A Sacrifice for Varkanah: Chapter Seven

The party begins their trek through the massive Whitevale Mountains, where they are forced to avoid armies of goblins. When they are beset by hundreds of the little beasts at once, things get strange.

Chapter VII

 

The next morning found them Saeran yawning as he made his way to the fort’s dining hall. Noticing Rivatha sitting in the corner of the immense room at a small round table with Irilden, Saeran took a spot next to the Queen’s knight. Arranged around the table were seven plates of food: thickly sliced and fried bacon, crispy brown sausages, and runny yellow eggs. He grabbed his fork and began the slow process of eating while he waited for the others, making absolutely certain that he did not make a mess of himself in front of the regal Rivatha.

First came Hesio Arishan, his face covered in coarse hair, the hair on his head slightly matted. Everything about him shouted weariness, his dark eyes watering with each yawn. He plopped down into the chair next to Saeran and began unceremoniously shovelling food into his mouth, some making it into his mouth, some not. Next came Lark and Hathien, who looked surprisingly well rested. Apparently, unlike Hesio, they had found a bathhouse in the castle, and Saeran caught a distinct whiff of flowers as Hathien passed him to sit beside the Queen.

Drennan came last, silently entering the room filled with conversation. He slowly walked to the table and sat by Lark, his face downcast. He used his fork to move the food around the plate, but only took a few small bites of it as he watched the others eating and talking. He did not attempt to join the conversation, content to sit in his own thoughts for a while, as usual these days. What are you thinking, Drennan? Saeran thought, though he knew he could not guess. Maybe he wasn’t thinking of anything at all.

He finished his food quickly, not bothering to savour the warmth of it, not even noticing the spices that the cooks had laboured to include for him. It was a mistake, as he would be walking for weeks yet before he would see another warm meal, and this would be a fond memory as they crossed the Whitevale Mountains. Still, the thought of such a long, very possibly dangerous journey was nerve-wracking, to say the least. The last time he had attempted to cross the mountains, he had ended up with a dead horse and soaked in goblin blood. Could the goblin war still be going on? That was a discomforting thought, but one that he thought best not to share.

“So,” Rivatha said, standing up as a group of servants entered to clear away the dishes and silverware. “Summer is nearly at its end, and it will be cold in the mountain passes. I have arranged for new fur gloves and thick wool coats and cloaks to be given to each of us, courtesy of the barracks. Some poor soldiers may be going without this winter, but that is naught compared to what we are about to do, my friends! Who is ready to climb the mountains?” she asked excitedly, looking around the room.

Unfortunately for the Queen, none of the others shared her enthusiasm for this, which made for an awkward few moments. Hathien had never left Rosehollow Village, if truth were told, and she’d had no experience with mountains. She did not like heights, though, so the thought of mountains was a frightening one for her. Lark did not relish the idea of walking for weeks, so he remained silent. Hesio was simply too tired for excitement, and Drennan just did not say anything one way or the other, while Saeran thought worriedly of a field of dead goblins.

“All right, then,” Rivatha said, after it became apparent that no one would reply. “Let’s go get those coats.”

 

 

Saeran rubbed at his fingers with the fury of a man determined not to lose them, attempting to resuscitate his frozen digits as he walked, one stiff step after the other. Each step, though, sent his foot crunching into the knee-high snow, which in turn allowed by far too much of the frozen stuff into his boot. The first few days of that had been hellish, but by that time his feet were so cold that the snow did not even melt and make his stockings soggy. And so he walked, simply concentrating on keeping his numbed feet on the path.

Five days it had been since that morning in Riverthorn, meaning only seven days since the fight with the harpy in the Darkmeadow Forest, though that felt like an eternity ago. For the first two days they had walked through entirely pleasant and comfortable weather, with the failing summer heat keeping long enough to see them into the mountains. After that point, though, snow had fallen relentlessly on the party as they climbed higher and higher into the hills. They had had no sight of the sun since, and they were beginning to worry that they would never see it again.

They had brought as much food and water as they could in their packs, filling some of them to the brim with waterskins and dried meats and fruits. Now, though, the water had frozen and the food was tough to eat. Each night, after they found a cave or a rock ledge to sleep under, they would labour to light a fire. Then they would boil some snow in a pot they had taken with them so that they would have something to drink for the day. It was taxing.

Hesio’s language had gone from bad to worse in the mountains. At first he had been jovial, joking with their two new companions and being generally high-spirited. Three days later, though, every other word that left his lips was a curse, and the others were equally angered. He spat at the ground, which still sloped steeply upwards, but the spittle turned to ice almost before it touched the snow.

