5 Chapter 4: His Dreams

He ran until the ground became a blur, until the muscles of his back burned with the weight of the sky on his shoulders and he could run no more. He ran until the ground became the sky and his left became his right and his legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground, panting, gasping for breath. His arm was a mangled mess, but he felt no pain, even when the joints bent the wrong way and the muscles were torn and the blood flowed black. He could not stop, not now when there was danger growing with every passing heartbeat. He was not safe, for these lands were not his.

His body was tiring from fatigue and pain, but his mind would not dull. His fire burned with a raging intensity, a surging resistance that fueled him, that pushed him, that urged him to keep going forward. It was confidence, it was pride. It was a firm resolution that was set in his bone. The Outlands would not claim him, even if he had to claw his way out of its deepest, darkest gulley with only his claws. This he swore, this he knew. He would not die, not here. With a roar that was more feral than anything an animal could utter, he rose, determined, confident, desperate. He had to move forward.

With a shaking leg that threatened to fold underneath him at any time, he rose unsteadily to his feet. One step. Two. He pushed forward, the weight of his body like a mountain of stone as his muscles cramped and spasmed violently.

One step. Two. The corpse of the krull stopped him, its massive pile of flesh immovably heavy. Still, he struggled, feet digging into the earth, muscles straining until finally something gave. There was a horrible wrenching sound, a sickening ripping sound as tendon tore and his leg broke. And then the world spun black and his head hit the ground.

He dreamed.

He dreamed in swirls of red and white, in storms of pain and searing heat. He dreamed of death with its ever-present eyes and its bone-chilling touch. He dreamed of savagery and violent carnage that he had known all his life. He dreamed of his body being torn apart, being ripped to shreds and eaten by the carrion birds. He felt their claws digging into him, the pain like red-hot needles as his scales split and his flesh sloughed off. He felt his body tear in half as greedy mouths devoured him alive. He felt the pain, felt the terror, felt the helplessness as he could only watch himself eaten alive. He knew then, that he was on the brink of death. He was dreaming on the brink of death.

He was not alone, perched there on the precipice. He heard others speaking, their voices piercing through his thoughts. Whispers filled his mind, cold as ice and sharp as a blade. They were the whispers of the dead, he could feel them all around him, feel their warm presence and their steady, humming pulse. He could hear the pain in their voices; they were calling out to him.

Andahiel. We hear you, Andahiel. The shackles grow weak, and the darkness stirs. Free us, scion of Andahiel. Break our bonds.

There was another voice in his mind then, a voice so kind and soft that it warmed his heart. Familiarity filled his chest, easing away his doubts. All these years would never strip him of his memory; he would remember this voice no matter how long. It was the voice of his birth, the voice of the stone that he had been born from. It was comforting and solid, an aged voice that held the traces of infinite wisdom and even greater patience. It was the voice of the earth.

Free them, my child. Break their bonds. The dark rises, and we will need their hate.

If the earth wished him to free these spirits, then he would do it gladly. For the earth, for his birth, he would do anything. He would forsake anything, for he owed to it everything. That was the loyalty and devotion he showed to pack—to family and only ever to family. But doubt crept into him for a moment, the uncertainty making him pause. He did not know how to free these spirits, how to break their chains.

You cannot yet move, my child, so I shall mend this body for you. You cannot yet see, my child. You cannot yet open your eyes, so I give you these, for now. Take them and see, my child. Take these eyes.

A gentle warmth suffused him, sinking into his mind with ribbons of white. They bound his flesh; he could not see himself in his dream, but he knew it as certain as he could know anything. They wove flesh, knitting muscle and healing skin. Shattered bones hardened once more, his broken body being born anew with the gift of the earth. The warmth filled his chest before traveling up his neck, the strands of heat creeping up his face.

Fire filled his eyes, a scorching brilliance that seared itself into his mind. It was only after a moment that he realized that his eyes were opened already, open in his dreaming. He saw blinding white that filled his field of vision, and he realized that it was the white of the spirits. He saw their slow pulsing, their glorious radiance that enveloped everything with their glow.

