Chapter Two Continued

Matthias gritted his teeth and tightened his grip in preparation for the next rain cloud. The night skies were clear, with only a few of the gray, misted monstrosities about from a previous storm. His Captain was such a learned flyer however, that he had managed to pierce the heart of every one, a task no other in the Advance Company had even come close to. Matthias sighed, wondering if this was the way the Company treated all of their new recruits.

"Captain," the boy groaned as another of his hazy friends came into focus. "Since when is it standard procedure to freeze your trainees to death?"

"Since I found't keeps 'em still longer!" the Captain retorted in his deep, rough voice.

Roshun, Captain of the Advance Company, clearly had the authority to do as he wished and displayed this fact by slightly shifting to his left, then jerking all the way across his spitfire's saddle to the right. Matthias clung to his superior's back for dear life. His world became inverted, then reverted, followed by somewhere in between the two, as the Captain drove them through the next cloud while preforming a violent corkscrew.

"Sorry, Adalantes," Matthias blurted, seconds before the boy emptied the contents of his stomach beside the great beast's head.

The dragon made no response, as would be expected, but instead focused directly ahead of itself. Adalantes was an ash gray with a stocky build, yet the smooth body and flat head of a common lizard. Twice the size of a man, its wings were fairly small, as spitfires were most suited for ground travel. One distraction could send the beast hurtling into the nearest hillside. Captain Roshun's spitfire in particular had a reputation for many such unscheduled landings.

Past the wandering cloud, a close knit gathering of worship shrines and toppled stone altars told the curate in training that the Company's destination was not much further. All they had been told by the Captain was that there was powerful magic at work. A rouge curate or rector was on a rampage in the Northwest border of Autrin, and their job was to apprehend the fiend.

The Council was definitely getting faster at tracking this new kind of magic, Matthias thought. The last mission he was sent on, his first in fact, the spell-caster hadn't been seen for weeks by the time the Company reached their target point. This time however, the air was still fresh with the scent of blood and smoke. The murderer would be put to justice; whoever, or whatever it was.

Váli's body shivered at the cold touch of the invasive night air, but warmth was certainly the least of the boy's worries. The Northern Forest, Garden of Veles, was fast approaching. It was a natural border for the Southwest territories of Morsque, a mountainous country bordering Autrin. There, just past the forest was where he would find his answer. Váli loosed a small parchment from his hand and peered at it intensely. On its rough yellowed surface, the map Mr Hade had given him was beginning to fade from the boy's clammy palms.

"Past the Garden of Veles, through the Trail of Martyrs, and my arm will take me the rest of the way," Váli said aloud, for very soon he realized he might have to find his way by memory alone. "If you come across danger," he started while looking at the two wooden shells shifting round in his rinewool pouch. "Shatter the shells, and take the river out of the forest, South of the mountains."

Váli tried desperately to concentrate on finding his way, for every time his young mind wandered, the same images kept flooding back to him. Every breath he took felt as though he were stealing it from his dead sister. Every passing stone offered the boy one more enticing way to end his well deserved suffering. Váli was grateful to feel the first of the thick, sopping pine branches against his face. It served to clear his mind and force the boy to focus now on his bearings for fear of becoming lost.

The first half of the way, he would only be able to rely on animal trails and the sound of the river, which cut straight through the forest for a good distance before turning south near the very fringes of the Northern edge. Before the river curved, the boy recalled from his now blur of a map, it would flow over a small plateau. From there he was supposed to be able to find the Trail of Martyrs, which would lead him to the other end of the forest.

"I must pass through in one night," Váli mumbled to himself.

It was obvious, but nonetheless Mr Hade made sure the boy understood that one fact. Not only because of the stranger that would surely come after him, but because he was leaving a trail of fresh blood, and his clothes reeked of it. The old man had bound Váli's wounds as best he could, but with all of his running the boy had long since reopened his injuries. If a wild dog or wolf caught his scent before he reached the mountains, Váli knew his fate would be sealed.

The flood from Tevan had left almost all of the forest untouched. Pungent pine trees gathered around solemn oaks as if to be guided and nurtured by their greaters. The ground was moist, but it always was in such a place, and swarming with life. Horned beetles and grazing caterpillars alike tumbled into the masterful lodgings of the patient trapping spiders with a touch of assistance from Váli's shifting sandals. It saddened the boy to some extent, but he did not have time to be slowed by the toxins of the eight-legged vermin, who were known to target anything with an open heel.

