18 Chapter 12: His Fear

Sudden, scorching, red-hot pain. It was all he could feel.

Fire burned from the spot where the corpse had touched him, rapidly spreading through him until the searing heat was all he could feel. The haze that had settled on his mind was utterly blown away by the flames, replacing his dull numbness with inescapable torture. The sudden change, the raw agony, it all sparked something in him that he had not felt in a long time: pure, molten terror. It burned into his spirit until he was a blaze spiraling up to the sky. The light seared his vision in brilliant white and threw the shadows back away from him—black petals falling away from the dying flower of his corpse.

He was afraid. Afraid of the shadows and the darkness. Afraid of death and afraid of what came after. He was so terribly afraid, the fear biting deep into his limbs with venomed fangs and sending his wordless thoughts racing. He was afraid, and so he ran. He ran away from the darkness and the death that the thing had offered him. He ran away from the dream, pulling his mind back into his body and feeling the vessel of his flesh shudder at his sudden withdrawal.

It hurt as he pulled away, as he forcibly ripped away whatever it was that had pulled him closer, that had drawn him in like prey. Yet he could not shed the image of the black eyes, of that bottomless darkness that had seen him and spoken in that timeless voice. It branded him, surely as iron and coals could.

His body tossed and turned as he struggled to shed his nightmares and wake. He wanted nothing more than to wake, than to open his eyes and see solid stone and sunlight above him. Yet the more he sought it, the more his dreams constricted around him. He could not shake the image of that corpse from his memory; it lingered no matter how hard he fought to erase it. The fire of its touch still burned hot like a brand on his soul as his soul hid inside the safety of his body, muscle and bone keeping the horrid darkness of his dreams at bay. His mind raced with thoughts scrambling wildly, his spirit still throbbing in wretched pain.

And the shadows that had surrounded it, the numbing touch of the mist was yet another terror. He had felt their cold embrace, felt the burn of their caress upon his soul. He had felt the terror that the Skal'ai had inspired within him, the sheer will to flee, to escape, to live. And for a brief instant as he fled from his dreams, he felt a presence from within him—a burning from the gem buried in his arm. And he knew its name, the name that the earth had told him—the Skal. Servant, broodmother, hunter, conqueror. Mother of shadows, the endless dark given form. It had branded him with its touch.

All around him echoed a dry laughter, a harsh sound like sand flying over stone.

You think you know us.

Then it had disappeared.

Heart suddenly racing from his nightmares, he woke with a gasp and a heaving chest. The bright light of the new day blinded him, making him cover his eyes as his skull throbbed with a dull ache. He tried to sit up, but the motion proved to be too much for him and his abused body fell back to the floor with a thud, limbs twitching in distress as muscles spasmed. He lay there for some time, heartbeat pounding out the hurried rhythm of galloping hooves as his body felt like it was dying. He could scarcely even form his thoughts—aggravating bolts of pain shot through his head with every passing second. He could do naught but wait with muscles tensed and claws digging into the stone, feeling the earth around him as he struggled to breathe in with short gasps.

Unable to move and barely even able to think, he could only close his eyes and try to calm himself. With pain as a blanket and dried blood for a scent, sleep crept up on him and stole him away without warning. He fought it, fought it with a reckless determination, for he feared that which he had seen in his dreams. He squirmed and writhed in sleep's embrace, afraid to once more see the terrible darkness, but his protests fell away unheard.

As he dreamed, there came a presence beside to him, familiar and heartwarming. It felt solid, firm. Confidence, age, wisdom—it held them all behind a voice soft as a petal and hard as steel.

Now you have seen. Now you know. You face these terrors, and you must defeat them.

The earth. It was the earth that spoke, with that voice of quiet strength and gentle power. If it spoke those words, then they would be true; there was no doubt in his heart. Yet his body was broken—torn and shattered—and with it so, he could not fight.

You cannot die, not yet my child. There is a role for you to fill—a role that you must fill. Once more I can mend your body, but you must not think this immortality. Everything has a price, and someone must always pay.

With those words being said, a sudden warmth filled his chest. It spread to his limbs and suffused him with a steady, pulsing heat. Its brilliant white sheathed him in its cocoon, sinking into his flesh until it surrounded him with a glowing halo. Flowing ribbons sank into charred muscle and burnt scars, peeling off dead skin and shedding broken flesh. Black blood bubbled forth, looking as if his wounds were crying as they flowed over his chest and arms.

Ruined scales were pushed out, clattering onto the floor as fresh platelets crept to the surface. Fibers twisted and twined together, joints swiveling as new tendons grew in place. Pink skin crept over formerly marred flesh, coarse hairs lengthening into matted hide. Steam vented from his pores, hissing around him in a billowing shroud that hid his healing from watchers.

In a matter of moments, where there had once been flesh covered in hideous wounds and cracked, weeping burn scars, there was now unblemished skin and healthy muscle. Still in his dreams, he unconsciously rolled in his sleep, stretching new muscle. When the white glow finally died away and the steam cleared, there was not even a trace of the formerly mortal wounds.

Again your wounds are healed, my child. This rebirth I give at no price to you, but rather at a cost all mine. You must be careful; in the future this aid can only be rendered once. Should you find yourself dying again, that aid will be my last.

Soon you will wake, and now I will rest.

The voice of the earth sounded weary, tired. It was softer now, harder to hear, as if it were a chorus with parts missing. There was much that he wished to ask it, much that he wanted to know, but it had fallen silent. Before he could give voice to any of his questions, dreams had taken him by the throat and dragged him away into the muddled waters of his dark dreamscape.