“Saeran,” came Lark’s voice, which broke him out of his reverie. “Would you care to explain something to me one more time? Why, in the name of all the Gods, did we choose to go through the mountains, and not around?” he asked once again, his voice filled with irritation.

Saeran shrugged and licked his dry lips. You know I’ll answer the same way I always have, Saeran thought, though he answered anyway. “I thought the passes would be quicker. They normally cut the distance by half, and the time by as much. It’s barely autumn, Lark! How could I have known that the pass would be choked with snow?”

Lark, irritated further although he had known that that was the answer that would come, shoved his hands in his pockets and continued walking.

Even without all the snow, though, the Whitevales were the largest mountain range on Terrilor, and it would have taken days to cross them either way. They climbed peak after peak, carefully making their way down snowy slopes. At times it grew very dangerous, as the snow could hide steep drops, and it would have taken little for one of them to break an ankle or a leg, which would have stalled them even further.

With the temperatures dropping substantially each day and the food and water supplies running low, death was never far from their thoughts. Lark, who had grown in Lorbank which is a warm city by the southern coast, almost constantly pictured himself freezing to death in a block of blue ice, while Hathien grew terrified each time they reached the crest of one of the mountains, seeing herself fall to her doom with each peak. Hesio had known hunger before, and it was an old friend, but still he did not think starving to death in a mountain range so many thousands of miles from his home would be a good way to die. Irilden, the stalwart knight, kept his emotions far away, and though he was as cold and hungry as all the others, he did not complain even once. Surprisingly, Rivatha remained enthusiastic, excited to be out of the mountains and do the job that they had set out to accomplish.

The days were hellish, to be sure, but the nights were even worse, though Saeran wouldn’t have thought it possible. The temperature went far below anything he had ever known, chilling them all to their bones and prompting them to huddle together in the caves that they had had to find. They did their best to light fires, but when that soon became impossible they had to share blankets and sleep close together for fear of freezing to death.

 Worse still than that, Saeran’s worst fear had become a reality. The two goblin tribes were still warring on the heights, though the battles had become even fiercer and more tribes had joined in on the fight. It was guerrilla warfare, the sort of dishonourable fights that human armies did not engage in. The Blue Hands and the Red Axes�"who had led the fighting before�"still pitched bloody skirmishes in the mountains, fighting each other for strategic positions on the peaks. One night, when they had been trying to sleep, Saeran had seen hundreds of bowmen loosing more arrows into the night than he had ever seen. There had been shrieks that curdled Saeran’s blood that night, the agonized scream of so many little blue monsters.

They walked in a straight line, two by two: Hesio and Drennan in the front, then Hathien and Saeran, Irilden and Rivatha, and finally Lark following behind, covering their footsteps. The tall elf watched behind them and all around, always keeping one hand on his bow and the other near his quiver so he could be ready should the need arise. This, their third day in the mountains, had been peaceful in comparison to the other two. No goblin scouts had been spotted on the cliffs, no skirmishes had taken place on the land beneath them. Still, Lark was ready for nearly anything.

“Look, Saeran,” Hathien said suddenly. She tightly squeezed his arm and pointed far above her. There was the sound of hundreds of fluttering wings, and Saeran looked up to find the air choked with a myriad of dark crows. They cawed and screeched far above, wheeling around in front of them, obviously disturbed by the sudden presence of humans. In front of them the land sloped steeply downwards, into a wide valley in between two mountains.

The stench of death was overwhelming long before they ever reached the bottom of the valley. Apart from the massive murder of them overhead, there were still many crows and ravens down below, ripping apart the bodies of goblins whose bodies had only just gone cold. There must have been near fifty thousand of the goblins lying dead in that valley, slain by the opposite tribes for reasons incomprehensible to humankind. Not all were dead, though, as those few who still lived moved through the carnage, stripping the corpses of weapons, scraps of armour, and other valuables.

The foul, if oddly familiar odour of all those rotting dead assaulted Saeran’s nostrils as they walked down. It soon became overpowering for many of them in the group; Lark’s face turned in a grimace that appeared as if it would be permanent; Hathien retched openly, spewing up what little food they had had; even Rivatha broke down and wept on the side of the cliff. They were goblins, horrid little creatures that were petty, violent, and altogether unsavoury. They had never caused any harm to come in Riverthorn, though, and the sight of so much death brought her to her knees. Irilden and Hesio, the seasoned war veterans, knew this sight too well, and it had lost its affect on them. Drennan’s face remained blank as it had for so many days now.

