Hungry Heart - Book #2 - Ch. 17 (Patreon)

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen 

Chapter Seventeen – Burning Skies

Varg could tell the air was changing. The sudden warning from both Sog and Demophios had intruded upon their little break, bringing with it what he had already understood. The Great Barren demanded its tribute in blood. Maybe that was a reason why the caravans had become scarcer, and now no one traveled anymore across the desert, except for people like them who had a reason to face such hardships.

By his side, Claw was lost in thought, his lips pursed, his eyes still on the azure canvas above them.

“How should we get ready to face this storm?” Varg asked, bringing the bearshifter back to more practical matters. “Or away from it? Do we even have a chance to do so?”

“The storms of Zukh Kalegh,” Claw said in a noncommittal voice. “I heard stories as a cub, but I cannot say that I ever saw one with my own eyes.”

“Do the stories you heard have any good advice for us now? The skies look clear, but I wouldn’t be surprised at all to discover that the sandstorm Sog is talking about is already upon us and we don’t even know it.”

“Our new friend’s rush to have us all on the move is quite evident. You might be correct.” Claw didn’t waste any more time and followed the others’ example of drinking the last mouthful of fresh water.

Varg fell in line with the bearshifter, curious to hear what he had to say about the sandstorms of this place. A deep frown creased Claw’s forehead, hinting at the dark clouds now gathering inside his mind.

“Flea bag, are you worried?” Varg tried to keep his voice light and teasing, although he already knew the answer to his question.

“These sandstorms,” Claw began, “they’re like nothing you’ve seen, puppy, I’ll tell you that. They’re an enemy you cannot fight against.”

“We’ve made it through terrible things already. What’s one more?” Varg offered, his way of keeping the morale of the group up.

Claw laughed wholeheartedly at his comment. “Indeed. And you’re a bunch like no other I’ve ever encountered.”

“At least we have that,” Varg joked some more. “Since you’ve been keeping company with nothing but lizards and rats for the past centuries, it’s good to know that we’re above those creatures in your book.”

Claw hooked an arm over Varg’s shoulders. “I think I know why you’ve always been a pack leader. Why you were born one, puppy!”

“Feel free to tell me,” Varg eagerly replied, wanting to hear what the bearshifter truly thought of him.

“Duril is the heart of your group,” Claw said. “Toru is the impetus of young blood, the courage and bravery. But you’re the wisdom, the one to keep everyone together, never letting them falter.”

“What are we left with if we forgo hope?”

“Indeed. And you even gave this old bag of fleas some of that, too. You have plenty of hope in your heart, puppy, and that without being reckless. Our kitty might bristle at my calling you the alpha of this pack like no other on the face of the earth, but you’re the one in charge. Leaders of the world everywhere should take after you.”

“If I ever find the time, I’ll write a book on the important affairs of ruling kingdoms,” Varg joked.

“Or have your scholar deal with the tedious task of putting everything down in ink,” Claw said and pointed at Duril.

The healer walked in front, he and Toru being led by Sog whose steps were weighted by purpose. Unlikely alliances were bound to take life even under the merciless sun of the Great Barren. Or maybe a place like that was needed for them to blossom like the rare flowers of the desert.

***

Some of Sog’s impatience to leave the oasis and its cover behind was infectious, and Duril felt it, too. They had gone through so many trials during their time out here in the desert that feeling fear seemed like something that only happened to other people. Yet, at the moment, Duril understood that a sandstorm that could kill with the force of thousands of flying blades was enough to send the fear of all that was holy into the marrow of their bones.

Toru kept up with Sog, walking fast as well, and pulling Duril after him as if they had a special place in mind where they needed to arrive. “Sog,” he called out, “do you know where we are going?”

“Far, far,” Sog replied impatiently, “as far as we can go.”

“The skies above us are still crystal clear. If we rush right now, we might deplete all our strength before we’re far enough.”

“Not enough time, not enough time,” Sog whined and flailed his arms widely, like he could make them move faster by that alone.

