murderous intent. The muzzle of the shot gun jammed up right against the lycan's furry chest. He could survive shots from silver bullets to the shoulder, he could survive a fall down a waterfall, but he would not be able to survive this. Sensing he had but a second to act, Crowe stepped out into a ring of haggard faces. He held his hands up, letting the Lion-Headed Serpent around his neck fall into the light of a guttering fire.

“Please don't shoot!” he begged. “We mean you no harm! We were attacked in the woods. We barely made it here alive…”

“And just how did you manage to survive?” the man demanded, cocking the shotgun at Crowe. “Anyone else who has tried to go toe to toe with the beast died.

“Luck. It was just luck. We got caught in the tide of the river. The beast pursued us all the way here.” Crowe hugged himself, teeth chattering together. He yearned to get closer to the fire but he didn't dare cross the man who held a gun to his head.

“Put the gun down,” said a soft but commanding voice. “They're stuck in the same fire we are.”

Several heads turned in the direction of the new speaker. A woman stepped out of the gathering, the thud of a single boot heavy against the floor. Her other leg was completely gone from below the kneecap. She leaned against a staff much like the one Crowe carried to support her weight. The runes carved into the wood danced in the gloom. Sharp blue eyes studied Crowe from a wrinkled face, lips thinned to a straight line. “My name is Cenya. I’ve known of your coming for some time, practitioner.” The woman hobbled closer to Crowe, eliciting a warning growl from Barghast she ignored. “We must speak in private, but first I imagine you would like to take a minute before the fire to catch your bearings.” She glanced cautiously at the Okanavian. “Is your lycan companion…friendly?”

Her question hovered in the air, giving way to a tense silence. Every eye in the room was fixed on the lycan. Judging from the wide eyes and pale faces, they had never seen a lycan before. The smell of sweat and fear permeated the air. The practitioner could on;y imagine what Barghast nust look like to the villagers. An eight foot tall beast man standing to his full height, his shoulders rounded, his claws extended, his teeth bared, spit frothing at his lips.

“He can be a bit overprotective at times,” Crowe admitted, “but he will not attack unless provoked. Travel on the road has been precarious.”

Cenya let out a bitter chuckle that was not without a trace of humor. Her jowls sagged. “We would not know. For the last month we've had our own troubles that have kept us cut off from the rest of the world. You could not have come at a darker time.” She waved at a chair in front of the fireplace with a gnarled hand. “Sit down and rest while I calm my people.”

The practitioner watched her recede into the crowd, frowning. She knew we were coming. How could she know we were coming? A shiver raced up his spine. Once more he had the sense of events shifting into place, puzzle pieces coming together to form something greater.

For the first time since entering the building, Crowe took in his surroundings.

Barghast and he stood in a tavern. A broad-shouldered bushy haired man stood behind the counter, watching them with a grease-stained rag slung over his shoulder. Behind him barrels of mead lined the walls. Several of Timberford’s residents sat at the counter, nursing steins of ale. Beneath the layer of spirits and yeast, the undercurrent of bodily perspiration, fear, and despair lingered in the air. Faraway gazes suggested these people had been living in fear for weeks - the woman Cenya had said a month. Many of the tables and chairs had been shoved aside to make room for makeshift pallets and beds.

What have we stumbled into?

The man named Rake - the one who had nearly taken Crowe’s head off with a shotgun - watched them from the corner of the room. The intensity of the man's gaze made the practitioner's skin prickle. He had the look of a man who would not hesitate to take matters into his own hands. A man who had been pushed to the edge. Crowe was grateful for the lycan's presence now more than ever. The Okanavian's eyes burned the crowd of curious, frightened onlookers, warning them without words to stay back.

Crowe didn't realize how exhausted he was until he sat down in the rickety wooden chair. The very act of lowering himself into the chair caused the muscles in his back to cry out in protest. Up until now desperation and fear had kept him moving, proving to be the perfect distraction. The most immediate threat at the moment was Rake and he had a leash around his neck it seemed - for the moment.

Barghast sat beside him cross legged on the floor. He didn't seem to mind not having a chair of his own. Sluggishly, stupidly he wondered if the Okanavian had furniture or if they simply sat on the floor their whole lives. Will I ever find the words to be able to ask him?

Barghast let out a low growl loud enough so that only Crowe could hear it. The practitioner flashed him a warning look.

Movement to their left.

A girl no older than fifteen stopped in her tracks, hands shaking, making the dishes on top of the tray she carried rattle. She looked nervously at the lycan.

“It's okay.” Crowe tried to cover the exhaustion in his voice with a smile. “He’s harmless.”