He saw everything about them, everything that there was to see. He watched their dying moments, their birth and all that passed in between, flickering in a timeless second. He saw the ones in pain, their spirits writhing in agony as they coiled around a black shard. It stood black, not as night but as nothing. The surface was smooth as water, as bottomless as the sea. Shadows wreathed it, writhing like serpents as they wrapped around the spirits. Black mist poured off the thrashing mass, colder than ice. He could feel the black shard's pull, feel its malevolent presence anchoring these spirits. It was the shackle of which they spoke, the chain that he must break. It bound them here, to their torment.

It hurts, they screamed. They writhed and twisted—a thousand voices, a thousand faceless whispers. The very air around them distorted madly, grew twisted with their soundless wailing. They could not escape, for those shadows hidden in the mist bound them. Shadows like those that lived during the Fells, he realized.

Free us, scion of Andahiel. Shatter this torment. FREE US. The dead screamed in riotous pain with desperate abandon. Their thoughts added only to the storm that battered at him without pause, winds the buffeted him and threatened to blow him into the sea. Hopelessness settled into his bones, its weight far heavier than anything flesh could ever hope to bear. Fear held him, its grip cold and chilling. He was afraid to do what the earth wished, and his loyalty and trust warred with self-preservation. In the end, his faith won out.

His mind firm, his decision resolute, he relented his struggle against the shard's ever-hungry maw for the briefest of moments, feeling it tear on his consciousness and pull him closer. Slowly, he extended his claws, feeling them touch the surface of the glossy, black stone.

Pain.

That was the first thing he felt. That was all that he felt. An utterly mind-numbing, bone-shattering pain that blew all thoughts from his mind and swallowed him whole. He lost himself in the waves of that horrifying agony that wrenched scream after scream from his mouth. It was a sheer torture that gripped his spirit in an iron vise and tore at it until he was but scraps and shreds.

Then the pain faded, as quickly as it had come. The black mist settled over his body, numbing all sensation where it touched him until he felt nothing. He felt nothing as the shadows wrapped around him, felt nothing as they began to dig into his flesh. It was a blissful relief, to feel nothing as he died.

Whispers. Voices. He heard the dead, their noise a ghostly quiet against the raucous symphony of his tormented screams. Images flashed through his head. Bones. Fire. A field of corpses, purple lightning crackling down like an incessant storm. He saw death in his head, death surrounding him.

Do you wish to die?

The dead were innumerable, their voices hauntingly empty. The question echoed in his head, lingering like memories of a heartbeat.

Are you this weak?

He stirred, the question making him begin to shake off the bonds that beleaguered him. All his life he had thought himself strong. Never once had doubt crossed his mind, not once had its poison seeped into his veins. Now would not be any different, he realized, and the unyielding pain that had sent his mind into a haze began to lessen its hold upon him.

Free us, then. FREE US.

Now was not the place where he would die. The strong feasted upon the weak, and he was not weak. He would not die here. Shrieking wind crackling with power—it surged around him, whipping his consciousness and threatening to flay his focus into pieces. But he would not yield. He would not falter. He was not weak. He was strong. He would not die here.

There was a cry of fury, perhaps from him, perhaps from the hundreds of dead that rose to lend him their will. They swelled forth together in an unrelenting tide of force, crushing all in their path, assailing the blackened shard. Purple lightning crackled and hissed in menacing cadence, sparks arcing madly as he struck again and again at the towering spire with only his will. His will was firm, his resolve unshakable. He was not weak. He was strong. He would not die here.

The shard was cracked now, the black mist that had previously wreathed it now collecting into a dense fog charged with power. Yet even without his urging, the spirits of the vengeful dead struck with great wrath and greater anger, reaving swaths of white through the black fog as piece by piece it grew smaller and smaller. A colossal pressure suddenly bore down on his mind, a crushing weight that stifled his thoughts in agony. He could only watch as fire and lightning burst forth in infernal vengeance and the black fog cracked with a keening sound that cut into his mind. Even without feeling, he knew that it had slashed him, dealt damage that would never heal.