“This ugly orc better be right about this storm or I’m going to wring his neck,” Toru mumbled. “And couldn’t you say there was a storm coming the moment you came to us, orc?”

“It’s a big one, big one,” Sog continued in the same manner. “The sky bleeds, the earth reeks.”

“Reeks?” Toru scrunched up his nose in disgust. “Why?”

“Death, she’s a mistress to the dead,” Sog said.

“Are you sure you didn’t pick this crazy one from some library or a witch’s tent?” Toru asked Duril pointedly. “He speaks in tongues, just like Agatha and that old man in Shroudharbor.”

“Sog,” Duril intervened. “Tell us more. What do you mean? Why is this storm bigger? And why are you so afraid all of a sudden?”

Sog stopped suddenly, as if it only then occurred to him that he had forgotten something. He turned and raised one stringy arm, pointing somewhere behind them. “Sog didn’t see that until the big bear looked at the sky.”

Duril felt chills down his spine before even turning to see what Sog was pointing at. But Toru was quicker than him, and now he stood there, wide-eyed. “What’s that?”

Claw and Varg who walked behind them stopped as well, curious about why they didn’t continue on their hurried journey. And it was a damned good reason to stop because the sky at the horizon burned.

At first glance, it appeared as if the fire came from the desert, the surface of the earth, but any flame had to come with smoke, and there was none of it. Even more, the flames blazing in the sky at a far distance for now were not yellow, but quickly turning orange or red. Duril blinked a few times, trying to chase away any mirage that could be playing tricks on his sight. But no, there was no mirage, only a sky burning with tendrils of blood.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” he addressed the question to no one in particular.

“Sog never,” the orc complained as if it were his fault that any of that was happening. “But Death, Death is coming. She’s black but she wears red, and she’s going to swallow the sun!”

“There must have been something weird in those fried lizards,” Toru declared, seemingly not as impressed as everyone else by the sight in front of their eyes. “I saw him sprinkle some crushed bug legs,” he added defensively when Duril looked at him. “It’s only a red sky.”

He had known Toru for a long enough time now to tell that he was making himself a good serving of courage with those words.

“We should hurry,” Claw said and turned toward them. The look in his eyes told Duril what he needed to know; the incoming storm was none of the usual, and the usual in the Great Barren had to be pretty bad to begin with.

Duril threw one last look at the red flames licking the sky, turning it slightly black wherever their tips touched. Or it could be just something conjured up by their imaginations, their minds already frightened by prophecies of times past. Whatever it was, their safety was the most important thing now, and Claw’s was sound advice.

***

“You know what it means,” Varg said the moment they were on the move again. “Your old stories, Claw, what can you tell us about them?” Even if the other three companions walked in front, they could hear the bearshifter clearly. Whatever this thing was, this new challenge that they were supposed to face, it was better to walk into the fray with more knowledge than the little Sog could offer them.

The orc was scared, and for a hardy creature like him, even one that had been born to be nothing short of a slave, it still said something about the danger they would soon meet, whether they liked it or not.

“I do, but are you ready for some more tales of doom?” Claw asked.

“We just escaped an entire horde bent on tearing us limb from limb. I’d say that there’s no better moment than right now,” Varg pointed out.

“True,” Claw admitted with a small smile. “You’re wise beyond your years, puppy. Is everyone else willing to hear what waits for us, according to old legends?” he asked, raising his voice a little to be heard well by the others.

“I do want to hear,” Duril replied right away.

“Is it a story where everyone lives happily ever after at the end?” Toru asked.

“No, I’m afraid it’s not that kind of story,” Claw said. “In this one, everyone dies at the end.”

“Then I don’t want to hear it,” Toru said hastily.

“Sog doesn’t want, either,” the orc added as he continued to sprint in front, gesticulating continuously to the others to follow.

“Two against two,” Claw said like he was weighing the matter. “It appears that it’s all down to me, if I want to tell this story or not.”