“We cannot go down there,” Saeran said to the others, though it already appeared as if most of the seven had no intentions of doing so. “There’s still hundreds of them down there, or I am a fool. Only four of us are fighters, and we’ll have no chance against them.”

The others all agreed with him, and it was a matter of moments before they had begun their long trek back up the mountain. Saeran had seen a good cliff up above as they had come, one with an overhanging ledge that would be suitable to rest in for the remainder of the day.

Suddenly a great and terrible clamour went up from far below them, making them stop dead in their tracks. There was the unmistakable�"to Hesio and Irilden, anyway�"sound of weapons clanging against armour, and the impressive shouting of hundreds of voices, the noise of which was great even so far above. Then seven humans watched as a torn and tattered banner was raised over the field that was drenched in blood. A chill breeze swept over the valley, making the black banner ripple in its wake, and Saeran shuddered as he saw the dance of a red, clenched fist that the banner depicted.

 

 

It wasn’t until late the next day that they deemed the valley safe enough to cross. The Red Hand goblins had led the remainder of their host up the far cliff, presumably towards their warcamp, and all but a few of the looters remained. All the prisoners that they had taken had been slaughtered, and now the field was nearly empty of life. Except, of course, for the crows.

Despite this, Hesio, Irilden and Saeran all walked with their swords drawn, and Lark with an arrow ready to be nocked at any time. Their worst fear was that of a goblin bringing word of them back to one of the armies, which may well bring the whole of an enemy host down upon the seven of them. Saeran knew that Hesio and Irilden could bring down a good lot of the little monsters, and that Lark was deadly accurate with his bow and could do them some good as well, but he was less confident in his own abilities. They would be so vastly outnumbered that they wouldn’t stand a chance.

Hathien kept her eyes clamped shut the whole time as they crossed, and Saeran gripped her hand firmly, trying hard not to retch himself. There were few goblins left on the field, and even they were departing quickly, but seven humans crossing a battlefield littered with bodies clad in armour made quite a racket. One goblin raised his head and looked at them, but as he made to dash away Lark loosed an arrow in his direction. It took him in the base of the neck, sending him flipping in a spray of fresh blood�"as if the ground needed more of it.

Apart from that incident, they crossed the field unhindered. It took longer than what any of them had hoped, but they eventually arrived at the edge of the valley, where the land began to steadily slope back upwards. Hathien sighed with obvious relief; while Lark put away the arrow he had had resting on his bowstring. Above them was another snowy white peak, a stark and beautiful contrast to the pink snow below.

They had little and less to eat that night, and it the air was bitter cold. There hadn’t been any caves or ledges on this side of the valley, and so they had to huddle up against a sheer cliff face, making due with a canyon between two very close mountains. The canyon walls kept the worst of the snow off, but it still fell through the ceiling, and the close walls made the wind howl with a fury. It would have to do, though, and it was a deal better than sleeping out in the open in this cold.

Despite his best efforts, Saeran did not sleep that night. His thoughts were plagued with images of death and blood, of his first experience with this goblin war, of the trials they had faced in the forest. Drennan’s story of the fate of Valdi troubled him for hours, with images of the town burning running through his mind until all hours of the night. He recalled Rivatha mentioning that the cultists practiced human sacrifice, and he found himself wondering if William had been one of the victims of such savagery to Varkanah.

And who was Varkanah, anyway? In all Saeran’s years, he had never heard of this God of Blood. There were no stories, no legends, nothing at all to indicate that such a deity had ever even existed. Now, suddenly, up sprung a growing cult dedicated to him! As far as Saeran could remember, Terrilor had never known such barbarianism, so much senseless murder. There had been the Elven wars centuries ago, but even those seemed civilized in comparison to the actions of this cult.

An image popped suddenly into his mind just as he thought he was drifting into sleep. It was so clear, so crystal clear that for a moment Saeran thought that it was a real, tangible thing, that he could touch it if only he reached out his hand. It was a face, and a grim one at that. Its eyes were redder than blood, but blacker than midnight at the same time. Its skin was paler than the full moon that hung swollen in the sky that night, its nose merely a set of nostrils. It hadn’t a mouth, which was possibly the most frightening thing about it. This was Varkanah, Saeran instinctively knew, and that made it all the more disturbing. How could he know the face of a god that wasn’t real?

