Dark Powers (Chapter 9) (Patreon)

The land was desolate, barren and frozen. Layers of thick snow covering sinkholes, jagged peaks and valleys between sheer cliff-faces and the utterly remorseless weather—it was an icy hell, unfit for life.

Yet, life there was, as vicious and unforgiving as its environment. Beastly, monstrous fauna, carnivorous from small to big, land, sea and sky.

Terrifying as they were, the wandering lunatics and psychopaths were far more dangerous, chasing dark fates, the next perverse atrocity to pleasure their Vile Gods. Güdbrand detested them at first, but as their journey continued, their fellow travellers’ unwavering wickedness was relieving.

When his sword rose or fell, parting head from neck or limbs from body, there was no remorse, or need for it. If Grendel tore a savage from shoulder to belly, raining gore and feasting on entrails, his heart didn’t even stir.

There was no sense of justice, punishing the wicked or cleansing the world. He wasn’t even indifferent. It was more like stepping on an ant—he paid his ‘victims’ no mind, barely noticing them.

It wasn’t long before they were completely lost. The Wastes defied all logic, confounded any attempted navigation.

In one day, they seemingly travelled a thousand miles, scenery changing with every ten steps. The next month, they made no progress, going in circles no matter the chosen direction.

The corpses of their enemies served as landmarks, evidencing this lands’ nonsensical nature. Disoriented like a pair of rats bobbing in a barrel of rum, they passed the same bodies. Again. And again. And again.

Every time, their state was different. Turned to dry bone, as if a hundred years passed. Then fresh, like they were killed a minute ago. Even returned to life.

Grendel soon sated his never-ending bloodlust, frustrated from killing the same damn bastards over and over. Güdbrand found it rather funny.

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“…IT’S IN ME, IT’S IN ME, IT’S IN ME, IT’S IN ME, IT’S IN ME, IT’S IN ME…!”

An enormous, steel talon eviscerated the raving lunatic, reducing him to a rain of flesh and blood, staining the white snow. The cultist’s rabid screams lingered unnaturally in the air, fading after its head and body was long gone.

Behind Grendel, Güdbrand unsheathed his sword from a mutated chaos warrior, fused to its hideous armor. The thing was incredibly resilient, fleshly bone spikes and writhing tentacles sprouting from amputated limbs.

After washing his hide gloves with snow, he retied his curly copper mane.

“How about it, still having fun?”

Grendel didn’t answer, flicking gore from its claws. Its attitude was decidedly surly.

Güdbrand looked at its back, smiling secretly. This ‘outing’ wasn’t too dissimilar from camping in his past life. As a boy, it was exciting, roughing it in the mountains. However, fantasy and reality were entirely different things, certainly concerning the Chaos Wastes.

“I think we had enough action for now. A few days’ respite are in order—we’re in no hurry. Besides, we neglected your studies recently.”

Grendel’s head turned, revealing a crimson, slitted eye. It revealed a look of eagerness and greed.

Güdbrand chuckled. It was fascinating to him, the average norseman’s disinterest toward the mystical. Their primitive shamans and warlocks wielded Aethyr like a blunt tool—without desire or initiative to discover its inner workings.

“Ever the enthusiastic student, I see. Well, I won’t keep you waiting. Let’s finish up here, find some shelter.”

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A fire was started, but without wood. Its substance was monster hides and human skin, doused in congealed fat, like an unholy candle. It was a disgusting affair, but better than sitting cold and dark.

Güdbrand drew runes on a cave wall, gesturing and explaining like a school teacher. His devilish student listened obediently, interrupting now and then to ask pointed questions.

The scene was almost harmonious, if not for the lecture’s participants, environment or contents. Everything, really.

“…I never introduced standardized systems or nomenclature. Language, or just a default worldview, can confine and restrict thinking. However, such structure does have it’s uses…”

Güdbrand cleared his throat, tapping an unfamiliar word with his ‘chalk’.

“…this is Qhaysh, high or true magic to the elves. Its practice is harmony, weaving the Winds together like colors in a rainbow. Its powerful, but also precise and versatile…”

He continued writing and explaining, attempting to convey theory, instil knowledge. However, Güdbrand soon lost his student. Their language was too crude for advanced concepts, and Grendel lacked context for most of it.

He shrugged helplessly.

“…to understand Qhaysh is to be like a fish in water. Do not act ‘masterly’ or seek control. We speak of Winds, but the word ‘current’ is more suitable. Aethyr is living water, with a primordial will. Don’t channel or guide. Understand the flow…”

He tried parables, but as his rambling continued, his frustration grew. Converting thought into language was proving near impossible.

