Heir of Doom: Chapter 1 - The Calling

1  -- The Calling
         I hear you out there, my friends. I hear the soft shuffle of sheets as you toss around. Kick harder at the covers tucked too tight between the mattress and the bedspring. It will not help. I hear the faint scratching of air blowing between tiny hairs inside a nose, although the heavy growl of snoring from one nearly blocks out all the rest. Roll over, my friend, and give the rest of us some simple peace. That’s better.  For me.  For you? That’s a matter of opinion. For I also hear the panic in the buried thoughts of your subconscious and the unreasonable quickening of your heart. You’re asking yourself, “Is this real?” I ask, “What is real?” For my friends, we all drift through fantasies and realities without any verifiable proof of truth.
         But that, my friends, is not the point. 
         As I was saying, I hear you very well. I know you’re there, even though I cannot see you. For I belong to the in-between where it is very dark. Very dark, indeed. The dark is like death, but deeper and longer and colder. Like standing for the first time at a high altitude, where the air is siphoned from your body while your lips and mouth pant to trap it. The dark is like death, but not final.
         No, not final.
         There is light, and like all light, it appears with no discernible start.  We can chase this light, you and I, if you so like. I must warn that such tricks, such excursions can cause irreparable harm. Take this chance, my friends, to turn back and wander the dark till morning. Then wake.
         “Life is a dream, then you wake.”
         Some of you have gone, but the multitude remains. Very well. You have been warned. Now, where was I?
         The two, light and dark, have spent eternity denying each other’s existence. Yet, there cannot be one without the other. For they, like all of you of many where’s and when’s, are weaved, forever tangled together.
         But, my friends, that is not the point. Not the point at all.
         See the light, brilliant and tragic, cascading, pouring, streaking, drowning out the dark. Then swirling, swirling, swirling, swirling, swirling…
         Now form.
         “Paw and claw and hand.”
         See it through my milky, white pupils that view nothing and everything. The paw digs and tears. The claw burns and consumes. The hand. Well, the hand provides and denies.
         Now form.
         See it now, my friends, for soon rest will come for the weary. Soon dark once more. But, for now, see it.
         A boy, very near a man, stripped to the waist, his golden skin draped in a blanket of light and shadow from a late-summer sun fighting through the high branches of an old oak. The great river, very near, covers his movements. He stands stiff on one foot, slowly raising a spear in his right hand. This boy, fated to carry three swords into the end of all things, prepares to strike.
         See it now.
         The great river – one not meant to be entered, not meant to be crossed – and a bloated, blue carcass floating face up with one remaining eye staring up to the heavens. Can you hear him, my friends, muster just enough of a shout to perk up vigilant ears?
         See it now.
         See them all. The entire cast of hope and doom spilled forth before you.  The fated boy. The one-eye man. The witch. The twin kings. The ailing queen and her daughter. The obedient servant. The fat mayor. The ambitious jezebel. The grotesque children and the demon.
         “You’ve done this.”
         “You’ve done this?”
         “You’ve done this.”
         “YOU’VE DONE THIS!”
         Hear the voices, my friends. A million voices, from a million dreams, from a million worlds, all waiting for you and I in the dark. I did warn you of the consequences.
         “Come now, heir of doom. Come and let us put an end to this. Come, let us begin anew.”
         Come now, my friends. See the boy save this reckless man. See it all. See it now.

