Hubris - 9. Fighting Stance

Barghast was glad when the old man left them to eat their meal. He and his twin o'rre had not had a moment alone since they'd come to this strange place. It was good to be away from the tavern with the strange people and their foul smells that made his eyes water and his nose itch. It was good to be out in the open where he could breathe in the clean mountain air.

Sipping ale from a wood cup, Barghast reminded himself the night had not been entirely bad. There had been those all too-brief few hours when Crowe rested in his lap, head against his chest. Better to keep him close, to keep him safe where no one else could touch him. The memory of terror was still all too fresh in the lycan’s mind - that moment when he'd thought fate had snatched him away from his twin o’rre when they’d only just met.

The water pressing in on him from all sides. The current twisting him this way and that, crushing him until he thought bone would break. Crowe shrinking as the water pulled them further apart. That brief moment when time seemed to halt long enough to take a final breath before tumbling through open air. Down Barghast had plummeted, the draft smacking him so hard it had been impossible to breathe. The first jolt of consciousness when he jerked upright to find he’d washed up on the half-frozen banks of the stream. Lungs convulsing as they struggled to expel the water from his body. Forever it seemed he vomited until he worried he would shit himself. The first taste of cool, sweet air. Of life. No time for rest. No time for relief.

Barghast recalled the swell of panic he’d felt when he saw Crowe and the beast hit the water; the relief when Crowe’s head broke the surface when such a fall surely should have killed them both. It's only through Gaia's blessing we survived.

Adrift in memory, Barghast downed the last of his ale. A shift in the air made him look around. His guide faced the croppings of one story homes so that his back was turned. The visible tension in his shoulders suggested he had not moved for several minutes. Having traveled together for several days now, Barghast had grown used to the long bouts of silence in which they did not speak, communicating through questioning looks, nods, head shakes, and hand gestures. Built on the walls of that silence, the Okanavian could feel Gaia’s guiding hands at work, forging the first links of an unbreakable bond between them. This was different. This was not a relaxed silence born of growing respect and a deepening familiarity. This was the silence of a man who was drowning in his own private hell.

Right now things were still new. Uncertain. Only discovery and time would untether the knot between them. The Okanavian whined, conflicted. He feared pushing Crowe away. He feared the countless dangers that hid in the shadows, threatening to interrupt their pilgrimage. What will I do if I lose you? How will I survive on my own? Through you I am safe. Without you I am doomed.

He watched Crowe until he could stand the silence no longer. Just because he had no injuries that Barghast could see did not mean something wasn't wrong. He could be hiding his wounds out of shame; perhaps he thought the Okanavian would think less of him. There's nothing you could do that would make me think less of you. He cleared his throat. He said the wraith's name. Such a beautiful, soft sounding name. When I say it, it sounds like gravel; I do it no justice.

The sorcerer turned with a start at the sound of his voice. After a moment the tension in his shoulders eased. Slightly. A small wavering smile tugged at his lips. The hens of his robes blew around him like wings. “You don't know what's going to happen do you?”

The tremor in his voice triggered an alarm in Barghast, patience be damned. He tried to be easy, running his fingers along Crowe's scalp and the narrow ridge of his shoulders. He didn’t want to add to his injuries by cutting him with his claws. Crowe would not be still. He grabbed at the Okanavian’s fingers, speaking in a reassuring tone that meant he wanted Barghast to cease his examination. This time he did not pull away like he had before. He sighed. “I wish there was some way I could make you understand.” A tangled jumble of words followed. Barghast focused not on his lips but on the tone of his voice, the cast of his eyes, and the clenching and unclenching of his hands. He watched, transfixed by the animation of Crowe's face. His paws itched to touch. The sorcerer continued to unravel before his eyes. Tears of anxiety prickled his cheek. Before he could stop himself, Barghast lifted a digit to stop their passage.

Are you afraid of being alone as well?