Filled with a sudden and intense feeling of terror and dread, Saeran looked at each of his friends to see if they had also seen the face in the air. They were all fast asleep, though, as evidenced by their slow and even breathing. He sighed with relief then, and the knowledge that the face was not really there was very comforting.

Then there was laughter, a deep and throaty noise that renewed the horror and multiplied it. Saeran leapt to his feet, pulling clumsily at the sword that still hung from his belt. The thought that a mortal weapon could hurt a god, though, only made the laughter louder.

“Go ahead, Saeran Randsly,” came the most horrible voice that Saeran had ever heard. Deep and dreadful, it fit in perfectly with the unholy laughter, and Saeran thought he could hear sarcasm in its tone. He had gone to the chapel every year that he could remember, making the proper sacrifices and fasting the appropriate number of days each time. Saeran had thought that he was a good, godly man for most of his life. For all this, though, nothing prepared Saeran for that, his first true conversation with a god.

“Who said that?” Saeran asked, though he knew the answer. “Who are you?”

“You would not know me, Randsly, except for by name. I have been absent from this land for many a long year, and my followers have been lax in upholding the duties I gave them,” said the voice. The words might have been angry, though the tone bespoke indifference more than anything. “Do not worry on that, though, for they are dead. I have returned, and I am represented by new, more faithful disciples. They do what I ask without fail, and I am pleased by them as of yet.

“Still, there is much work yet to be done. Like I said, I have been long absent and my ideals have gone unsatisfied for too long. The work has begun, and the good and righteous sacrifices have been performed. This has come at a great cost to you humans, but it needed to be done.”

”What sort of god takes the lives of innocents to sate his own thirst?” Saeran asked, completely terrified and completely unsure of the proper way to speak with a deity. If he had been more knowledgeable, he might have used gracious titles and used all his manners. He did not, though, and Varkanah seemed not to mind.

“The same sort of god who burns villages and kills babes in arms just to hear the women scream,” he replied. “Don’t bother attempting to understand, for your modest human mind is too small to comprehend. For your benefit, I will get straight to the point. I know your purpose in crossing these mountains, Randsly, and it will do you no good to do so. This foolhardy undertaking will end in your death; it can only end in your death and the deaths of those closest to you.

“You think yourselves brave and wise, and in the best interests of the people of Terrilor. I tell you that if you go through with this, even more will die than is necessary. I will not be stopped, and I cannot be beaten by such as you.”

Saeran shook his head. “You must have been beaten before. That is why you were exiled, why you left us alone for so long.”

The impossibly pale face that still hung before him twisted in rage, and the eyes burned a hot crimson. “I was not beaten, you fool, but merely delayed. It is my destiny to rule this land, and no foolish human will stop me. This realm will bleed before I am done, and it will be your fault if you do not end this madness. I will warn you one last time, do not seek to hinder me. It will end in your death; as surely as the sun rises in the morning and the wind blows, you will die.”

There was nothing Saeran could say in reply, his heart was filled with such a terror that he had never known. It brought him to his knees, but he did not notice his trousers growing wet and cold from the snow, the panic had fallen on him so heavily. He sat there, separated from his friends, until he lapsed into unconsciousness.

 

Hesio rushed to Saeran’s side as soon as he saw the other man fall to his knees in the snow. He had not slept that night for very long, waking up as soon as he heard Saeran’s voice. He had watched with interest as Saeran had argued heatedly with no one and nothing, but he also had been worried. Something was very wrong, and the man who he had only known a few days, but already considered a friend, had been obviously terrified as he shouted at nothing.

He held Saeran up, not letting him fall down into the snow. The other man sagged in his arms, though, and was fully unconscious. Hesio tried all manner of things to get Saeran to wake up�"lightly slapping his face, putting snow on his burning body�"but nothing worked. When he did not respond to any of these things, Hesio decided that the only thing he could do was give Saeran a blanket and try to keep him warm. So he brought him to the huddled pile of sleepers and set him in their midst, wrapping him in covers until he was so covered in wool that he looked more sheep than man.

It was surprising to Hesio that none of the others had been awakened by Saeran’s voice. He had been shouting at whatever it was, and though Hesio always slept lightly for fear of something coming for him in his sleep, he had thought the shouting enough to wake the city of Riverthorn leagues away, let alone six sleepers less than thirty feet away. There would be no more sleep for him that night, that much was for certain. Instead he pulled his crimson sword out of its sheath and took a seat on a nearby rock, settling back into the familiar routines of the night’s watch.