Varg grabbed his arm. “Tell it, Claw. Don’t mind the children.”

Toru turned with fire in his eyes. “Who’s a child?”

Varg smiled slyly. “You are since you’re so keen on listening to nothing else but bedtime stories.”

Toru huffed. “If it’s something we have to fight, we’ll fight. No need for stories that only say how we don’t stand a chance.”

The young tiger was right about that to a fault, but Varg appreciated knowing fully what they had to face, no matter how desperate the portrayal of such things sounded in the ears of those about to be trampled by unexpected twists of fate.

“And I’m too old for bedtime stories,” Toru added to spite Varg a little.

That earned him another pointed smirk. Varg didn’t mind teasing the tiger whenever the opportunity arose. “Yes, indeed. You’re fonder of different exertions before going to sleep.”

The golden eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, mutt?” Quickly, he understood, and then his eyes grew wide. “Duril, Varg is teasing me,” he complained to the healer right away.

“We should let Claw tell us the story,” Duril said. “Even if it’s not a happy one, it will help us understand what we must do.”

Sog seemed much more scared of listening to Claw’s story of doom than Toru. In the tiger’s case, Varg suspected that it had more to do with Toru’s stubbornness and wish to go sometimes against the rest, just because he was used to doing so. All his life, those traits must have come in handy while the world around him treated him like an outsider. Little by little, Toru showed that he trusted them, but such habits were nothing but an instinct honed by the meanness of those he must have met along the way.

“All right,” Toru mumbled. “But if you get scared, you’ll let me hold you close all through the night, yes?”

The question was directed at Duril, and Varg observed them with keen eyes. It would take some time for Toru to truly give the healer back his usual freedoms. Regardless of what effect Claw’s stories would have on Duril, the healer was still bound to sleep at night with the tigershifter coiled around him like a snake.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Duril replied with obvious tenderness in his voice.

“It looks like it’s time for you to tell us a story, Claw,” Varg said.

Claw nodded. “Very well, then. Story or not, what I know about what we can see burning on the sky if we only turn around has come to my knowledge as being the storm of the end of the world.”

“No, no, we shouldn’t listen,” Sog pleaded, this time more agitated than earlier. “We’ll die, we’ll die!”

“Orcs die from listening to stories?” Toru taunted him right away. “No wonder you never learn anything, and you’re all so mean. Nobody ever told you stories.”

Sog ignored him and just tried to run in front, away from them. Duril was the one to hurry after him and convince him to fall in line with the rest while talking in a low soothing voice.

Varg wondered whether Sog knew of another story, or a different telling of the same one. His fear was like a presence on its own even from that distance.

***

Duril had a tough time trying to get Sog to be less scared. “Sog,” he spoke gently, “my friends and I have gone through some incredible adventures until now, and I know that we are all going to fight to the last breath to survive. And we’ve survived and come out as victors from all our challenges.”

Sog shifted from one foot to another, jumping slightly and shying away from Duril’s touch. “Death comes. She never forgives and never forgets. You think you can fool her, but you cannot, not more than once.”

Duril threw a concerned look toward the rest of the group. Claw was waiting patiently for him to finish bringing Sog back so that he could tell his story. “You’re with us now. We’ll never leave you behind.”

Sog swung his body to and fro like a willow in the wind. “The horde, the horde,” he said like a little chant.

Duril didn’t need more words to understand what Sog was so wound up about. They were putting as much distance as they could between them and the evil rising at the horizon, but in doing so, they were getting away from the horde of Zukh Kalegh as well. Sog might have left his brethren behind in fear of getting punished for his betrayal by Yarag, but that didn’t sever the bond he had with his entire kin. Even Duril could feel it now after spending a while apart from them and understood more about what the call of blood meant. The only difference from before was that he could rein in the pull his heart strings experienced and choose to stay with the ones closest to his soul.