Red-eyed owls glared through the night sky, unmoving, waiting for their chance to pry a loose item off of the awkward-looking newcomer. Be it trinket or flesh, any prize would do the night-cloaked birds. Rocks were rare, to Váli's relief, and the few that lay scattered about moonlit clearings of the forest were soft with moss and ivy. A small group of lilies caught the child's attention, and the boy quickly gathered as many as he could carry. Váli then dug a small burrow in some of the moist earth, near the runoff of the surrounding river, and let a handful of water pool in its surface. Crushing the bright yellow flowers, he then mixed them with the water and washed as much of his bloodied body and clothes as he could manage. It was a trick his father had shown him once before, a way to mask his scent.

The thought of his father always brought sweat to Váli's face, no matter how cold the weather. The sharp rustle of fresh twigs and leaves only made the boy's complexion worse as he spun around in a panic, eyes darting furiously. The sight of a white-haired rabbit darting past him, brought Váli's nerves unparalleled relief at first, but soon enough his body began to tense up even more than it had before. Something was coming after him, and by the rabbit's perspective, it was much more dangerous than himself.

Váli quickly buried the lilies and the shallow basin he had made, and started to run. Following the river, he was able to move faster and more freely in case of an emergency. Váli also knew however, that if he stayed near the wet, gritty shore of the river, his tracks would show as clear as day to any pursuers. Entering the river so early would only make him a sitting duck since he'd have to find shore to rest soon enough. With that thought, the child took off once more into the heart of the forest, following the shifting currents of his guide from a distance.

The sounds of the figure behind him were growing clearer and clearer by the second. The shaking of the brush surrounding both him and the unknown follower masked the number of footsteps the boy could hear, but they were definitely heavy, and getting closer. Loud rustle, loud rustle, loud rustle, followed by lighter offsets that split off to his left and right. Váli couldn't even tell if he was being chased by man or beast. Was it a group trying to surround him, or a single pursuer scattering the forest creatures as it gained ground on its true prey?

The figure continued to close on Váli, and the boy responded by clutching the two shells nestled in his pouch. The brush he had just cleared began to rumble furiously, the figure was almost within sight. In a flash the leaves gave way, Váli's hands closed on the shells, and there was a sickening crack. An overwhelming pain took hold over his entire face.

The ground under Matthias' feet was a mess of meats, breads, mud, and splinters. The air grew fouler and fouler by the second, as the Company searched for any signs of the miscreant responsible for the destruction of yet another city. Every step the soldiers took forced the grotesque odor of the earth beneath them even closer to their paling faces however, and soon enough the Captain called the group to a halt.

"Foot-guard, start at the town's center and fan out by using the main roads. There lie only four of them, so one of you's to take guard of the curates," Roshun barked, his pitch-black beard prickling out.

Matthias shuddered. He knew the Captain had become serious, and now was not the time to upset the man. The problem was, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. Laying the set to draw runes, or was he supposed to follow one of the foot-guard and act as a relay? If he was to draw runes, should he draw them for humans, or the Captain's spitfire?

"The lieutenant will be in charge of relay. Curates, begin short-range offensive spells just in case. Page..."

Matthias stood facing the Captain, dumbfounded. He watched in terror while his superior's face grew tense, and his eyes narrowed. Like the time beforehand, it was too late.

"Flames of Hell t'you, boy! Why haven't you laid the set? Or were you waiting for the damned beast to do it?" Roshun snapped, pointing to the idle Adalantes.

With a single arm, the Captain lifted one of the large bags of set, and hurled it into the trembling page. Matthias felt his legs buckle under the immense weight of the gritty powder in an instant, and fell to the earth with a disgusting plop. He could feel the rotting, soggy mixture of food and mud against his scalp, and the smell was of maggot-riddled meats and fresh blood. The only thing keeping the child from adding to the vile sludge, was the giant bag of set crushing him from the neck down.

With all of his strength Matthias rolled the sac off of his body, and quickly rose to his feet, removing his outer cloak and clawing clumps of filth off of his head. Looking at himself, wearing only a white cloth shirt and thick gray trousers, the boy felt almost naked. The foot-guard and Captain were adorned with well-polished breastplates, shoulder and elbow guards, and thick gauntlets. They were a deep gray iron, and linked with an impressive brass chain-mail. The curates, his future profession, wore heavy cloaks of a lighter gray. Though fragile looking at first, the boy had learned through his studies that between its two layers of cloth was a steel plated center. Compared to the rest of the Company, he was likely to be felled by a hearty gust, or an odd placed bag of set.