*          *          *

         
         In order to lull the Zuna out of its den, Oan established his presence early that morning, slowly blending his body and his breathing into the world. From there, he stretched his mind out into the pulse of life, feeling for any small shift.
A breeze swept from the northwest over the plain and the slender, high blades of yellowing grass gave way. Far away, Oan sensed the breeze well before hearing or feeling it. Bending his left knee to a right angle to the ground, he waited for it. Time passed on his solitary rise, and the muscles in his left leg ached to be released. It was late afternoon and since morning he had balanced upon his bare left foot. Closing his eyes, he dismissed the pain from his mind before it could fester. Taking a slow breath through his nose and then exhaling through a slim passage between his lips, the breeze came and Oan straightened his leg and let his arms flail naturally. The mighty oak’s limbs creaked, masking the cracks of Oan’s stiff, weary bones. Oan pointed the spear in his right hand toward the tree, and the den dug out at the base of its thick trunk.
         Soon.
He chased away the thought, returning to “the pulse” or as the elders of the Alrdoubi called it, “the sway of the spirit.”  Before him was the small opening to the den, but nothing else, not even the oak. The sun faded. The sky dimmed. The grass and the soil below disappeared. The sound of the Belnor rushing by in the distance ceased. Nothing remained, but Oan, the opening, and the sway of the spirit. When the hunter reached that point, the elders said, he was one with the spirit and among it. The prey no longer observed the hunter as a threat, but as an object of the spirit like the tree or the grass or the sun and sky.
         The sway of the spirit was nothing more than a myth, even among the elders. Not one of the Aldroubi hunters, other than Oan, possessed the patience, stamina and will to achieve the sway. Many came close in every hunt, but they only achieved physical blending into the environment, which was good enough to fool most beasts. But, there was one beast that no Aldroubi hunter could catch without achieving the sway. The Zuna.
         The Zuna lived underground, burrowing tunnels at equal intervals in ovals around its den with its sharp, curved claws. It fed mainly on grubs, but also had a taste for bark, which it would venture out for at dusk. Almost completely blind, the Zuna depended upon a sense of hearing far greater than any man. The Zuna memorized the sounds near its den and refused to leave if it sensed any threat. With the whispers of a harsh winter on the tongues of the trees, the Aldroubi sought out the Zuna. Its claws and earlobes brought luck to an entire tribe, which left Oan to deliver that luck.
          The Aldroubi called it the sway of the spirit, but Oan perceived it in the terms of tapping into the pulse. His concentration faltered. The single word – pulse – brought her to his mind. The image of the den faded, quickly replaced by the looming shadows of ancient trees from an angry forest. He was a young boy there, barely five years old, shaking and scared with shivers creeping up his spine.
         “I can not do this!” His small voice shouted out into the dark. Somewhere an owl hooted and moments later a squeal, probably of a rat, started then abruptly stopped.
         “Start slow, dear one,” her voice slithered up from nowhere, and he swatted at his ear thinking he felt her lips and tongue.
         “I can’t!” he shouted.
         “Start with the foot.” This time her voice rushed by in a gust of wind. Wrinkling his brow, he lifted his right foot off the ground. “Good, only man stands on two feet for long. Stand on one, it mimics the trees and the grass.”
         “I am cold!”
         Her voice returned as a slap that burned the right side of his face. Losing his balance, he put his right foot back down, and an acorn stabbed into his heel.
         “Do not lie to me, dear one. I know, as well as you, that the cold no longer touches your skin.”
         Rubbing his face as the pain dissipated then disappeared; he scowled in no particular direction. He knew she was nowhere near and yet was everywhere.
         “Now, begin anew,” she said.
         Lifting his leg, he sighed. Around him the forest moaned, filling contempt for the woman into his heart and head. When he grew bigger, he’d leave this woman and her tests behind.
         “Now, clear your mind of all thoughts, your heart of all feeling,” she whispered.
         Forcing out thoughts of escape, he closed his eyes and cleared everything inside.
         “Good.” How she knew his mind and heart were clear, he did not know, but she was right. “We shall start with your breathing. Start with a count of five through your nose then release through the mouth the same…”
         So it went every night for years through summers and winters, rain, snow and wind. As the forest receded from his memory, the den opening returned, one final image from his bleak childhood pushed through his thoughts. One pair of shining emerald eyes floated in the darkness. He nearly toppled over and before he could stop it, his heart named her. The Witch!
         “Aarrggggg!” A voice tickled his ears from the direction of the Belnor. Reality ripped through his concentration, and he lost the pulse. Glancing toward the opening, the slick, gray head of the Zuna peeked out only for a moment.
         “Aarrrgh!” The voice returned slightly louder and definitely coming from the river to the west. The Zuna’s head turned, its black eyes squinting toward Oan and its two brown nostrils sniffing. Holding still, Oan knew it could not see him.
         “Arrrgh!” The voice let out. Most would not have heard it still, but Oan did and so did the Zuna. Launching the spear, Oan watched in horror as the Zuna receded back into the safety of its den. The spear point shattered as it struck the trunk of the oak.
         “Curses!” Oan shouted, lifting his eyes to the orange sky then turned his attention away from his failure. The voice had sounded from the river of that he had no doubt. From one curse to another, he thought, before breaking into a sprint across the field. “Belnor,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