He did not see the Fells, did not see the darkness, but it proved little comfort. The dagger was no longer in front of his eyes; it was buried in his flesh. The corpse had touched him, had marked him as surely as any spell. It could not be seen, could not be felt in any way. But, he knew it was there with the same certainty that he knew the gem in his wrist was no longer searing hot but rather now utterly without heat.

There was peace then in his dreams, but soon the pain came again. Horrible cramps struck his stomach and cold filled his chest with tight pain. There were shadows on him, writhing in through his skin. He swiped and slashed and tore madly, but still they sunk into his flesh wriggled into his muscle. The cold spread until all of him was numb and frozen, every movement arduous. He was drowning, dying, swallowed by the shadows. He could not see, could not feel his own death. He was cold. He was tired. He was dead. He was alone.

He heard words again, but it was not the quiet earth. Their chilling and haunting refrain sent shivers through him, no matter how many times he heard them. The voices of the dead were whispering, calling out feverishly to him.

Do you feel? Do you feel how the cold dark kills?

And he shuddered in understanding, trembling helplessly upon hearing them speak.

Andahiel slumbers. He slumbers, and we wake. The child waits while you sleep. How much longer shall you sleep, scion?

The dead fell silent then, as they should, but their words he understood. He fought his slumber with tooth and claw, struggling to shake off the lethargy that had settled around him like a shroud. His body resisted, too broken and too tired, but he forced it to rise. He willed it to wake.

And so he shed his dreams, opening his eyes once more to harsh light.

The sleeping was gentle, but the waking was rough. He rose out of slumber like a waking corpse, his mind whirling and thoughts scrambled as he struggled to orient himself. He sat up in a hurry, lightheaded and dizzy as he tried to shake the drowsiness from his body. It had been long since he had slept so deeply; his body felt like it was carved from stone.

He did not know how long he had slept, but fear and instinct told him that it had been too long. His body had healed its wounds, but the price to pay very well could be his life. Panicked, he sniffed at the air for any traces of a scent. He smelled her nearby, most likely licking her wounds. Another spike to guilt drove through his stomach. He had lost himself in his rage, had been so close to killing her. He had to be careful. There were questions that he needed answered, and she was too valuable.

He rolled from his back, sitting up with his back braced against the wall of the cave. There were fresh scars across his chest and running down his right arm, but the muscle was healed from his sleep. More importantly, his spirit was whole once more.

The price had been too great.

With a start, he remembered the Fells. Three days had left two days ago, only one more day left. But he had slept, and now there was no more time.

Now there was no more time.

There was no more time, and the shadows were coming. Terror twisted his stomach into knots and ice froze his blood. A fool. A crow-cursed fool he had been. He rose to his feet, muscles protesting as he slowly stood up, shoulder braced against the wall. The dead writhed in the back of his mind, feeding off his fear and gaining all the more confidence from it.

Fool, they mocked. Feeble fool.

Slowly he limped over to the mouth of the cave, brown sun and green sky greeting him as the light shone onto his face. It was midday, the sun shining its brightest. He felt the dry grass under his feet, the wind breeze against his face, and he paused. She stood at the mouth of the cave, back to him, arms limp, staring outside. She had yet to notice him, instead distracted by something else. He could feel it too. Something was not right. The air reeked of blood. He walked forward to stand at the mouth of the cave, gazing out at the ground broken before him.

Yet, he knew already what he would see.

Bottomless chasms tore through the earth, cracks of black void that ran through the brown dirt and yellow grass. They burned with a cold fire that seared his feet and belched frozen steam into the air. Corpses lined the hills, calves and sires and dams alike. They lay rotting with chests carved open and bones split in two, hungering black smoke curling around their frost-covered limbs. Black nothing bled out of the cracks in the earth, swallowing stone and life as it grew and spread. The shadows were feasting, gorging themselves upon the carcasses of the dead. They stole away all that they touched, rocks crumbling into dust, flesh cracking from shards of ice as the very heat was sapped away.

He felt spirits dying too, decaying in fleeting heartbeats. The shadows cut them apart from their bodies, the black mist wrapping tighter and tighter around them until their light faded. There was a madness in the air, a taint in the blood that sparked a blaze of wild fear. The shadows were unnatural; they were terrifying, and they were here. They had no soul, no heartbeat, no form. They could not be killed. They were Skal'ai. They were predators, and all was their prey.

Afraid of what he knew he would see, he looked up at the sky. The green fog of the Outlands was streaked with black, the ribbons of smoke coalescing into writhing mist. Power crackled where the two colors met, purple sparks flying out madly as black devoured green. The sky was being consumed by black, the light of the sun fading. The air was cold and reeked of blood, the flies and carrion birds circling tentatively in hopes of a meal.

A sudden surge of power rippled through his body from the air around him, gone just as quick as it came. In that heartbeat, a snaking tendril grew out of the mass of darkness. It raked a path across the sky like a bolt of lightning, surging towards a young murak trying to run. The beast was bleeding from its wounds, eyes wide in panic. It saw its death coming for it and helplessly let out a short bray of terror. In the same instant, the murak's legs buckled as its own shadow betrayed it and wrapped around its feet.

The black swarmed up its legs, sending the murak crashing into the ground in a spray of blood. At the same time, the bolt from the sky struck the beast in the neck, cutting straight through without even the slightest resistance, and the its body convulsed in a shuddering pulse. Gathering black mist crept closer as the murak crumpled with the severed stump of its head still pumping blood. The legs were bent at wrong angles and its chest ripped open as darkness clawed out of the carcass. A few moments ago it had still been alive. Now it joined the ranks of the dead as one more of the many corpses that littered the ground.

The sinking feeling that he felt in his heart gave way to despair. There was no more time. The Fells had already come.

And as he thought, a cold voice stole into his mind, chilling and timeless.

Thief.