"Make sure to scatter the contents all around our position, not just in a straight line," one of the curates reminded the page, spreading set from his own pouch at his feet, and using an oaken staff to begin to carve a rune.

Matthias worked in an orderly manner with the contents of the bag, spreading the set across the muddied earth in circular patches like he had been instructed to in his training. On such unstable earth, it would be impossible for him to draw any type of rune, the most vital part of a magic summoning. He should have known the two curates he was serving under would have their own supply of the white, sanded powder, and that only left Adalantes to take care of. Emptying the last of the bag into one of his many piles, Matthias then looked upward at the dragon with awe.

Spitfires were a very unique kind of dragon. Their small wings and sturdy build made them a ferocious adversary on any land battle, but their most important feature was the ability to cast magic. Spitfire, named after the spell's caster, was supposedly a very powerful, short-ranged magic. Matthias had wanted to witness the attack ever since he had started his curate training. The problem of course, was that every spell required a rune, and the appropriate amount of time before it could be cast, depending on the power of the magic. Getting a spitfire to remain in one place for any amount of time was a challenge in itself, and the aiming of the attack was even more important. As such, Matthias' job was simply to surround the beast with runes so the Company has only to get it to remain stationary for a short while.

"Hurry with the carving, runt!" Roshun roared, raising his sword arm in anger.

"Why are we preparing for an attack when there isn't even a soul around?" Matthias replied in a slow, sagging moan.

"What do they teach you in those blasted academies? You've answered your own question and you still don't get it!"

Matthias' eyes grew wide. He had just realized there was not a single person in sight, aside from the Company. No survivors, no bodies, not even any scattered limbs. They had scouted out the surrounding area for the murderer before entering the city, and there was no sign of anyone for leagues. Where were the victims?

"Signal to the North; South as well," the Company Lieutenant yelled.

The curates remained motionless, for to leave the area of the rune before a spell was cast would cancel its effect. Matthias drew his page's staff, and furiously began to draw one rune after the next. A circle, with two crescents that started from it's inner walls and met in the center of the figure. Finally, diagonal lines to connect the opposite ends of each crescent. Too large or too small and the rune would be useless. The boy repeated the process over and over with the most precision possible under such circumstances.

"Smoke to the East and West as well. We're surrounded, sir!"

Matthias was now deeply concerned. The reports had said nothing about multiple targets. Something was coming, but he had no idea what. Slowly, the sound of frantic running, followed by bellows of pure, terrible anguish, could be heard all around the town square.

Poseidon's eyes viewed his chest with great disdain. His heart, or the object that had taken the place of his heart, was now gone. A fist-sized hole decorated with hanging muscles and veins greeted his curious hands. The pain was immeasurable. Brushing off the stones and dirt covering his frame, the man rose to his feet slowly. He soon found his legs were in working order, but his left arm was nowhere to be found, and a white shaft hung limply from his side.

"He could have at least had the common courtesy to put my rib back if he was going to steal my heart," Poseidon sighed, tugging the bone until it came loose, and tossing it to the ground. "Leave my head will he? How unfortunate, for both of us."

The former Titan then bent over with a blood-filled grunt, and clutched his trident with his left arm, his only arm. The smell of the dead was in the air. Poseidon knew this smell, and the magic it implied. In the distance, smoke could be seen, and screams could be heard once more. He didn't think the Demi-God would be so quick to use his newfound powers as a Titan, a true God.

"You will find the power to give life is not what it appears," Poseidon mumbled, walking toward the Southern tree line bordering Tevan. "The dead cannot give true life to anything."

Before what was left of the Advance Company had time to react, the first wave was already upon them. Villagers, some clothed, others naked - both whole and mangled - all rushed toward the curates in a mad frenzy. The foot-guard assigned to the men brought his sword up, and forced his blade down into the shoulder of the first aggressor. The force of the blade drove it straight through the villager, a large bearded man, and split him in two at the midriff. Flinging off the organs entangled on his weapon, the soldier readied himself for the next attacker.

"Arming!" the curates barked in unison, not even a hint of fear on their solid voices.

