Chapter 2 (Scabbards)

The rhythmic sound of hooves pounding the earth echoes through the valley. I look around trying to make sense of what had happened. What of my brother Tom? Did he make it home alive? Where am I? And…the nightcrawler? What happened to it? I frantically check my limbs, my ears, my face. My whole body is intact. How can this be? I'm supposed to be dead.

Nightcrawlers are known to eviscerate their prey, the higher ranks among them, the face-stealers can even steal the identity and the memory of their victims. I'm alive and well if not for the extreme exhaustion I feel as if my whole life energy is drained that even winking or thinking take so much effort. The memory of the nightcrawler's burning red-eyes that glared through the darkness is still fresh in my mind, as if those eyes are still watching, waiting.

Air is thick with dust; the scent of leather and steel linger. Ahead a banner emblazons with four stars and a sun on a field of blue fluttering in the wind. An iconic symbol of the royal elite force, the scabbards and I am in their company. In front of me is a mountain of flesh and pure muscle to which I am tied down in my waist to prevent me from falling.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask weakly. The horse rider does not reply.

"Where are we going?" I ask again. My parched lips ache for a drop of water.

"We're taking you to the castle, to the king," a deep voice strong like the mountain's answers.

"Fuck the king!" I protest. What I said can cause me my head but my head is nowhere to be found, lost in a blur of confusion and thirst, might as well grab the opportunity to act like a fool while I can. The rider smirks and pulls a waterskin tied on his waist. He tilts it downward above my face. "We can't stop," he said. I open my mouth to catch the flowing liquid. It's the best tasting water I have ever drunk my whole life. Most of it is wasted on my face and nose but I drunk enough before I slump back to a dreamless sleep.

We camp by nightfall in the grasslands, a huge chunk of fields that seems to not have an end lay before us. Outside the tent I can hear the banjo strings as it tears through the stillness of the night complemented by a ruckus of men singing and dancing. I notice my clothing has changed into the capital fashion, a bright green-colored embroidery made of sheep wool. I crawl outside the tent to take a piss.

"Where do you think you're going?" The mountain speaks. He leans against the rock, hugging his sword, just outside the tent. Although the moon is full, the shadow of the Fig tree conceals his face from view. I nearly trip over.

"Son of Baal!" I exclaimed.

"Get back to the tent," The mountain commands.

"Do you want me to piss inside the tent?" I answer reprehensively.

His eyes are still close and I wish he's blind so I can easily run away from my captor and back to our village by morning.

The mountain stands from where he is seated, a towering seven, maybe eight feet of flesh and bones. His skin, the color of caramel glows as it's licked by the moonlight. He has a long braided hair, much close to silver than white, his eyes are orbs of yellow and green, quiet, calm and mysterious.

"What in heaven's sake are you? I am not trying to be rude or racist, but I have never seen the other great races aside from my own," he does not respond. We walk in the clearing, towards the shrubberies a couple of steps away from the camp where I dump my piss. I look behind me and the mountain's eyes do not waver.

"Where I come from, pissing is a personal business. Can you…uhm…look elsewhere?"

"No," he grunts. 

"What do you people want from me anyway? I'm just a simple farm boy." I explain.

"My mission is to bring the gatekeeper to the castle safely," he grumbles. 

"Gate…wuttt? What are you talking about? I am sure am not what you're looking for, this has to be a mistake. I was born and raised in a small farming village near the edge of the wall. You're totally mistaken, I wanna go home."

"You are the blood of old king Roynar, the gatekeeper, the zodiac prince and your home is in the palace with your people. Now take a piss and go back to the tent, prince."

What the fuck is going on with the world? Last night, I was very nearly devoured by a night creature, and now I am to be this gatekeeper bullshit? A zodiac prince? What the hell is even that? "Look, I want to thank you for saving my life, but I am not a gatekeeper, not certainly a prince, this has to be a mistake," I argue. 

"I did not save you; you slay the nightcrawlers with your magic and drove them back outside the wall."

"With my what now??? Am I supposed to believe that? I can't even kill a fly, for god's sake, and now you're telling me I killed a nightcrawler, ancient monster with my magic?"

"Nightcrawlers, you killed a dozen of them. My squadron has been tracking them for weeks since the breach."

"This is crazy, this is crazy. This. Is. Crazy." I slap my face hoping to wake up from a bad dream. "This is just a dream, just a dream," since little I had been plagued with dreams, of nightmares, of lands I have never reached or visited, of people I have never met, or events from the past, that is why my brother calls me freak. One time, at age five, I dreamed that the whole village was on fire, sea of flames erupted, people screaming, people burning, people dying. I told mom about that dream and she was in complete shock because I described exactly what happened from the time when our village was raided by the mountain bandits. I was not even born yet when it happened.

But this, this is just another level of crazy.

A deep, mournful howl of the wolves pierce the night air, a sound that resonates a chilling gloom. It begins as a low, guttural moan, gradually rising in pitch and volume until it echoes across the grasslands.

The mountain was quiet, he listens to the wolves' howl of despair as though it's a coded message.

"Shape-shifters. They've found us, we have to go, hurry!" He picks me up like I am bag of cotton and we run back to the camp site.

The wolves' howl was closing in. A disciplined panic surge through the group when we reach the tent. We scramble to our feet, the darkness around us suddenly feeling more oppressive and threatening. The once peaceful night is now filled with the sound of hurried movements, the rustling of fabric, and the muffled thuds of footsteps from both humans and beasts. Heartbeats quickens, sharp breaths, frantic gasps. A shared fear drives the group to move hastily and silently through the night. I find myself on a horse back once again, with the mountains in front of me. The howls continue, each one a reminder of the danger that lurks just beyond our sight, propelling us onward into the uncertain darkness.