What happened in Sog’s heart was another matter. Orcs were not sentimental creatures, but what made them powerful was their sense of belonging, of being one with the horde. The more distance they put between them and Zukh Kalegh, the more unbearable things had to be for Sog. The orc couldn’t voice them, express his feelings, but his state of heightened agitation was the obvious sign that severing his ties with the horde would cost him a lot.

“We are your horde,” Duril said, remembering how he and Toru had become Varg’s pack when many of the wolfshifter’s brothers and sisters had perished at Whitekeep. If need be, they would all be orcs, too.

That appeared to have more of a calming effect on Sog, and the orc no longer tried to get away from his grasp. Duril managed, even if with some difficulty, to get him to walk side by side with him. Toru appeared next to them, too, but he was a lot less courteous as he grabbed Sog’s other arm and forced him to walk slower so that Varg and Claw could catch up with them.

***

Toru dug his fingers deep into Sog’s leathery forearm to keep the orc from dashing away. A cowardly one, he was. But he knew how to make Duril care for him, and that meant that he was also sly. On the one hand, Toru wanted to let Sog run away, even give him a little push so that he disappeared from Duril’s sight and life forever, but on the other, he knew that such a thing would break the healer’s heart. For all of Duril’s assurance that he didn’t care for this orc as he cared for Varg and Toru, the old green-eyed monster still played with his heart.

“Are orcs all cowards like you?” he scolded Sog.

“You’d be a coward, too, once you hear about it,” Sog said. “Just you listen, tiger, just you listen. The blood will curdle in your veins,” he added in a cavernous voice, “and you’ll fall dead where you stand. Sog heard about it, he did.”

“What did you hear? And how come you’re still alive if you already heard this story?” Toru asked, growing irritated with the orc’s antics and the struggle to keep him from getting away again.

But Duril couldn’t hold Sog down by himself, not without overexerting himself, so it was up to Toru to deal with this annoying creature.

“I didn’t hear the story,” Sog whined, “but what it can do to you if you hear it. You tell it, and you summon it.”

“What do you summon?” Toru insisted. Getting something out of this orc was a feat, but he wanted to get to the end of it, for the group’s sake.

“Death, Death, the mistress of the dead,” Sog’s words wept like the wind starting the rise.

Toru sniffed the air for a moment. Something was changing. A short look at Duril told him that he wasn’t the only one to feel it, and Varg and Claw appeared to have started to hurry and close the distance between them, too.

In his life, he had traveled, spent his days and nights on long roads that led to nowhere in particular. But now, he had a purpose in life, something to look forward to, and that something was to cross the desert with everyone else and himself included alive and well. If for that, fate required that he drag a useless orc around, so be it. And it seemed that not all that the orc feared was part of a tale meant to scare children.

“What does that story say, Claw?” he asked in a loud voice.

Sog shook him and Duril away but only so that he could cover his ears. At least, he made no other attempt to run away, but he began swinging his head to and fro with his palms cupped over the sides, to block any sound.

Toru ignored the orc and turned impatiently toward the bearshifter. “Well, what’s this story all about anyway?”

He wouldn’t admit it for the world that Sog’s reactions were making him a bit uneasy. Not frightened, not as the poor orc was, but it filled him with apprehension of the worst kind. Danger came in many shapes, as he had come to understand ever since he had entered Whitekeep and his new life had begun. Evil could lay low in the ground, in the pits of the earth, in the trees, and the corpses of those not fully dead, not alive either. It didn’t come straight at you, ready to grab you by the throat and strangle the life out of you. It was deceptive and clever.

Like someone he had come to know. “Demophios,” he asked, thumbing the silver pendant slowly, “what do you think? Should we hear Claw’s story?”

“Without a doubt,” came the prompt reply.

“Will Sog die if he hears it?”

“No, he will not.”

That was enough and quite clear seeing how, usually, Demophios cared not for giving such a straight answer. “Do you hear that, silly orc?” he said and shook Sog a little. “This snake who’s very old and wise says nothing will happen to you if you listen to Claw and his storm story.”

Sog let his hands down slowly, which meant that he had heard everything to this point just fine despite his protests. “I won’t die?”