Two more of the creatures, a faceless figure and an elderly woman, screeched and came about the men from behind. The foot-guard spun around - his speed surprising for the weight of his armor - sunk his sword into the first, and drove his shoulder guard into the woman's chest, impaling her. The faceless figure's body pushed deeper into the sword, and with a crazed moan, its arms tried to find their way to the foot-guard's neck. The woman clawed and bit at the shoulder plate like a frenzied animal in an attempt to free herself, and reach the two spell-casters.

"Shaemus, remove the heads!" the Lieutenant yelled, taking up position in front of the curates.

Raising his short sword through the foul flesh it had skewered, the foot-guard cut through both monsters at the neck. The bodies fell to the ground in awkward slumps. Their heads, carried a short distance by the force of the soldier's blade, soon found their was to Matthias' trembling frame.

"Are the runes in place?" Captain Roshun asked the frightened boy.

Matthias nodded slightly. Set grew to be hard as stone if left in wet areas, and with the weight of Adalantes soon to be moving about, it would certainly need to be so sturdy.

"Armed," the curates said, raising their staffs level with their chest - their backs facing each other.

Both the foot-guard and Lieutenant crouched low to the ground, and shifted as close to the conjurers as possible. The Captain did likewise, grabbing the shivering Matthias and shoving him into the mud along with his soiled cloak.

"Fire!"

A burst of light, accompanied by a searing heat filled the air. Bright orange fire fanned from the curates' staffs and engulfed anything in their destructive paths. The short-ranged spell ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Dozens of the encroaching creatures could do nothing as the flames spread over their entire bodies. Any more of the demons who dared to attack the Company too soon collided with their counterparts and shared their miserable fate.

Matthias, even in his unstable state of mind, could make out every detail of the spell. The coordination of the staff with the eyes, the slight rise of the shoulders before firing, the absence of breath while the magic was performed - everything was crystal clear to him.

"Adalantes, advance and aggress! Advance and aggress!" Roshun called, drawing his sword at last, and pointing it toward the largest group of the living dead.

The great beast rushed forward, fangs bared, and crashed into the scores of adversaries head on. Bodies flew past houses, and limbs were scattered onto nearby walls just from the impact. The dragon's crushing jaws tore through two and three men each time anything came too near its smooth head. The frail bodies of the living dead could not even leave a scratch on Adalante's rough, scaly hide.

The first crowd was obliterated in mere moments. Spotting another approaching mass of the walking carcasses, Adalantes lowered his head, and let loose a monstrous roar. Matthias looked toward the dragon's underside with great interest now. Short-necked dragons were known to lower their heads instead of raising them before fighting, or so he'd been taught. To his excitement, the edges of a crusted, white ring could be seen just beside the animal's front right claw.

Matthias watched Adalantes closely. It's shoulders lowered, body edged forward. The dragon's huge gasp for air, and it's frantic roar in place of an enchantment - all were stored inside the child's head the instant he witnessed them. Adalantes was then engulfed in a great and terrible fire. The Company stood in awe of the massive flames encircling the beast, but Matthias grew more and more uneasy.

"The motions, the motions aren't right," the boy mumbled. "That isn't spitfire, it can't be."

It was then that Adalantes stumbled to his left, then to his right, and finally fell to the ground. The sun was slowly beginning to peak over the horizon, making the dragon's appearance more noticeable bit by bit. It's skin was no longer ash gray, but charred black and smoldering. Adalantes was not moving.

"Well, that is a pretty fancy trick now isn't it?" A voice called from around a nearby inn.

From behind the building, a cloaked figure stepped out, surrounded by nearly a score of the undead villagers.

"Let me try that again. It really is a fun little trick," the man laughed, raising his arm toward the lieutenant and the curates. "Fire."

The same bright orange light of hope Matthias had just witnessed was now a blazing inferno of destruction as it hurtled toward the Curates. Pushing the conjurers and his fellow soldier out of the range of the flames, the lieutenant's body was consumed by the wave of fire entirely. There the man stood, screaming like a demon as the heat seared his flesh and melted his armor onto his skin for what seemed like an eternity for the child. Finally, the Lieutenant took a step forward, and fell dead in a smoldering heap.

Matthias, as well as the rest of the Company, was in shock. Someone who could cast spells without a rune was unheard of. Such a power would make a man a God. The remaining foot-guard charged the cloaked man, as his sword arm was raised from spell-casting. The enemy shifted quickly, drawing his sword with his left hand to parry the soldier's thrust.