Crowe's distress drew the Okanavian to him like a beacon. Barghast pulled him into his chest. The practitioner's breath tickled his fur. The lycan closed his eyes. He is a fierce warrior like me. Like me he is also a pup, yet to grow comfortable in his own skin. We are both orphans of the world…

“I know you are afraid,” he whispered, lightly rocking back and forth. “I am too. But I know Gaia has led me to you for a reason. You are all I have left. All I had in the desert is dead to me. I will not let harm come to you, twin o'rre.” The words were useless, empty promises from a lovestruck fool choking on his own heart. But if he closed his eyes and thought hard enough he could almost believe them.

The old man who had brought them the meat and ale ruined the moment. He waved at them from the fence. Gone was the smile; something grim had taken its place. Within minutes the last of the light would bleed from the sky. The beast would return to hunt with the souls of the damned at its feet.

The lycan's ears pricked at the sound of panicked voices coming from the village. A growl caught in his throat. Something bad was going to happen. He could smell it.

                                  …

A purgatorial mist descended over the night, casting an eerie glow over the village of Timberford. Bodies remained hunched together in the tavern, eyes fixed avidly on the windows. The villagers whispered to one another, pointing a finger whenever they thought they'd spotted movement in the trees. Crowe and Barghast stood in their designated corner of the tavern, more than happy to let them keep their private council. These are people who have known each other their whole lives. We’re just a couple of misfits who stumbled into their misfortunes.

Crowe held his necklace in his hand, praying under his breath. “Monad, watch over me. Shield me from the flames of Inferno…” Beside him Barghast leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. His eyes switched between the villagers to his left to the practitioner on his right where his gaze always lingered. His tail tapped anxiously against the wall. The occasional whine escaped him.

“Damn you all to Inferno!” Rake barked. “Back up! I can't breathe with you all crowding around me! Your breath is fogging up the window…”

Once the villagers had backed away, Rake waved Crowe over here impatiently. “Get over here, kid. You're the one who's risking your neck, so you get to stand up front.” The pinched-faced man stood next to the practitioner who had accompanied him on the hunt, a man with plain brown hair and plain brown eyes. “This is Eben. I don't think we’ve caught your name yet.”

“Crowe. You can call me Crowe.” He stood close enough to the window he could feel the winter chill through the glass.

“Does your Okanavian friend have a name?”

“Barghast. I need you to keep him in here. I can't do this if I’m worried about what's going to happen to him.”

Rake made a face. “You might be fine with keeping odd company, but I ain't saying or doing nothing with him. Neither is anyone else. He is a big enough fucker with big enough teeth and claws, he’s going to do whatever he wants to whether you like it or not. Any other requests?”

Crowe tried to hide the tremor of fear from his voice. He failed. “Don't take too long. You've seen this creature in action: It’s big, but it's also quick and cunning. Nothing I throw at it is going to stop it”

“We’ll do our best but make no promises.” The meaning was clear: You're on your own. Crowe glanced around at the strange faces who watched him. Their intense scrutiny made his skin crawl. Rake grimaced, cursing under his breath. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Crowe couldn't answer. Fear filled his mouth with the taste of black metal and parched his throat. His hand tightened around the Lion-Headed Serpent until he could feel the edges of the trinket press into the flesh. A familiar prickle on the back of his neck made him look away. Amber eyes watched him doggedly from the corner of the room. He sighed. “Can you give me and my…friend…a second alone?”

You called him your friend!

What else would he be? He's saved my life multiple times now. He comforted me in moments of weakness…

His friend came to him now, his shoulders hunched, his face alert as he searched for the source of the trouble. “Twin o’rre?” he asked when he stood before Crowe.

“Hey,” Crowe said as kindly as he could. He rested a hand on Barghast's arm, rubbing it gently. “I…” He pressed his other hand to his own chest. “...am going out there.” He gestured to the night. “You…” He patted Barghast's shoulder. “...are staying here where it's safe. I will be able to move around more quickly if I don't have to worry about you.”

Barghast drew to his full height with a snort. He uttered a sharp bark that clearly meant no.

“Movement in the trees!” Rake shouted from the window. “I can hear them!”

Sure enough a peal of high-pitched laughter sounded through the mist. Shadowy figures loomed out of the demimonde. The bear emerged, sides heaving, its breath steaming the air. The damned souls stepped to the side to give it space, not out of fear but out of reverence. Barghast unslung his rifle from his shoulder. He nodded towards the glass. Let's go.

