Thrice Bested by Chaos: A Lesson

Once (The Rune of Fate)

I awoke. Aransar stood over me, his hand on my back, whence moments before white pain ripped through my body as the broo’s impossible strike had burst my kidney, robbing me of my senses. I looked around at the carnage – Aransar had dispatched the remainder of the feral goatmen swiftly to come to my aid, and thus I cheated Death once again. Yet it puzzled me on our long trek through the glooms of the marshes back to the camp – throughout the battle my sword had been cutting through the Chaos filth like water, dropping broo after broo with a single strike each time, whilst Aransar had taken wound on wound and had trouble felling the beasts that beset him: yet out of nowhere a freakish blow had levelled me; and my comrade – who I had thought wavered so close to Death throughout the fight – had fared better than I in the longer run. How was this possible?

I shrugged it off as we heard the welcome taunts and braying of Saul and Orstanor as we neared our campsite. It was good to reunite again and tell the tale of our sojourn in the morass, revealing our trophy of the dozen heads we had dragged between us. I was heartened by our kills, and eager to return to the dread Krjalki Bog to claim a yet greater prize. We had enjoyed our warm-up – now for the real deal!

I was surprised that Aransar declined such an idea outright. He stated that this was not our mission, that it was a stupid distraction that could easily see us all killed for nothing. He counselled against my continued urges to take up arms again and fight Chaos! I could see that he was resolute, but hid my disappointment. How could he understand the sheer joy in the sanctity of The Hunt? He had not journeyed with me for seasons in the fellowship of the Brown Boar Clan, and had not come to know the secrets and the Holy Knowledge of The Foundchild. Here I was again, in the company of a tribe who understood – and although they considered me a mere Groundman, I knew the importance of bringing back a fine and powerful kill, of how this would change all of our esteem and fortunes among these barbarian Bison Riders! Though the bond of kinship was nowhere near the same as I had felt in Balazar, I shared something good and holy with them, and looked forward to further earning their respect.

Once Aransar has made his mind, he is all but impossible to shift. As I tried to soften him toward my purpose, I started to see his decision as stubbornness - mulish, obstinate. The others seemed to follow his lead. He mocked me for forgetting how close to Death I had been – that had he failed to cast his healing spell, I would be dead now. As I looked over at the clutch of severed heads we had dumped as far from our fire as possible, they seemed paltry, wanting – a feeble catch indeed, and one that would bring little admiration – even derision – from our peers among the Riders. We could do better than this.

The Hell! I could do better than this!

Had I not spent long seasons among the Hunters of the Plains of Balazar? Was I not beloved of The Foundchild? Did I not – singlehanded and unarmoured – fell the awful Allosaur in close combat in The Elder Wilds? And had I not been touched by the mighty hand of Orlanth Himself? And did I not bear the Windsword of Alakoring Dragonbreaker? Was I not his descendant – was I not Chosen? One such as I could not fail. While my companions urged caution, I felt once again the thrill of the challenge upon me – the call of adventure and of Fate. It had fallen to me, The Dragonslayer, once again – as it had so often throughout my life – to rise alone to take on the deadliest of challenges.

So it was that, destined for greatness in all things, with the blessings and protection of Gods if not of men, I strode forth from camp the next morning. I was fey. My heart was brimming with pride. My arm was strong, my movements quick, my blades as sharp as my wits and my spirit bold and powerful. The epitome of all that is Orlanthi, I stalked out into the swirling mists of the Krjalki Bog.

So arrogant. So full of shit.

Twice (The Rune of Death)

Kulbrast is laid out upon the tussocks and the muds of the Bog. He stares out toward the broiling mass of the black clouds of the Storm Bull high above him, his mouth agape. The once-glorious yellow crescent of the crest upon his helm lies dirtied in the slime not far from his head. His arms lie by his sides, one hand loosely resting on the haft of his great spear, the other clutching at the strapping of his bronze shield where it lies beneath him. One leg is bent under the other where he fell. A muddy stain creeps slowly up through his leather armour and his clothing. He is sinking very gently as the ground gives way a little beneath his weight. And The Windsword strapped on his back sinks with him.

