Chapter 3: Brave heart

  Tarn felt Hugh place a hand on his shoulder, “Now is not the time to fall into despair, Tarn.” After a moment the gentle weight of his hand lifted from his shoulder. Tarn’s eyes strayed towards the blood dripping down from the dragon steel, each drop sitting for a second at the sharp edge before disappearing like water next to an unbearable heat.

  He was right. What good would despair do him in this moment. Gradually he brought himself up from the hardened dirt. He could feel the immense heat scarring the sky from even this far below. That flame was Lior’s, Tarn was certain. Neither Sluter nor Marisol could produce a dragon's fire of that caliber– however, Tarn swallowed down his unease, Lior could only cause such vast destruction through one means only.

  Nephologa.

  “We have to get to the Fellowship building!” He had already started running, not waiting for Hugh to answer back. Sweat swam down his brow and face as he moved with aching limbs, but the pain dulled as his worry grew.

  Lior would only ever summon his dragon bound if he thought that was his only way out. For him to be forced into such a situation meant Sluter and Marisol were unable to help him or dead.

  He tried to push the thought away, Marisol and Sluter, while not as gifted as Lior, were still incredibly strong. He had come to grasp their strengths as Dragon Marked since the day Lior joined their ranks, by themselves a normal malady hoard could be handled with relative ease.

  But that also made him even more troubled. If this hoard was something the three of them could not have stopped, then Folkheim’s end was destined tonight.

  The closer he got to the Fellowship building, the harsher the smell of ash became. Embers filled his nostrils, and smoke clogged his lungs as his breathing turned rugged as he began to cough. He felt like collapsing with each step becoming more demanding than the last. Would it even matter if he did? What was he even moving for– if the dragon marked were dead, if Lior was dead, what chance did he have. In what road of fate could a pitiable joker change the outcome of this night.

  Then he remembered the exhilaration of being a hero. Even if such heroicness was acknowledged only by himself and one other, never had he felt something so pleasing. A pleasure more thrilling than lust. But there was another feeling buried inside the experience. Tarn finally understood more about the person–his dearest friend Lior. The pressure and unavoidable burden of who he was made to be. Years and years he casted an ill judgement, a cloak of jealousy and envy upon him for claiming the mantle of Dragon Marked. In truth he not only detested Lior for becoming the person he had always wanted to be, but the distance Lior made between them for embracing his gift.

  Tarn’s legs pushed beyond his condition and inherent weakness of being just human.

  Lior was not the one to create that distance, it was me.

  His selfishness anchored him and a desire to see Lior vested him with a strength to bear the pain of his mortal soul.

  By now his gait was sloppy like a fawn learning to walk for the first time but his vision began to grasp the collapsed structure of the Fellowship. It burned like a great pyre, a tower of blue and black as fire and smoke intertwined. Finally, he stopped in the unusual quiet of this night– flesh and disease blackened by the fire they believed would save them.

  A moan of a woman’s voice slipped past the veil of silence. It sounded unsure like they did not know if they were alive or dead. It took not long for Tarn to grasp whose voice it was as fear struck his nerves.

  Scrambling towards the wreckage, the hairs on his body singed, “Lia!” Tarn shouted. He took off his raggy shirt and wrapped his hands with it. Reaching towards the flickering ruin he grabbed at the burnt planks and split stone, throwing them aside. Piece after piece his hands and muscles started to give out; his sight blurring in and out of focus.

  He pulled at a piece of rubble bigger than the rest– digging his feet into the ground he tried to make it budge even just an inch. To no avail he could only listen as his friend's voice mixed with pain and distance. A single truth unsteadied his fervor. Indeed, his will alone was not enough. He was not strong enough. Too human his blood, flesh and soul were to be the hero Folkheim needed.

  Tarn cried out as his skin scraped against the jagged rock. Still, he ignored the blood beginning to prickle out of his flesh. He watched and felt as his efforts proved meaningless; the stone blocking his path remained unburdened by his struggle, the azure flames danced on the edges of Folkheims end without regard for him, all the while Lia’s lifeless moans continued in the twilight. Powerless he fell backwards, the ache on his body spreading as his sight darkened.