The girl inched forward. “T’is a bit of broth and bread for you and your companion. It isn't much but it will warm you right up.”

Crowe’s belly answered for him, letting out a rumble so loud it made several of the villagers look over. “Thank you.” He took the tray with shaking hands. A loaf of oat bread had been set on a plate, the soup in saucers. Before he could divvy out the food, Barghast snatched the loaf of bread off the tray. There was no use in protesting. Half the loaf disappeared into his muzzle in a single bite. This left the practitioner with the broth. The soup scalded his lips as he drank it, but he didn't care; at the moment it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

The warmth from the fire washed over his skin, chasing away the numbness. He could feel his body growing heavy. Don't get too complacent, a cynical voice warned in his mind. You aren't safe yet. These might be Monad’s lost people but that doesn't mean you are safe among them.

Danger or no, Crowe’s mind slid into a daze that resembled sleep. Half-formed images and sensations fluttered through his mind. Falling. The sting of the water. The blood-curdling roar of a beast. High-pitched taunts through the trees. A paw now shaking him awake, gold lycan eyes urgently begging for him to wake up. What now? I'm so tired.

Still Crowe raised his head, sensing a change in the air. The men, women, and children of Timberford - was this all of them crammed in the tavern, huddled in the middle of the tavern, men holding onto their wives who held onto their children? Rake stood tense before the double doors which has been bolted shut, his rifle raised. Cenya leaned against the counter, her staff at the ready. Her eyes burned white with mana within the borders of her wrinkled face. Crowe reached for his own inner fire only to feel a burning ache burst in his eye. Dots of pain danced before his eyes. He bit his lip, stifling a groan. You’ve pushed yourself too far.

A growl sounded outside. A growl that by now was all too familiar. Crowe felt his knees grow weak.

A young girl no older than three or four began to wail, her face red with fear. Her mother hissed fearfully under her breath, looking as if she wanted to cry herself, trying to silence her. Rake muttered prayers under his breath, “Monad, may you hear our calls from the Void…”

Barghast with his own rifle at the ready, a snarl vibrating in his throat. A nightmare, Crowe thought, that continued without end.

The bear was directly outside the pub, breath huffing through thin walls that could have been made of paper. The dark outside the window was so absolute it was impossible to see anything, the suggestion of movement and threat more frightening than sight’s confirmation. Did the beast know they were in there, hunched together like frightened mice?

Voices sounded from outside the pub. High-pitched voices that rang with mock-joy. “Yoo-hoo! Clementine!” called a man's voice. “Come out, baby! I know you're in there…”

A woman burst into sobs, crying, “John.” She started towards the door.

Rake barred the way, his eyes both sympathetic and sharp; Crowe sensed the man would not hesitate to put a bullet in the woman if she forced his head. “Clementine, you can't open those doors. You’ll get us all killed…”

Clementine wrung her hands in the air as if she wanted to grab him, shake him, make him understand. “John’s out there,” she sobbed.

Rake shook his head, breathing heavily. “You and I both know that's not John. None of those people out there are the people we used to know. They all work with that thing out there and right now that thing wants to get out there and devour us all.

“Clementine,” the voice sang. This time it came from directly outside the window by the door. Fingernails made a scratching sound against the dirty glass.

Clementine clapped her hands over her ears. She sank to the floor in defeat. Other names rose in the night, calling the names of the village people; voices that rang with madness and temptation alike. Rake’s sharp barks to stay away from the doors and windows made Crowe want to crawl out of his skin. So much was happening around them. Fingernails continued to scrape against the glass. Hands battered at the windows but not hard enough to break them. Why don't they just break in? the practitioner wondered. There's nothing to keep them at bay. Surely they outnumber us.

A look around the room showed the farmers arming themselves with the weapons they’d brought with them: knives, hatches, and pitchforks. A few practitioner staves. It all seemed pointless in the wake of the dark force that preyed upon them from outside. Crowe could only watch the terror continue to unfold before his eyes, struck by the growing surreality of the situation. These people have been stuck here for weeks, battling a force they don't understand. How am I supposed to help them? He searched his mind sluggishly for a solution only to come up short. Eventually he came to the conclusion there was little about the world he knew; he knew even less about the forces that had conspired to send him on this path. He only had the teachings of Petras and how much stock could you put in the words of a madman?

You were sent here to help these people. You can't do anything for them if you die of exhaustion, Bennett’s voice advised in his mind. Bennett, ever the voice of reason.

There was only one thing he could think of to do. It was the last thing he'd thought of; perhaps it should have been the first. Clutching the Lion-Headed Serpent in his hand, Crowe lowered his head and began to pray.