Kulbrast! Kulbrast, close your mouth! And shut your eyes! Do you not know that you are dead, man?

There is no mark of blood upon his fallen body. No grimace of pain or horror on his face. Only a vague bemused look of slight astonishment, of mild surprise.

Kulbrast – tighten that slack jaw, and firm your lips together. Let your eyes close. Your life is spent and done. Kulbrast!

Yet I am Kulbrast. I’m standing right here, by his corpse. I’m looking at him, yet I am him. I can see him, he’s right there, yet I am here. I can hear nothing. The miasmal stench of the Bog has disappeared. I cannot feel the drizzle that’s lightly falling. The entire foetid swamp makes not a sound. Looking around, I can see the deep fog has strangely thickened – not ten paces away it now obscures my sight completely. There is that vile beast of Chaos, its serpentine neck bent over as its enormous blunted face indolently chews on the knots and clumps poking from the filthy waters. Its horrid pale pink insipid eyes gawp stupidly out through the disgusting layers and flaps of skin about its cheeks and brow at the floating lumps of rot, as it turns about and slowly shuffles its clumsy bovine form through the mire. Its strange, snake-like mane jerks the javelin from the deep wound in its shoulder, and pulses to and fro as if beneath the ocean. It lazily lifts its long tail, and empties its noxious bowels onto the ground, part covering Kulbrast’s shoulder and face.

See? I told you to shut your mouth! Now you really are a shit-head!

And dead to boot. As I watch, Kulbrast starts to rot. The rains that wash over this endless quagmire wash the ordure from his face, but the skin around his black tattoos turns clammy and pale, wrinkles in the thick humidity. He turns grey, then greenish-brown, and fluids start to seep from his cadaver, mingling with the polluted muck beneath him. His cold blue eyes shrink in their sockets. His cheeks tighten over the teeth, and now he starts to grin in his idiocy, no longer looking merely surprised, but ghoulish and grotesque. The great Rune of Truth stamped into his countenance mocks the memory of the vibrancy of his life.

And all the while, I wonder: What am I doing here? This is not as I have been told! When the body is killed, the spirit leaves for its Afterlife – it flies and pays no mind to the world it leaves behind. I should be Wandering Upon The Winds, or feasting in the Hall of Swords, or running across the Plains of the Hunting Grounds – or at least padding through the Halls of the Dead, to be judged by Daka Fal. I was ever pious, ever faithful. I was Chosen. Where is Paradise? Why am I still here? Still sentient, still conscious, still feeling emotion? Still in the Krjalki Bog?

How much time is passing? I cannot tell if it is truly day or night in this perpetual murk, lit only by lightning, by the odd gloomy patch of light, by bog-phosphorescence. I do not hunger or thirst. But I feel. And I sense a feeling growing. An unfamiliar feeling, something I denied long, long ago, something that seems strange, and rich, and consuming. What is it?

I am all alone here. I see the odd rodent, hellishly distorted by the Chaos. But they come not near Kulbrast’s decaying remains – something keeps them away. He’s half-sunk in the sod now. His face, having tightened, has now slackens and bloats, and looks ready to drop from his skull. I look beyond him into the shiftless fog, but I can see no further. Dear God, please take me now!

I cry out within me to Orlanth, to the Foundchild, to the Hearth-Mother! To the God of Death, to Humakt, please, I should not be here! I desperately push my will out to the Heavens – to All that is Holy, take my spirit, I beg you please!

Nothing. And then I realise what it is, this feeling that has been growing and gnawing at me. It is terror – unbridled and simple and pure.

