Authors: Stephen Zimmer
Since their inception, the reputed abodes had never been intended to be reached by humans, or any living beings who inhabited the surface of Ave so far below. They were said to exist far beyond the highest clouds that the various Skiantha steeds, like the Himmerosen and Harraks, could reach.
The dwellings were said to be like distant islands in the sky, providing a haven for the undying beasts of ancient lore. Wulfstan knew that if the incredible beasts did truly exist, then they represented a great hope.
Most of their mythical kind were held to be benevolent. The stories spoke of how they were serving a self-imposed exile, which had been bound with the combined power of the great Wizards, in the early ages of the world.
It was said that the ones in the high havens were loyal to the Almighty, choosing to endure exile rather than to risk their standing before the Creator, following an ancient age of great upheaval and terrible wars. Wulfstan gleaned that the beasts feared becoming pawns of dark purposes, unknowingly being manipulated to serve the purposes of Jebaalos, rather than the Creator to whose allegiance they were pledged.
Such beings, as far as Wulfstan could see, had to have a keen sense of justice. There was no way that they would easily allow or tolerate innocent lands to fall completely under a malignant shadow, especially when they had banished themselves to avoid even the risk of such an occurrence.
He thought back upon the many dreams he had experienced over the long years. In his mind’s eye, in the depths of many nights while his body was still, he had often soared from the surface of the world towards the same, beckoning white mass that his conscious eyes had now perceived. He always remembered a feeling of being driven by the gentle voice that permeated his mind, the one that he heard inside his entire being each and every time that he experienced the recurring dream.
‘Bring them into the world.’
In many of the dreams, he had glanced downward, towards the ground, from his high vantage. The world underneath him was always revealed to be a maelstrom of smoke and fire, creeping menacingly, and unrelentingly, towards his homelands.
The white mass had always become blinding in its brightness, as he ascended at a rapid, increasing speed. The sensation of great warmth and peace had flooded through him, as if to reassure him that the ascent was something that he had to do.
What looked to be a white cloud mass from the ground never turned out to be clouds at all, but was instead a floating landscape of hills and undulating plains, of the purest white that he had ever laid his eyes upon. Everything there seemed to consist of a light, soft substance, which sank in a few inches with each step he took.
The dream always ended with an immense shadow looming over him, as he slowly turned around to look up towards a shiny, silvery creature of enormous proportions. What the creature was, he could not say, as he was always stymied in remembering the detail of that part of the dream.
In the dreams, the voice always faintly repeated the phrase once last time, ‘Bring them into the world’, before Wulfstan was returned back to waking consciousness.
He had spoken of the repeating dreams to Father Dunstan several times before. To his surprise, Father Dunstan had never laughed or scoffed at the unusual night visions, but had merely cautioned him to keep his wits, and sense of discernment.
According to Father Dunstan, there was nothing to say that the Almighty would not use dreams to communicate with a person, and, in fact, the older Sacred Writings carried many stories of such dreams. Yet there was nothing to confirm that it was a sacred message, and, as such, Father Dunstan wanted Wulfstan to be very careful. According to the priest, Jebaalos was also capable of working dark influences through dreams.
On one occasion, the priest did make a passing reference to a legend that the Elder were said to reside in a place fashioned out of some ethereal substance. Such an environment was interpreted to reflect the purity of the stringent covenant that the great beasts were said to have engaged in, so many years ago.
The echoes of that particular memory reverberated in Wulfstan’s mind, as he agonized impatiently for the sprawling cloud mass overhead to pass by and reveal the white patch once again. A part of him felt that if he stopped looking for it, the patch might vanish.
“Is everything okay?” Cenwald inquired, with a very concerned expression on his face.
“Just deep in thoughts, nothing more,” Wulfstan replied, forcing an amiable grin to his face as they continued onwards.