Crowe opened his mouth to protest. He shut it, remembering Rake’s words: He is a big enough fucker with big enough teeth and claws he’s going to do whatever he wants to whether you like it or not. There was no ignoring the relief he felt. He wouldn't be going out there to face the beast alone after all. He nodded in acceptance.

“If you're going to go out there you’d better do it now,” Rake hissed.

It was time. The decision had been made. Crowe pushed his fear into the staff. I have to do this. These people have been trapped here for weeks. Afraid, alone with no one to help them. This is why Monad led me - led us - to them. Monad, I don't know where you are, I don't know if you can hear me, I don't even know if you really exist but I know someone led me here to help. I am meant to be here. I am meant to do this.

With this thought came a sliver of hope in the dark. He latched onto it with his mind, pushing it down the length of his arm into his staff. The red fire that lit the runes of his staff turned blue. Exchanging a final nod with his lycan companion, Crowe stepped out of the tavern into the mist.

The wood clatter of the door being pulled shut made the practitioner almost jump out of his skin. Rake gave him a jerky smile through the frosted glass that said, There's nothing I can do, the situation’s out of my hands.

What if he doesn't come out at all? What if they just leave us to fend for ourselves? Crowe swallowed the fear that stirred his mind into a frenzy. Fear would not help him survive the mess he’d gotten himself into. Them into. He drew close to the Barghast, knowing the lycan's senses were far more superior to his own. Barghast stood half hunkered to the ground, a silent snarl fixed on his face. His eyes roved the night, parsing the mist. The human shapes who had appeared not more than a minute ago were nowhere to be seen. Crowe knew they were there. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could feel eyes watching them from unseen places.

The sorcerer and the Okanavian ventured further away from the tavern. A flash of movement to their left. Crowe whipped about just in time to see human limbs fade into gloom. He ducked, worried Barghast would fire on him in a moment of excitement. He needn’t have worried. The rifle remained in the lycan's grip, the muzzle aimed at the sky.

Where did he learn to use firearms? This was another mystery the practitioner hoped to learn if given the time. If we survive this. It was still strange seeing the eight foot tall bipedal wolf carrying a rifle.

Now that they were by the well it was time to make noise. Heart beating in his throat, the practitioner shouted, “Hey, we’re right here!” He sent a blue flare of mana into the sky with his staff. This earned him an approving grin from the Okanavian who pulled his head at the sky and howled.

A bestial roar sounded from the west at their backs: the roar of something large and hungry. This was followed by the sound of breaking glass, by the report of gunfire, and a human scream raised in alarm. Before fear could keep him rooted to the spot, Crowe burst into a sprint. Barghast jogged at his side.

The lights of Clias’ farm appeared through the gloom. Moving forms took shape. A human figure thrashed on the ground beneath the ursine shape of something much larger. A flash of white hair sent a shock through Crowe. Still he kept running towards the commotion even though he knew it would be too late by the time he reached Clias. The sounds coming from the man were high-pitched and gurgling against the ripping of flesh as the bear pulled out his intestines.

“Get away from him!” Crowe bellowed, feeling not fear but rage. His staff crackled, his eyes burned white. The urge to unleash the buildup of emotion on the beast made his blood sing. He swung his staff once. A comet of blue light soared through the air before slamming into the bear. The impact made the air shudder but all it did was distract the creature from the whimpering form on the ground.

The bear’s eyes were as black as the Void itself. Crowe recalled staring up at a vortex that had opened a window into the immaterial universe and felt the same sense of emptiness. And yet somewhere in that emptiness was intelligence. Recognition. There was something familiar about; Crowe could feel a memory trying to squeeze its way into his mind. He shuddered, keeping memory’s temptation at bay with a push of concentration. It remembers us. The practitioner gritted his teeth in determination. Well let me burn myself in your memory then.

The beast halted only for a moment - long enough for Barghast to squeeze off a few shots from his rifle. The Okanavian growled in frustration when the rifle clicked dry. He threw it to the ground with a huff. The beast let out a single bloodthirsty growl and then charged. Something dark that could have been blood or something equally unpleasant frothed from its open maw; it bounded straight for the practitioner.