The chained spirits burst into a thousand pieces, like the shattering of glass, floating gently as glittering dust in the air for the briefest of moments. Like a gathering storm, they swirled together before flying straight into his spirit, wreathing it an brilliant light before sinking in. He could feel them in him, feel their power trickling into his in the way a stream feeds a raging river. It was done; they were freed.

Brothers. A chorus of ice-cold voices whispered in his mind, before falling silent.

The flowed into him, nestling into the back of his mind like a coil of snakes. Their spirits were a warmth, a gentle pulsing that was tender in the absence of the torrential pain he had just felt.

You have done well, my child. The earth. His sire, his guide. It stirred him, ushered out of his dreams.

He woke with his right arm in agony, with every pulse of his heart it felt like hot needles digging into his flesh. A shuddering gasp tore through as he looked down to see new skin and whole bones. I shall mend this body for you, the earth had proclaimed, and he remembered it now. His body had been healed by the earth, but pain still filled his wrist. With the consuming mist that had once surrounded him now dissipated, the black shard had been left behind, dormant.

With a primal will of its own, it sought out flesh and embedded itself into his right arm, searing the flesh around it with its power until the skin was charred black, the hair burned off. He howled from the pain, clutching at his arm as acrid smoke plumed from between his claws. The black gem shone like a bottomless pool, without depth and without substance. It seemed as if one could slip into it, could fall forward, like the very slumber from which it had come.

His mind thought back to the dreamscape that he had found himself in, his state of mind as he lay in undisturbed slumber. He had always known the spirits to be around him, the earth had told him during his birth. Ever since his tenth year, he could feel them around him, their soft humming and gentle warmth. Yet just now, he had seen them.

He yearned to open those eyes once more, but try as he might, he was unable to. However, resolve made him grit his teeth. If it had been done before, it could be done again. Even if he was unable to see the spirits, he could still feel their pulse nonetheless. He would open those eyes again; he promised it.

Yet, another thought ate away at the confidence that had just filled him: night was falling.

He wanted to feel for the spirits, longed to use the hot power that burned through his veins, but there was no time. He had to hurry. Shadows were rousing from sleep, the same shadows that had filled his dreams. His lands were further to where the sun hid itself at night. Where the red, cracked mud plains became craggy hills to where they met the rolling sea, those were his lands. They were not far, but he had no time to spare. Already the sun was hiding, only the barest edge of its light peeking over the horizon as the moons and stars waited to reveal themselves. It was when the red light of the sun was gone and the green light of the moons shone down—that was when the shadows emerged.

He could see them already: their black bodies contorting as they bore down to feast on broken corpses. He could hear their noise, or rather the lack of it, the silence of their soundless steps echoing through the night as they stalked their prey. He could smell them, the fetid stench of blood and death rotting on their formless skin. He could feel them, their aura of darkness and wrongness that followed them. They did not belong here. They were not of the earth. If they came for him, there would be no escape.

With staggering steps, he limped his way back to his den, carrying the carcass of the krull across his broad shoulders. He did not stop to rest. There would be time enough when he was dead. There was no time now. As the last lines of the sun dipped behind the earth, he saw it: his home. His.

The promise of safety made him surge with newfound vigor as he dragged the krull towards his den. He had no time to move the boulder—instead he broke it with his claws, the earth yielding for him, sensing his urgency. He hauled the corpse behind him into the cave. Then he collapsed, chest striking the stone with a muffled thud.

His mind was furious at his weak body. There would be time to sleep later—he had things to do first. He willed himself to move, but his arms did not respond, fingers merely twitching feebly. He simply lay there, gasping for breath, chest heaving, his mind starting to feel light as the promise of rest and safety flooded his body. The thought of safety made him tired.

The thought of safety made him weak.

In the Outlands, such weakness would kill. This, he was reminded of as he felt the whispering touch of cold steel drawing slick blood from his throat.