*
Dragol
*
Dragol stepped forward with cautious stealth, his eyes fixed upon the large animal lapping water at the natural basin just ahead of him. The long, white fangs of the creature flashed as its tongue dipped and flicked at the clear waters, where they pooled at the end of the waterfall. The waterfall itself obscured Dragol’s current position, but he was very careful not to shuffle or scrape his leather shoes against the rock footing underneath him.
Massive of head and stout of shoulder, it was a beast that was constructed with incredible bodily power. Its sinewy, muscular legs hinted at a capability for explosive speed, as the talons at their end announced a capacity to inflict mortal wounds with one strike.
It was the second sizeable animal that Dragol had come upon in the woodlands, adding to his encounter with the small pack of Pahyna. There was only the singular beast this time, as opposed to the four Pahyna that had stalked him before, but there would be no easing of his vigilance.
Hunting a hunter was nothing new to Dragol, but it did lend much more caution to his approach. At the moment, he had the advantage of surprise, and he needed to retain it. Against a creature such as this, it gave him his best chance by far.
His position within the shallow cave was precarious. If he chose to remain silent, and try to avoid the creature, he was aware that there was always the possibility that it would still pick up his scent and come after him. If he did attack, he also understood that he had to bring it down immediately, or face a terrific struggle, whose final outcome was definitely not for certain. In the truest sense of the words, it was a simple matter of killing or being killed.
He had chosen his weapon, as the hilt of his longblade rested in the scabbard at his side. Slowly, he lifted his dagger up in his right hand. His target was much larger than the plump bird that he had slain earlier, which demanded an even more precise throw. He steeled his nerves. If he missed, or just wounded the predator, he would have to draw his longblade out with the quickest of haste.
Without a sound, he hurled the dagger at the creature’s extended head. His aim was true, as the dagger thudded on impact, embedding itself deeply into the side of the beast’s skull. The killing throw occurred so quickly that not the slightest sound came from the beast, except for the thump of its heavy body, as it collapsed on the spot where it had been standing.
Dragol drew his great longblade, trotted forward, and severed the head from the body as an extra precaution. He was not about to gamble with a creature as formidable as the one before him, and take the success of his strike for granted.
With swift efficiency, Dragol carved himself out some portions of meat from the carcass. He took time to fix a small fire, and prepare a few chunks of meat on a spit, keeping his eye on the surrounding woods just in case there might be more unwanted visitors. While the juices of the meat hissed and popped on the crude spit that he fashioned, he took up his position behind the waterfall again.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He should have kept in mind that a good watering site, such as the one he was resting in, would be an inviting location for predators. It was simply fortunate that he kept alert enough to have heard the creature padding out of the brush, before it began to drink from the pool.
Yet there was a favorable aspect to the encounter. At the very least, he would not have to go hunting or foraging in the immediate future.
A voice broke the silence, almost as soon as Dragol had settled into a comfortable position to survey the surrounding area.
“A good hunt!” called the exuberant voice of the old, white-bearded stranger. “The bounty of this land will provide food for your body. The bounty of other things will provide food for your spirit.”
Dragol looked around quickly, raising his blade in defensive reflex. His eyes came to rest on the elderly traveler, right as the man moved out from the trees to his left. The man walked with a brisk, youthful gait towards the pool of water, his deep blue robes swishing the tops of the grass with each step. It was clear that he did not really need the gnarled, twisting walking staff that he carried with him.
“No danger … no trouble, my friend,” the man said calmly, before grinning, “Or have you forgotten about me so quickly?”
With a little embarrassment, the Trogen warrior realized that he was still holding his longblade up in a combat stance. Dragol also noticed that the old man had not so much as flinched when he brought the blade up. He lowered the blade, turning it and sliding the weapon back into its leather-covered sheath.
“I remember,” Dragol replied, “And I had little choice with a creature like this. It was good fortune that I heard it coming, long before it reached the water.”
“It was good that you did,” the old man commented more seriously, looking to the remaining carcass. “Hyaeds are among the fiercest predators that these woods have to offer. It is good that you came across a lone one as well. While uncommon, they are known to hunt in packs.”