“No,” Toru said with importance. “Nobody dies from listening to stories. They’re nothing but stories. Nothing makes them real unless you’re a silly orc who believes in such things.”

Sog didn’t mind the insults, and his mouth just stretched into a smile. Toru couldn’t suppress a grin of his own. Sog was that helpless, and no wonder Duril cared for him. Maybe they would keep him around, as a blacksmith and a cook of sorts, although he much preferred Duril’s cooking. Fried lizards on a stick would do in a pinch, though.

***

It appeared that Toru had managed, together with Duril, to calm the orc some, so Varg nudged Claw in the ribs. “It looks like you finally have everyone’s attention. I’d rather hear this awful story of yours before the real thing catches up with us.”

“You can feel it, right? The wind,” Claw pointed out.

Varg nodded gravely. Any lighthearted conversation they used to make the situation appear less dire than it was, still couldn’t deny what would soon follow. He inspected his companions quietly. Claw was a bear who had lived hundreds of years, trapped in a labyrinth, and his value in battle was proven. Toru was brave and strong, while Duril was compassionate and kind. They now had a new friend with them, and that friend was scared out of his wits by what Claw was about to say.

“The story,” the bearshifter began, “may seem like one of the many about how the world would end.”

“And isn’t it so?” Varg questioned, intrigued by the introduction.

It was easy to read denial in Claw’s posture. “Whenever this story was told, those who ushered the words out of their throats were gripped by a strange fever and they became part of the story.”

Varg stopped for a moment and caught Claw’s arm. “What do you mean?”

His question was echoed, a moment later, by Toru’s mirror question.

“I can only promise that I will try not to scare you much while I tell it,” Claw explained. “I might not sound much like myself at times.”

“And when were you going to enlighten us about this strange power of your story?” Varg asked, rightfully annoyed with the flea bag for keeping it a secret. “Then I would rather you don’t tell it at all.”

“Agreed,” Duril confirmed.

“Sog told you, Sog told you!” the orc intervened.

“You all agreed that you wanted to hear it,” Claw warned them. “Now there’s no turning back. And weren’t you all convinced that you wouldn’t become scared of a mere story? Toru, didn’t you call Sog a coward for not wanting to hear it?”

Varg increased his grip on Claw’s arm. “Why the ruse? Why the deceit?”

Claw sighed. “It is the unspoken rule. When one asks about the story of the storm of the end of the world, the one who knows it is bound to tell it. I searched for a way around it, by asking you to cast your vote on it, but you all insisted, and that is why I cannot refuse.”

“What a strange thing,” Varg commented. “And how did you come to be bound by the telling of this story?”

Claw offered him a lopsided grin. “Have I ever mentioned what kind of bear I was as a cub? My naughtiness brought this upon me.”

“Of course, you had to be a naughty bear,” Varg said with a sigh. “Before you begin, please tell us what to expect, and how you came to know the story.”

“Ah, at least this one is easy to tell,” Claw said. “It must have been around the time when I was barely getting used to my powers as a shifter. I liked the strength it gave me, how fast and far I could travel, mingle with humans, and listen to their stories.”

“And I bet it was from this thirst of yours for stories that this predicament came about,” Varg expressed his belief.

“You guessed right, puppy. One of the places I liked to travel was a city called Edgehelm. Mostly a place for merchants of all kinds, it’s on the road to the heart of Eawirith, Scercendusa.”

“Scercendusa? I’ve heard of it. The uncrowned jewel of our world, don’t people say that?” Varg asked.

“Yes, indeed. No ruler or king can say his word as loud as needed for the entirety of Eawirith to lean its ear toward, but Scercendusa is as close as it can be to be considered the beating heart of this far and wide place we all call our home.”

“Have you ever been there?”

Claw shook his head, and Varg recognized nostalgia in that simple gesture. “I’ve always wanted to see it but never got the chance.”