  Time seemed to slow as Tarn watched Nephologa’s azure flames torch the sky forming a halo above the place he called home. He was probably the reason for this eerie quietude. His fellow villagers must have succumbed at some point to the maladies, the maladies had then succumbed to the dragon's flame, and– his thoughts stopped there. His line of thinking snapped shut as his heart trembled.

  Suddenly a honed gale sound sliced the air alongside a loud grunt as the stone broke in half. Hugh stood in front of him with his chest heaving and Wildia’s steel glinted amidst the burning night. “Come on Tarn, the night is yet to be over, you must stand!”

  “I–” Tarn coughed out. “I’m too weak.”

  “Would Lior submit now? How would he act at this very moment?” Hugh shouted back as he continued to break apart the rubble standing in their way.

  “I am not Lior. I’m just–”

  “No! Tell me Tarn, if Lior dragon marked or not, would he choose to crawl back on his feet or stay defeated. Are your dreams and principles weak enough to be broken by this?”

  It was merely a breaths’ worth of time, but the memories flooded his mind in that instance; the training Lior forced himself to go to when even the birds were still slumbering, the fear in his grey eyes the first time he told him that he was going to battle against a Malady hoard.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Wretchedly his fingers twitched. I must move; I have to reach Lia. His heart pounded with panic and fury. Achingly Tarn wrenched himself off the ground. He steadied himself as he listened to the world around him. “Lia–” He huffed, “We have to get to her.” With shuddering feet, he inched forward joining Hugh in removing the rubble from their path inwards.

  Their advance was quicker due to Wildia being able to cut through any difficulties. Tarn was once again amazed by the existence of dragon forged steel.

  With each second Lia’s voice grew louder but the cadence and tone sounded no different. Lost like a wandering lamb. Tarn’s heart felt heavier the closer they got as if preparing for the worst.

  Hugh and Tarn lifted off the last thing obstructing their way and saw what was left of the Fellowship Hall. The ceiling had fallen but bits of it stood like a hunched old man because of the waning pillars.

  Stepping inside a vomitous smell invaded his nose. Using his burnt shirt, Tarn covered his mouth and nose. The rampant flames above illuminated the room like streaks of candlelight. His throat bobbed as he looked at the littering bodies of the people he once knew.

  “I will set them aflame, go to Lia Tarn.” Hugh’s voice sounded ancient in his ear, so incredibly tired.

  Blearily he stepped towards Lia’s body. She lay at the very center of the room, her hair splayed about and wild. “Lia. Please answer me” Tarn dropped to his knees in front of her, but no response came. In the silence the majesty of the collapsed hall became distant like a reverie– now it was swathed in a nightmare that seemed to curl around him.

  His body trembled, reaching for her. Gently he held her shoulder and a chill where warmth should have been clung to his hand. Each moment became distinct, presenting like a peerless clarity. The sound of his breathing that let go from his lungs and the sundered material crackling faintly around them. In this state Tarn focused on Lia’s heart– heavy as if someone was pushing him back, he placed his ear to her chest.

  Silence enveloped his ears, the nothingness sending tremors of guilt, anger, and something more revolting. . . impotence.

  Tarn’s face twisted in horror, then what was making that sound. How could her voice be heard if her heart was still. The longer he sat there the more his ears heard a sound like sawing wood. Was he going mad he wondered. Then a clack came from behind making him turn hastily.

  “Just me Tarn” Hugh said, a torch lit with a docile blue flame in one hand and his axe in the other. He moved his gaze over the area taking in each body that burned gently.

  Tarn turned back to Lia’s corpse. “Her heart is silent, but her body still speaks. . . why?” He heard Hugh move next to him and watched as he scanned her body. Hugh did the same as he did, placing his head near her heart listening for anything in the quietus hideaway of the hall.

  Only now the inexplicable sound of sawing wood was stronger like a quickly maturing beast.

  Hughes' body tensed as if he were in pain. The burly man’s hands tightened around the axe’s handle. “You need to go Tarn.” His words were heavy and breathless. “It is far too dangerous to be here any longer.”

  “But Lia and Lior!” Tarn burst out. His emotions were running wild, and he didn’t know how to rein them back in. “I cannot just leave them– I can’t just run while they are still here. I won’t be a coward.” He stopped; no, it was more like his voice could not go on.