Dragol inwardly shuddered at the thought of taking on a pack of such creatures alone.
“Perhaps you should get moving. It will not be long before scavengers want at this meat,” the old traveler advised him.
“I was just about to eat a little of this meat, and go,” Dragol stated, eyeing the tall, elderly man. “But it seems you have come back here. Can you tell me who you are yet?”
“Just an old fellow, traveling through these parts, on some business I have in these lands. And still no favorable outcome yet. Or perhaps my hopes should be in you. It would seem we still walk upon a similar path,” the old man replied, with an amused grin.
“You pick a dangerous time to be doing anything. War is all about this place,” Dragol remarked, as he walked back over to the roasting meat on the spit.
He took it off the fire, pulling out his dagger, as he turned back to face the old man. “I have plenty here. Surely you get hungry sometimes.”
“You would suppose that I do, but I never seem to work up much of an appetite,” the old man replied, as Dragol proceeded to cut off some smaller chunks of the meat. “But if you have a little wine, I would gladly accept that.”
Dragol rumbled with laughter at the old man’s remark about wine. He hardly bothered to chew the meat, as he put the first piece into his mouth, and followed it immediately with another chunk. He savored the flavor of each bite, instantly amenable to the taste.
“Good meat?” the old man queried. “I know a couple of gray furred rogues that would gladly indulge in the rest of that carcass over there.”
Dragol glanced curiously at the old man, who was now sitting cross-legged on the ground. “So wars do not concern you at all?”
“Wars are for the young. Surely an old man, with no weapons, and no chest of gold, or pouch filled with silver coins, is of little concern,” the old man replied. “I just have this old walking staff. Should not be much of a threat to hordes of warriors with axes and swords.”
“Then you know little of your fellow humans, once the bloodlust is upon them,” Dragol commented darkly.
He did not bother to point out the fact that the old man was wearing a shining, golden ring that held a magnificent, luxuriant blue stone in it. The ring alone would evoke a response from marauding warriors bent on plunder and loot.
A somber expression then spread across the old man’s face. “Perhaps I do, but I have means of dealing with such things … or at least of avoiding such problems.”
“Ever more questions,” remarked Dragol irritably, cutting off another strip of meat for himself.
He thought back to the man’s demonstrative vanishing amid a thousand shards of light. The old man was doubtlessly speaking the truth, but Dragol had a feeling that there was a lot more to the old man than just his disappearance amid a burst of light.
“Have you found more questions?” the old man responded inquisitively, a searching look in his single eye.
“Just a short while ago, I was asking the wind to take my plea for help to you,” Dragol replied, wiping grease off his lower jaw with the back of his hand.
“And I may have even heard you,” the old man replied, with a sparkle dancing in his eye.
“Then I will ask you one of the questions again now … because if you did hear, I still have no answer. Why do you think I am anything more than what I am?” Dragol inquired, in a low, somber tone.
The old man smiled, as if inwardly amused with some thought that was percolating within him. “You are what you are, in truth. It is more of a matter of what you will reach out to do.”
His gaze lowered to Dragol’s chest. “That is a Thunder Wolf tooth, yes?”
Dragol nodded, and replied with a hint of melancholy. “We have relics of them, even if their howls can no longer stir our spirits in the night.”
“Incredible creatures,” the old man remarked.
“Do you know much of wolves?” Dragol asked him.
A bemused smile drifted across the old man’s face. “Yes, wolves have been a very close part of my life. Both friend and foe.”
“I have heard stories of the Midragardans … the ones that came up the rivers and settled among the people to the south of our lands, long ago,” Dragol said. He noticed that the old traveler’s eyebrow raised at the mention of Midragard. For the moment, he decided to keep the observation to himself. “I heard a story once about a great wolf, who wished to be a friend, but was betrayed and bound for all time.”
“Yes, that is a tale well-known in Midragard,” the old man stated, and there was a palpable tinge of sadness at the edges of his voice.