I have been forgotten. Forsaken. I am tied to Kulbrast’s feculent carcass, and will remain until his shell is utterly withered and wasted away. And still I will remain, a remnant of a shade growing madder and more horrified as the seasons and years in the mortal realms pass by, on and on. I remember the awful presence of the spirit of the Aldryami Prince Torlane, his ghost brushing over my awareness, and all the centuries of his solitude and pain pushing through me, and I looked down on Kulbrast – on me – and I quailed.

And all the memory of the Deaths I had denied came howling over me. The desperate fight alone with the Battle Priest of Yara Aranis, only delivered by the arrival of my comrades. The flight across the rooftops of Elkoi, pursued by the Yelmalion Priest, burnt, frantic and finally falling long into the night, alone, not knowing where my friends had gone to. Lying with my leg ripped open and my blood flowing into the sward of Balazar, the pain-maddened Wyvern flapping savagely beyond the reach of my spear-tip – but for how long? Rescued only by those who would come to be my Brothers.

Each and every time I was alone. Do I learn nothing?

Unable to weep, to scream, to run, I remain and look down on the physical wreck that is Kulbrast. And so I will always remain.

For where are my friends now? You fool. Now feel the fright. The dismay. The terror.

Oh Kulbrast!

Yet what is this, now... something comes –

Baruba (The Rune of Spirit)

It floats out of the mists and stops directly before me: a Morokanth. It’s wearing bracelets of finger bones, skirts of the ribs of a man – saliva floods suddenly from its mouth as its eyes widen and it points the polished femur in its hand at me, and – its hand? It’s not a Morokanth, but a Man dressed in the skins of hyenas, covered in paint and tattoos whooping and dancing, falling to all fours and then – it’s a Baboon, it sits back on its haunches, farts loudly, looks up at me and grins then utters a piercing shriek, before its muzzle blunts, its hands curl under it and – it’s a Bison standing stolidly before me. Placid, yet indefatigable, its piercing gaze implacable. It stands a long time staring into me before it suddenly bares its teeth, and its tusks, and its nose suddenly lengthens into a snout, and a huge brown boar sits down on its flanks in front of me. Its shoulders rise as it breathes deeply, lets out a snort, and speaks to me.

“Kulbrast”

Baruba, I reply.

“What learned you, Dragonslayer?”

I look into the brown boar’s eyes, those sad, compassionate, wholly avuncular eyes, and I feel once more that tender evocation: that sense of both belonging, and being beloved. How did I ever walk away from this?

That I cannot rely on myself. That I need others to survive, to live, and to be. That I need to listen to the counsel of my friends. For where one is ignorant, another will be knowing. Where one is weak, another will be strong – and the strong should be respected; the weak protected. The skill is to know discernment.

“Yes, yes,” Says Old Baruba, “But learned you this all long ago – does so much leave your mind since last we parted?”

There is no scorn or mockery in his sad old eyes, only the gentle imploring, the invitation to let one drop one’s guard.

I have not the ears to listen. And now I am dead.

“Ha! Ha!” he gently chuckles. “Beloved of Foundchild, you are wrong both ways. You have ears, but it’s your killing makes you proud where you should find you humbled. And you are not dead, or what do you do here?”

Not dead? Not dead.

“Young Kulbrast, you were birthed in lands far far away, to family high in standing among your folk – noble, you would call it. You were Chosen, by your clan holyman, to bear the great religious charge of all your tribe. So it would have been had you been born to Us - Chosen by the Shaman of Our people: can be no doubt, I would have Chosen you. You have the Gift, the one that Votank gave Us. The Gift of Being Spirit not Just-Flesh. I saw this in you that first day we met, boy. But this Gift in you, unnurtured, came to fail. Like the piglet or the pup that is rejected by its mother, you were brought up by Other Hands, and your Gift failed to thrive. So all you have’s awareness of yourself beyond your Flesh Self. But you cannot move, or manifest your powers in the Realm of Living Flesh. You are shamanic – but you will never be a Shaman. Had you been born to Us, this would be different indeed.”

Why am I tied to this dead body?