"All I wanted was to play with that little trick like your friends there. It looked like so much fun when you were doing it," the man jeered - a crooked, bloody smile across his face.

"He's stalling! He might not use runes but this hellspawn still must gather the magic for a spell!" Shaemus yelled, giving his own wryly smile across his heavily scarred face.

The murderer's face then turn into a deadly scowl. Bringing his right arm across Shaemus's left, he fiercely grasped the soldier's head.

"Fire."

The foot-guard's head fried, then crumbled under the immense heat. The sound was that of crackling firewood, and it made the boy sick. The smell of fried human flesh and hair already wafting through the air did not help matters.

"I think I'll have some fun with your robed friends first, then the page boy, and I'll save you for last. How does that sound?" The man said, eyeing Roshun briefly before turning to one of the curates.

"Fire." Two voices echoed in unison.

The curate, who had managed to place himself on one of Matthias' runes, cursed himself for taking so much time to cast such a simple spell. The flame of the curate was quickly overwhelmed however; his courting with death much swifter than the heavily armored foot-guard. The rune he was standing upon cracked and withered the second the spell had been cast. Matthias was in a state of shock. His runes were too roughly drawn to be of any use. The second curate dropped to his knees, begging for his life as the stranger neared. The first of the conjurers was now nothing more than burnt, dried flesh.

Matthias' mind was racing now. He would be next. His runes were useless in an even fight, and even if he knew any other spells, none could be done in enough time. The next fastest spell would be the earth elemental, which took more than twenty times as long. In a physical battle, the boy knew who would be the victor. The Captain stood paralyzed by fear just like everyone else - he was completely alone.

It was then that instinct took over. Stepping on the closest of his runes, the boy began to concentrate. Running was out of the question, with so many of the undead creatures surrounding what seemed to be their master. He had to do something or die.

"Something stronger than fire," he muttered, lowering his shoulders, listening to the second curate beg for his life.

"Please don't kill me! I can show you different, better magics! If you'd just..."

"Fire."

The air was once again filled with the eerie hissing of burning corpses.

"And now it's your turn, little page."

"Something powerful, something fast, anything fast," the boy continued to mutter.

His body edged forward, arms outstretched, and Matthias' lungs took in air as if he had just run a great country race. The stranger was now close enough for his fifth kill. Smiling, the man raised his arm, and let his eyes grow wide.

"Fire."

"S-Spitfire!"

Matthias' right arm hissed like a demon. Steam flooded through every pore of the limb, turning it a darkened brown from the inside out. The air before the boy shifted in countless waves, and an unbearable heat consumed the air. A torrent of molten hot vapors was propelled at the awestruck stranger at lightning speeds. The incoming fire spell was completely swept away. Before the cloaked man knew what had happened, his right arm, torso, and shoulder were all the color of the filthy mud beneath him.

Matthias screamed. He could feel every inch of his arm being cooked from the inside out. The pain was unbearable. Scared, confused, and in intense pain, the boy ran. He had no idea where, or even that he was running at all. His instincts had completely taken over. The stranger was screaming, and the undead were mimicking his motions, allowing the boy to get a good distance away before anyone cared to notice him.

"Get that, worthless little hellhound! Rip off his head and sever his limbs!" The stranger roared.

The villagers took a few bounds after the boy, but soon stopped, and looked at their sides.

"The Gods will surely curse me for my cowardice if I let that runt outdo me," Roshun sighed, his sword plunged through the stranger's left side.

"Fire....fire, fire, fire, fire damn you!"

Roshun's head toppled from his body, and caught fire. The rest of him hit the ground with a thud, his heavy frame driving deep into the mud. With one quick motion, the stranger pulled the sword dangling from his side, and thrust it into the body of the headless captain.

"Nevermind then. I'll go find the roach myself."

Matthias ran, and ran, and continued to run. When confronted with a tree line, the boy didn't even flinch as the wet branches crashed against his face - he was in far too much pain. The fluttering of owls, the fangs of local insects and spiders, none of these things meant anything to the child. The path gradually became smoother and smoother. The branches already bent, the bugs already cleared; Matthias followed the path of least resistance without even thinking why such a path would exist. It was then that he collided with something. On reflex, Matthias brought out his page's staff, and began to swing before him in utter desperation.