The sorcerer unsheathed his dagger. The beast moved with such power it made the earth shake beneath his feet. A second before it collided with him, Crowe slid to the side, dropping into a roll, stabbing out with the dagger. The impact that traveled up his arm jerked the bone out of its socket. The pain made him cry out, squeezing his vision down to a single focal point. His staff lay abandoned in the grass. Teeth clenched against the pain, eyes squeezed down to slits, he snatched the staff off the ground. He staggered around, almost losing his balance. Fight it. Fight through the pain. Pain can be a weapon. Use it.

The bear blundered ahead. Its massive paws backpedaled, kicking up dirt. The handle of the dagger stuck out from a slash a foot in length along its side. A thick black substance oozed from the wound like tar, staining the ground. Crowe felt a triumphant smile tug at his lips. Such a wound should have staggered the beast, but the unnatural forces controlling it kept it upright. Still, he had been the first to wound it. A small victory. It made the pain in his arm worth it.

“Twin o’rre!” Barghast appeared at his side, panting. His eyes burned a molten gold, reminding the practitioner of the night he'd first seen the Okanavian in the clearing. They flashed with concern when he saw the flushed look of pain on the sorcerer's face.

Crowe waved a hand before the lycan could smother him again. With the beast gearing up for another charge there was no time. He may have injured the bear, but his bravery had cost him dearly. Injured, he would not be able to stand his ground for long before his fate echoed Clias’. “Go, go, go. We have to go!”

They sprinted for the village’s only windmill; it was the closest building within running distance. For Crowe it was more of a drunken lurch than a sprint. Each jolt sent waves of nausea through his lower belly and more through his injured arm. He knew if he allowed himself to look over he would see the edge of a bone pushing out against bruised flesh. He could hear the beast on their tail, making short work of the distance. Have I doomed us? No. The glimmer of hope he'd felt before leaving the safety of the tavern still burned within him like a white flame.

Barghast lashed out with a kick that knocked the double doors off their hinges. They ducked inside. Crowe leaned against a stack of wood crates topped with a layer of dust. The beast bounded straight for the mill until its uninjured shoulder bounced off against the wall hard enough to make it shake.

Barghast muttered something under his breath. He watched the fury of the bear strike the wall again and again with wide, fearful eyes. Crowe forced himself to straighten. It's not going to stop. It's going to keep coming after us and there's nothing that will get in its way. He remembered the sense of familiarity he’d felt when he’d looked into the bear's eyes. Something about this chase rang of a personal vendetta. Barghast shook himself free from his stupor. Crowe didn't realize he’d sunk to the floor until the Okanavian pulled him to his feet. They ran past slotted wood shelves filled with sheaths of paper, stacks of crates covered in dust and cobwebs, and mouse traps that had been set out to capture vermin. Each time the mill shook was a reminder that they were far from safe.

The front wall crumpled in a shower of splintered wood and stone. The bear let out a triumphant road. Crowe felt his blood turn to ice. Still he kept moving, one step after the other. Their only hope in survival was to keep going up. The bear must have sensed them for it lunged towards the stairs, knocking aside shelves and crates in its wake. Eyes narrowing down to slits, Crowe pushed all his will, all his emotion into his staff. Pushed until the runes on his staff eclipsed the warehouse in a halo of celestial blue fire. Pushed until a ripple of pain passed through his skull like a hot bullet and his eyes felt as if they would pop from his head and his balls shriveled to dry grapes. He felt something in his body give and a torrent of blood fell from his nose. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him. He clung to the banister while aiming the staff with the other. By now the bear was halfway up the stairs, defying what should and should not be possible - but what was magic if not a blatant disregard of the material universe; perhaps it was for this reason that the Theocracy sought to keep Monad’s people weak and compliant.

Blue fire plumed from the end of the staff, incinerating the air around them. For a fleeting moment he had a perfect view of the bear’s face; he looked it directly in the eyes and found himself looking down into the depths of Inferno. The depths of Inferno filled his mind with the agonized screams of the damned. Trapped souls from the past Iteration who would never find purpose in this one. Souls who continued to know suffering in Iteration after Iteration, life after life. He saw the souls dance naked in the labyrinthine streets of the Black City, pleading for a mercy that would never come.