“’gain, I tell you: you have the ears, so listen. You cannot die like others. ‘Tis your Gift: but the Gift has fallen like fruit on stony ground, and withered like the body on that marsh there now. Your soul will never leave your body. Yet, unlike me, you cannot Spirit-fly to where you will, and unlike me you cannot call The Hearth-Mother to heal-up that empty shell and shift yourself back in: you never were taught how – so such a Gift becomes a Curse. Though your Flesh Self die, Kulbrast, you always shall remain.” His deep dark eyes wrap me in their gaze, and a tear streaks slowly down his snout.

Oh no, no! Help me, great Baruba! How do I get out of this? I do not deserve it! I was Chosen for other, greater things!

“Many Chosen be, my son, but only few run along with Destiny, their Fate. Not enough is it, you hear, to be one Chosen – to rise to such a mark’s a rare thing. Do you not remember the teachings of Our Clan? Your Gifts are there for others, as others’ Gifts are there for you. Baruba don’t know what the future holds for you. Not even Gods can know that, but I do know this: you must find a way to loose your tie to this world. You must find a way before your body dies again.” And the boar is suddenly gone, and replaced by a Man in a shroud, who turns his face to me to reveal it is but a mirror.

Again? How can I die again?

“You are not dead. This ain’t your body’s end.” The boar returns again, and fixes me with its time-lost contemplation. “And remember, if you should find all else forgetting: remember the Rule of Harmony. Unity. Indivisibility. You be at one with All, and All is One with you. You cannot separate from your brethren.” The great boar’s eyes glint – I know that he is smiling.

This is not my body’s end?

“The Rule of Harmony: your friends are coming! Think you they would desert you? Think again!”

How? How can this be?

“Dragonslayer! Find that way to sever your self from your body. Find that way, or so you be forever caged.” The aged brown boar shifts its mass, presses its weight onto its forelegs and stands again. He looks at me long. “Goodbye, my son. The blessings of The Hearth-Mother, of The Foundchild, of Votank, of all Brown Boar Clan go with you. And the blessings of Baruba go with you too. I go Spirit-fly and start manipulate the Dreamings of your Mentor, that ‘fore he know it he make it right for your return.” And he turns, and he leaves, disappearing into the fog again.

And in the Krjalki Bog, here comes Orstanor.

Thrice (The Rune of Harmony)

I have ears, and I can listen.

Humbled by my folly, I have learned.

Saul has dropped, mercifully unconscious as his leg parts at the knee. Swerving the sting of the Scorpion Man, I fall upon him, grab his severed limb and teleport us as far as the gloom permits me to see, back up the tunnel whence we entered.

“Orstanor! Run!”

I kneel and wave the curve of the lightwall behind me, to give him easy sight to the edge of the abyss. The bellows of the Chaos beastmen bawl after him as he hurtles through to the precipice where we reappeared. Quickly I hold Saul’s leg to the stump, and command my bound spirit to heal his injury. Immediately he’s conscious, and I point him to the rope across the chasm and back to safer ground. I ready my spear and shield and yell for Orstanor to follow him, as I stand and brace myself for the Scorpion Men’s charge.

But no charge comes, the lightwall’s glare keeps the Chaos-lovers at bay, and Aransar comes pelting through the brilliance, his Darkwalk ended in its blaze. He turns and stands to face them should they choose to run at us, and I take his cue to make my way across the rift.

As Aransar shouts abuse back across to the wretched beastmen that attacked us, we turn and start the long jog back down to Only Safe.

We keep together in the darkness. We move as one. We are a unit, a band brought together by Fate and Gods, each uniquely talented, each gifted in his way: a disparate bunch, strong-minded and self-willed, yet learning to find our way to live, fight and journey as one - each chosen for this quest we are upon and which unites us as a team. Some of us have fallen on the way; some died, and some quit to live for other things. But if we who are left can keep our temperaments united, if we can cleave together in the face of Chaos, if we can bind ourselves to complement our humours - we may live to see the end, the dreadful end that I have seen in all my dreams.