*          *          *

         See him now, one last time unhindered and unburdened, my friends. He glides across the golden field, his red-brown skin shining in dusk’s multi-toned light, and the strands of his dark brown hair falling about down to the sharp corners of his shoulders. He runs like he was made for nothing else with long, easy strides. He jumps, one leg in front of the other, avoiding a boulder hidden in the valley. Notice the way the blades of grass slice his flesh all the way up to his thighs leaving long red welts that melt away as quickly as they are made.
         This is no ordinary young man, my friends. Not ordinary, at all. Now he runs toward a river, special by its own measure. A river he knows all too well.

*          *          *

         The memory of a toy ship carved out of a block of sycamore with dried deerskin stretched thin as masts sailed into Oan’s mind as he crossed the field and entered a copse of trees.  He remembered the ship dancing upon the waves of Belnor, away from his chubby fingers and down the current. His short legs ran along the soft bank. He fell cutting open his knee. The wound would be his last, and he still had a light-colored scar as a reminder that he once possessed the frailty of a mortal body.
         He hovered above the choppy, icy waters of Belnor, extending his arm out. In the recesses of his mind, there were bubbles and foam along the bank that caught his young eye right before plunging through the surface. After that, only the dark accompanied by a thousand pricks of pain. And one other thing … the shrieking voices.
         In the copse, Oan fell to his knees grasping his ears. Ringing above the multitude was the name. Each repetition filled with more terror until the last. His voice – hissing and faint – came from the depths of his torture in the underworld. Looking around, shadows grew from the branches of each tree. Oan closed his eyes tight blocking out the voice. 
         “Leave those souls behind, dear boy,” the witch’s voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere that day long ago. He sees her emerald eyes behind his own eyelids. They glowed green as she pulled him from the frigid waters that day all those years ago. His world turned dark and stayed that way for weeks after, but those eyes remained through it all.
         They were there again when he closed his eyes. Two complex emerald orbs fixated upon him. He rose shaking away all the memories, including her, and allowed time for one last long breath. Ahead, Belnor waited.

***

To understand Belnor, one must be aware of its origins, my friends. For the science of your worlds does not apply to this mass of flowing water. To call it a river is like to call a mountain a hill or a lion a cat.
         Understand this my friends, there are things out there that cannot be explained with physics or geography. That beyond reason is fantasy and beyond that is… is truth.
         But that is not the point. 
         Once, a great long while ago, an age for those who measure time, a man conceived for the single purpose of driving evil from these lands, achieved that fate. The price? Immortality. Seems fair. Maybe a reward. But a man plagued with gifts, longs for that which he cannot have. In rage, perhaps insane for those who measure such things, he climbed to the peak of the mountaintop known as Kekur in the old kingdom of Marek, to which he was king, and cut into the heavens with Lunar, the sword bestowed upon him to fight off the dark.
         Spilling from the heavens came the voices of all that ever prayed, shouted, cursed and begged to the above. With them, water so cold that it would freeze solid if it ever stilled. Belnor split the land, dividing kingdoms and people, driving due south till it seeped into the fires of the underworld. Where the two met, a dense, black fog still rises.
         This man was named Tarek Grandar. He moved on from this world not long after doing this by taking the door in the cave to another world and another dream.
         But, Belnor remained. Impassable. Imposing. Enchanted.
         Now see him, our fearless boy, the only being to enter the waters and live to tell about it, standing upon its eastern bank. See him.