  The look on Hughes face was too terrifying. His eyes seemed to have sunken like he had never slept before. His shoulders sagged as if he were carrying the corpses of their friends on his shoulders. “Lia’s mind and body are aware but only by a thread, maybe even less than that. Right now, her body is no longer hers and soon enough Folkheim will be wiped off from any map of Voldrakis.” He stood up from Lia's body and inhaled deeply, uncaring for the smell of death.

  “What do you mean her body isn’t hers?” He knew his voice was meaningless. The sound of his heartbeat against his ears as he looked up at Hugh.

  “Goonrots but most knights call them Gooners. They signal the end with their hymn of death. That sawing you hear, that drawing moan. Right now, A primal Gooner has spread its roots from Lia’s heart to far beneath Folkheims soil in preparation for an elder horde. Using her blood to draw in monsters far greater than any story you’ve heard. I know what can bide some time but.” His voice trailed off for a moment before he seemed to have found himself again. “Run Tarn, get as far away from here before it’s too late. This is not cowardice, it is survival.”

  Tarn stood still, his mind pulling apart each word Hugh said and piecing them together trying to cross the border of confusion restraining his body. One foot in the past, the other in the future leaving him unmoving in the present. “What about you?”

  “I sent off Adeline here, it was her dying wish to be scattered across the seas that crashed against the cliffs at Folkheims edge, you know. I think she just wanted to enjoy the quiet.” Hugh’s aged face looked away. “It’ll be quiet soon Tarn. For them, for us, run.”

  He looked towards Lia’s corpse before moving closer to her, he cupped the back of her head lifting her off the ground. “I’m sorry for being foolish, for not listening. I– you, were the best of us.”

  His gaze fell upon her eyes. They were grey and fading, no longer lit with her passion. Then he tore his eyes away, setting her back onto the ground. Glancing to the others and then at Hugh who nodded forlornly. In the next second before he could tell himself otherwise Tarn ran into the night. His heart was entrenched in both chaos and a vivid truth and his thoughts fragile against the sawing that grew from a tepid buzz to a bellowing scream.

  Like a bug trying to escape its doomed fate Tarn’s body was engorged upon by the glowering heat and blustering sounds as the chill of death chased after him, each step breaking against the deadening ground. The further he went the greater the feeling of a dreadful shadow behind him became.

  Suddenly the night’s nocent chaos vanished from his ears like a blade falling on someone's neck. Quiet as Folkhiem should have been. The skies above slowly formed back into its dark state. The once nourished azure flames were nothing but patches in the abyssal heavens. A pitch-black fear ignited his veins as he continued to run, mixing with the reasons pulling his heart forward. He could feel his pace beginning to wane, but he refused to stop. Stopping meant dying and the lives of his people becoming vain and without hands to carry their memory.

  So, the man could not stop, not for himself but for Folkheim. The thought pushed him further away from the silent village until he passed the hedge border and saw the rolling hills ahead that led to a forest horizon.

  Forcing his body to shudder was a surcease of the quietude. A chorus of shrike songs erupted throughout the lands carrying with them mutilated trills, warbles, and gargles like a great hand choking the breast of a dying beast. Tarn peaked upwards seeing a mass unfolding of black-violent feathers. Swarming from the south were Maladies, they flapped great and mighty wings dispersing the remnant flames burning in the sky. Larger than the clouds, they unhinged rotting beaks revealing rows of sickening fangs, what seemed like the corpses of men and beasts hung tattered between the gaps.

  Tarn felt like his heart was going to fail him as his body finally started to break down, his will futile against the harsh reality of his flesh. Huffing rapidly as he crossed over a hill Tarn was barely at a walking speed. On the steps down his foot caught a pocket-sized hole in the ground throwing him down the slope, his body tumbling hardly against the uneven ground.

  The smell of dirt filled his head with his nose pressed against the ground. Violent calls, the hymn of death echoing in the winds. This was it Tarn gathered. He tried to run, truly he did.

  Surely Lia won't berate me in the afterlife. This wasn’t me giving up, just the natural end. What else could I do, Lior.

  Beneath him the earth rumbled like an unfed stomach. It drummed reaching a meridian of chaos forcing Tarn to listen to the arrival of the hoard before closing his eyes.

  Gods save me.