“You’ll see it, my friend. But first let’s get out of here. Nothing’s more entertaining than listening to some story while we hurry as far from that thing as we can.” Varg gestured with his chin slightly, without turning. He didn’t need to face that horizon burning to know that there was no more time to dally.

“Then let me start by telling you how I got into this terrible predicament of being forced to tell a frightening story about the end of the world whenever someone asks.”

Varg nodded in acquiescence. He could tell by how the others threw short looks toward them that they were as curious as he was to hear that story.

Claw began. “I was no longer quite a cub when I started traveling like that. Such a young thing I was, and one with little in this big melon,” he knocked all-knowingly against his head, “but a lot going on here,” he added and placed one hand over his chest. “A thirst for adventure consumed me, and I fed on the stories humans told as they traveled to Edgehelm from all corners of Eawirith.”

“I also like to travel everywhere,” Toru pointed out. “But I’m not looking for stories, but for meat,” he added with emphasis.

That naturally earned him a few good laughs from everyone. Varg noticed how Sog was staring at them with keen eyes, curious eyes that told the story of someone who hadn’t been included much in discussions of this kind.

“I can tell you that if you ever reach Edgehelm, there are plenty of places where you can enjoy the best steaks you ever tasted,” Claw replied. “They have everything; beef, lamb, rabbit, pork, and deer. And even pheasant if the time for it is right.”

Toru smacked his lips in the most convincing manner. “And all I had today was some fried lizard,” he complained.

“It was good,” Sog protested. “Big fat juicy lizard. Keep your pork and deer.”

“Just go on with your story, Claw, or these two will end up fighting over meat they don’t have,” Varg said. “Kitty, shut up or I’ll munch your ears.”

Toru huffed, but it looked like he was just as curious, so for once in his life, he did as he was told.

“I happened to be on my third or fourth visit to Edgehelm, enjoying the fantastic food one of the inns there offered, when at a table near me, three merchants took their seats and shortly after ordering, they began to engage in hushed conversation. I don’t know what of me wanted to hear what they were saying, but I leaned in, and having been blessed with the ears of a shifter, I could hear them quite clearly when any other human being couldn’t have made out one word of what they were talking about.”

Claw took a small break and eyed his audience as if to see if he had their attention. No one said a thing and all ears were perked up, ready for the story. “By the sorry state of their clothes, I could tell that they had just crossed the Great Barren. They had sand up to their eyeballs, and their travel clothes were in terrible need of a wash. They had to be hungry, and it appeared that the inn at which I was dining at the time was their first stop.

“One of them appeared shaken, and the other two were exchanging strange looks. ‘That story,’ one of the two commented. ‘Could you imagine a stranger thing?’ ‘No,’ the other replied. At this point, my curiosity had made me shift my chair slightly closer to hear more. The shaken one mumbled something under his breath, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Nobody could, I suppose, because his companions didn’t even pay him any mind.”

“Had that merchant heard the story?” Toru asked. “Will it make us lose our minds?”

Varg had to admit that it wasn’t farfetched to believe such a thing. Stranger occurrences took place all the time, as it seemed.

“No, it won’t. I heard it, and nothing except for the curse of telling it happened to me. And that merchant wasn’t out of his mind, either, just scared. Allow me to continue. The first merchant finally spoke, and his voice was clear as crystal, something that took me by surprise, seeing how ever since their trio had set foot inside the inn, he appeared to be so out of it. He said, ‘You don’t have to speak as if I’m not even here.’ The other two appeared quite chastised and invited him to talk about it. ‘Could you tell us the story that got you into such a state, my friend?’ one of them urged him. ‘If I do,’ he said, ‘you’ll be bound by the same curse as me.’ Needless to say, this is what I’m about to tell you now. You’ll hear the story from me, and you’ll be bound by it.”

Varg nodded gravely. Duril and Toru turned to confirm their stance on the matter, while Sog shivered and wrapped his arms around himself.

“You’ll be bound by it, and so will we since we asked for it,” he spoke for everyone and stared directly at Claw to encourage him to talk.

TBC

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