*          *          *

         From the bank, Oan heard the rambling of the man floating on his back just far enough away that Oan could not reach him without also going into the water. His words were no doubt repeating those screeching from the haunted river. The man’s skin was purple, and Oan could not figure how he had survived in there so long. Oan could tell he was not Aldroubi. He was from the west, but that was impossible, the shore was not even visible from here.
         “Leave those souls behind.” The witch’s voice crossed time and distance. Oan’s shoulders tensed.
         “Your days of controlling me are over!” Without another moment’s thought, he jumped into the river. Along the edge, his feet hit the bed below. Unlike any other river or lake he’d been in, the bottom was as solid as a sheet of ice. No mud. No dung. No fish darting between his intruding legs. He nearly fell backwards. “Don’t go under. Can’t go under.”
         He was up to his knees, then his waist, and before long all feeling below faded, even the tingling of his body healing dulled.  He waded out to the man, the water reaching his shoulders. Every beat of his heart thumped slowly in his ears. Grabbing the man by the collar, he started back. Keeping his head above the surface of the water seemed to keep the voices away, but they were there. Like hearing a whispered conversation from across a campfire.
         The man in his soaking rags and bloated body was unbelievably heavy, although the true weight of Oan’s new burden did not come until trying to pull the man from the waters onto the bank. The river clung to him as if it desired to carry him all the way to the underworld.  Finally, Oan hoisted the man onto the bank.
         For the first time, Oan truly saw the mangled features of this stranger.  A man this disfigured did not end up in the Belnor by accident. A long, deep scar with blistering red sores ran from his forehead down between his eyebrows then curved at his nose, claiming his left nostril and then slashed across his cheek. His right eye was swollen and closed, and there was no more than an empty socket where his left eye should have been. The two middle fingers on his left hand were gone to the knuckle.
         “Curses man, what happened to you?” Oan rubbed his hands up and down the man’s body trying to warm him. Looking around, he dashed back toward the copse and brought back a load of twigs. Striking two stones together, he started a small fire there along the banks of Belnor and moved the man as close as possible without burning him. The flames came slow, but soon he was able to leave the fire to retrieve more wood. Feeding the sticks into the flame, Oan pondered his next move.
         “Listen, if you can,” Oan began, “I cannot carry you back to our camp. I must go now, and get aid. I shall return.”
         The man showed no sign of comprehension. His breathing was labored, and his face, already ugly, was contorted in a horrific look of anguish. Oan watched him and then built the fire up higher. As Oan made to leave, a hand that felt no more than bones covered by a thin layer of decaying skin latched onto his arm. The man’s one eye, blue and frantic, glared up at him.
         “He’s returned,” he croaked.
         “Who?” Oan pulled his arm away. Not much gave him the shivers, but that man’s touch drove a torrent of fear down Oan’s neck down to the tips of his toes.
         “Salama.” The man collapsed again into a delirious sleep. Blood drained from Oan’s face. He ran then to chase away the memory of that name.

*          *          *

         Now, my friends, there are beings that span the distance between dreams and between worlds. They appear, disappear, and reappear, filling the gaps left specifically for them.  One such being, I have mentioned before in Tarek Grandar. Despite his many faults, Tarek Grandar was derived from the heavens with a purpose. That purpose did not end when he fulfilled it in one world. Instead, he answered the call from another world and maybe even another, that I do not know. For some dreams even elude my eyes – for a time.
         Another such being’s name just slipped from the mouth of the delirious man saved from the river. The name, Salama Split-Tongue, is not foreign to the world of Oan Stoneheart. That black-hearted demon tainted and tormented the bloodlines of good with foul evil long ago. Nor was it the first world that his venomous bile led men and women astray. His soul works for the Lord of the Underworld. His duty – eternal dark lit only by the flames feeding on the souls of his victims.
         But, this is the first world that has allowed his return. The Guardian is forfeit.
         My friends, we tread on uneven ground for the first time since creation, and even I do not know all the consequences. Except this, the final battle nears.
         For that is the destiny of divine beings like Tarek Grandar, Salama Split-Tongue and, well, Oan Stoneheart. My time dwelling in the dark of the in-between and chasing the light of dreams draws near an end.
         “Paw and claw and hand.” 
         Now form.
         That, my friends, is the point.