It was then that Hesio realized he had made a grievous error, forgetting one of the most important things about the watch. In his haste to help Saeran get under wraps to prevent death by exposure to the elements, he hadn’t checked to see if Saeran’s shouts had brought the attentions of unsavoury, unwanted things down upon them! Cursing himself, he ran like a madman to the edge of the canyon, running up the slope to see if anything was coming. Nothing. He sagged with relief.

Then there came the sound of hideous voices far behind him. Turning around in fear, Hesio saw flickering lights brightening the canyon’s walls farther along than their camp. There in the light Hesio saw the thing he dreaded most, the elongated shadows of goblins marching towards his friends.

“Wake up!” Hesio shouted at the very top of his voice, louder than he had ever shouted before. “Goblins!” Thankfully, as he dashed towards them, loudly cursing himself for his foolishness, he saw Lark and Irilden stir. When they saw the orange light of torches, they dashed for their weapons. By the time Hesio arrived at their side, Lark had already nocked an arrow and Irilden brandished his longsword.

It was then that the first goblin turned the corner towards them, holding a tall torch and a wickedly sharp dirk in his gauntleted fist. He was clad in seemingly random bits and bobs of stolen iron and leather, and his eyes went wide as he saw the arrow whirling through the air towards him. In a poor attempt to avoid his inevitable death, the pitiful creature raised his arms in front of his face, only to have the lightning-fast projectile slam through his hands and into his head anyway. He fell, dead on the instant.

Lark sent arrow after arrow in front of him, nocking one even before its predecessor had struck home. He felled many and more of the little beasts, but they soon learned to come forward with their shields up, and the Lark spent many an arrow only to strike hard wood and iron instead of soft goblin flesh. Then they made to move forward, and Lark could do nothing more to stop their approach.

Instead, Hesio and Irilden stood side by side in the narrow canyon, blocking the way to the others. With both of their longswords they halted the approach of the goblins again, killing many of the monsters. They hacked at heads and cleaved sword-arms and cracked shields, and soon the corpses began to pile up at their feet, making another barrier for the goblins to pass.

“Wake up, Saeran!” Hesio heard one of the women shout behind him. He couldn’t tell if it was Hathien or Rivatha, and he could not rightly look back lest he get a goblin’s knife lodged in his stomach. He spat a hefty gob of phlegm into the eye of an attacking goblin, cursing Saeran for not waking up. He was getting tired, his swings coming slower and his breaths coming in laboured and pained. Exhaustion was setting in, and he would not be able to take much more of this.

“Gods be near us,” Lark said quietly, and Hathien shrieked. Hesio took the head of the nearest goblin off with one swing, and then turned around, but he did not like what he saw. Coming from the other end of the canyon in a long and disorganized line was a second wave of goblins. Red Hand or Blue Axe, Hesio did not know and did not care. It mattered not a shred, as they hadn’t yet finished the first group. They were outnumbered, and they were going to die.

Lark launched arrow after arrow, felling the entirety of the first few ranks in the new line, but soon his last arrow was spent. He drew his dagger from his belt, but it would be of little use against such numbers. Hathien took up Saeran’s shortsword�"since it had become apparent that he would not be using it any time soon�"and she stood at Lark’s side to fight them. It was hopeless, though, and their hearts sank as one of the goblin knives bit deep into the flesh of Irilden’s thigh. The knight fought the pain and with a surge of will he killed three goblins in a matter of moments. Agony overwhelmed him, though, and he fell to his knees.

It was then that Rivatha was filled with a rage so powerful that those who knew her would not have thought her capable of producing it. She ordered Lark and Hathien to her side, and demanded Hesio carry Irilden there as well. Not knowing what else to do, and being overwhelmed by the power in Rivatha’s voice, they had to obey her.

Then Rivatha cried out words in a language that none of the others knew, a tongue that flowed like water from her lips. They understood not a word of what she said, but the words were comforting all the same. And then, so suddenly that they hardly dared to believe it was happening, the snow beneath the goblins’ feet turned into boiling water! It stung and burned the soles of the creature’s feet, sending them to their hands and knees, which were in turn burned. There was a scream of such immeasurable agony then, one that was so powerful that Hesio and the others had to cover their ears.

Rivatha screamed above the wails of burning goblins, more words in that beautiful language, and the boiling water turned suddenly back into ice, but so much ice that it trapped the screaming monsters within. Where there was hideous screaming mere moments before, a deep silence fell, a silence that seemed to cover the entire mountain range. Rivatha collapsed then, into a heap at the bottom of the frozen canyon.

Author's Note

Does it get too weird at the end?