Just as quickly as the vision appeared, it was whisked away, replaced by another. Gone were the black spires of Inferno. He stood in the dimly lit space of a small bedroom, staring wide-eyed down at the human form strapped to the mattress. Black bruised eyes stared gleefully back from Bennett's bruised face. A deep bellow of laughter filled his head, reminding him of his failures and all he’d lost. You will lose everything, the voice told him. You will lose what you didn't even know you had. I’ll see to it.

The practitioner screamed in defiance. He tore his mind from the illusions that filled his head and anchored himself to reality. He watched the bear's face disintegrate, the ravaged snout caving into a crater, the eyes boiling down to jelly. Watched the flames engulf the beast until it was nothing more than a cloud of dust blowing around the mill, another layer of dust to add to what was already there. Crowe would have screamed if he had the strength to. His body sagged. In his mind he plummeted through fifty feet of empty air.

Something held him upright, stopping his fall. He felt himself being swung into the air, felt an arm loop around his back and shoulders and another beneath his inner thighs. Barghast leapt down the steps, through the clouds of ash that billowed in their face. He chanted in Okanavi, his voice low and reassuring. I'm beginning to trust you, Crowe thought. At first I didn't, but now I think I do. He would have found the words to tell the Okanavian this if it didn't feel as if his throat had been sealed shut. But then what were words without understanding?

For a blissful moment he found himself prone on his back, looking up at a velvet sky studded with stars. Hard to believe there were so many up there, scattered across an endless space. The wind stirred through his hair, soothing flesh sticky with sweat. The world rocked gently from side to side. Barghast did not run but walked with a deliberate ease. His gaze never left Crowe’s face. It's really not that bad, the practitioner wanted to tell him, wanted to pat him on the arm and tell the lycan to put him down so he could walk on his own.

There was no use in lying to himself…things were worse than he wanted to admit. He knew if he were to try and stand on his own his legs would fail him. The mountains stood silent vigil over the night, their white peaks glowing eerily. The chatter of voices blocked out the soft sigh of the wind. Human shapes materialized at the edges of his vision. He could feel their dreadful anticipation. His companion kept them at bay with a growl, toting the practitioner through the doors of the tavern. He shouldered the door open to the back room where Cenya had told him about the temple that had started this whole nightmare.

The Okanavian patted him lightly on the shoulder - the good one. Stay.

I couldn't go anywhere even if I wanted to, Crowe thought with an inward chuckle. He sagged against the table. Barghast receded back from the table. Crowe tried to ignore the worm of worry that wiggled in his gut. Barghast was back before the worm could fully settle. He held up the object he’d gone in search of: a wooden spoon.

“What's that for?” The sorcerer drawled, drunk with exhaustion. Red paint pulsed at the corners of his vision.

The Okanavian must have heard the trepidation in his voice for he rested a paw on the practitioner's shoulder. A finger traced along the plain between his neck and shoulder, tongue swiping over his cheek once; he lifted the spoon to the practitioner’s lips. Bite down on this. Crowe almost wept. He was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. Though this last encounter with the bear had ended in victory, he felt he’d been battered to his core. He blinked the tears away. The lycan was already looking at him as if he would break into pieces, speaking in that deep voice that made him want to give in and just let himself be held. Why not? Even now you don't completely trust him. He's the only one who's stayed by your side when everyone else has left you. Bennett said he would always be with you but he left when you needed him most. This lycan…as strange as he is, though you may not understand his words, he’s made his intentions clear through his actions…cares about you.

“Alright,” he heard himself say; his forehead was sticky with sweat. The muscles in his back were tensed painfully tight. “I trust you, I trust you. Monad knows you have earned my trust.”

He opened his mouth. He bit down when he felt the wood touch his lips. Still the Okanavian hummed, his touch warm and reassuring. Crowe resisted the urge to pull away when he felt the other hand grab his arm. Then he said a single word, sharp and final.

Pull.

Pop.

Crowe didn't remember screaming. He remembered the spoon tumbling from his lips. He remembered a spasm sending currents of agony through his body. He remembered rolling onto his side, the hardwood floor rising to meet his face.

Blackness. Empty blackness.