“…never mind. Experiment on your own, try to develop a feel for it. The next topic might prove more intuitive.”

He smiled at his disciple, skulking in the darkness. Grendel’s features weren’t conductive to expression, but Güdbrand sensed it grappling with his teachings.

“The counterpart to Qhaysh is Dhar—dark or black magic. On the surface, the disciplines are similar, but where Qhaysh harmonizes, Dhar dominates. The rainbow Winds aren’t woven together, but condensed. The current not navigated, but forcibly redirected…”

The more he spoke, the wider Grendel’s eyes grew, fascinated by the ‘forbidden’ arts. Not wanting it to get the wrong idea, he interjected.

“…while its potency is unparalleled, Dhar isn’t suited for careful work. Fleshcrafting is beyond the scope of dark magic. The physicality is extremely sensitive to change, both in scope and magnitude. Theoretically, it’s possible to use Dhar, but it would be beyond inefficient, like a goldsmith using a war-hammer…”

Getting into the swing of things, his lecture continued, ideas flowing smoother. Güdbrand almost didn’t notice the sound of crunching snow.

‘Visitors’, and at this time of night? He sighed, setting aside the flint shard.

“…let’s end it here. The road to supremacy is a wandering and unending one.”

Grendel’s only reply was the sound of claws on stone, scratching against the floor, walls, then roof.

Güdbrand sighed, staring out into the tempestuous darkness. He couldn’t see a thing, not with his eyes, nor his sixth sense. The Winds were too chaotic. However, he deduced a party, between five and ten.

Waiting patiently, the movement stopped a short distance outside before resuming. Eventually, seven shadowy figures entered the cavern silently. Four were hulking brutes—malformed chaos warriors with folded leathery wings.

They didn’t attack immediately, drawing closer, then parting to reveal a man. Their leader, perhaps.

Güdbrand analysed him silently. There was an aura of magic on him. Not his own, nor the steady thrum of something enchanted. Concentrated in his left eye-socket, it had a familiar feel…

“…you…who are you?”

A rusty voice sounded from the helm, possessing an odd quality like overlapping echoes.

The red-haired man tilted his head, locks of gleaming hair cascading down his shoulder.

“You don’t know me?”

The knight gripped his sword-handle, clearly tense. His armor was an entirely different style than his ‘bodyguards’. Though in a terrible state, there was something noble about it.

“…”

“Does the title ‘Sword of the Gods’ mean anything to you?”

Güdbrand smiled, flashing sharp canines. Favored by the Prince of Perfection, his features were beyond handsome, almost bewitching. It had little effect on the wasteland lunatics, however.

The knight took a long, slow breath before answering, his tone blunt.

“I’ve never heard of you.”

Güdbrand’s eyebrows shot up. Not just him, even Grendel long made a name for itself.

“How strange. It’s a bit embarrassing to sing my own praises, but I’m rather famous, you know. I dare say, I’ve long since carved my name into the northmen’s hearts…”

The atmosphere suddenly turned dangerous, Güdbrand’s smile turning brittle, and his eyes glowing with sorcerous fire.

The four chaos warriors instantly drew their weapons, locking shields together. Steadfast, they stood in front like an iron wall.

“I’m no northman.”

Clutching a four-foot blade, the knight half-crouched between them, ready for violence.

Güdbrand laughed, the sound pleasant, almost hypnotic.

“I thought as much. Your plate speaks for itself, as does your accent. I’m quite surprised, I didn’t know southerners were capable of such craft. It seems I wasted my time, learning from Norsii smiths.”

There was a period of strange silence, the knight staring one-eyed at him.

“I’ve long forsaken the Reiklanders’ pathetic order and their weak god. However, their steel indeed serves me well.”

“…!”

Güdbrand froze.

“Repeat what you just said.”

His tone was deathly, his words not a request.

The five armored figures tightened their formation, weapons poking out the gaps like quills on a hedgehog.

The red-haired man stood, his arms behind his back. The air around him distorted like a heatwave.

“Speak.”

The command was heavy, hanging around the warriors’ necks like a millstone.

The knight scoffed, unbothered by the atmosphere, or just pretending.

“You’re a bunch of lunatics, first to last. I wasted my time, attempting to converse with you.”

Energy roiled behind Güdbrand’s eyes, practically melting holes in the knight’s helmet.

“You are a Reiklander? What year is it? What is your name?”

His voice thrummed with power. He wouldn’t be denied answers.

“…is your mind addled? I told you once already. As for the year, who knows in these blasted lands? 2415 IC, give or take.”

Güdbrand’s shock was indescribable. The dangerous aura around him melted like snow, the red-haired man all but collapsing onto his makeshift seat.

“…impossible…”

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