The handholds were slick, wet with moss and algae. It took several attempts to find his grip, then he managed to hoist himself upward, muscular arms and legs unburdened by the heavy pack he was used to carrying. Though his eyes had adjusted to the near-pitch blackness, the rock wall demanded naught but his sense of touch to aid his climb.
His senses left him entirely, ere he became innately aware of a wolf. Circling. Then another. Another. Silent paws padding across that which was neither earth nor air. Eyes of bright yellow fading to deep crimson.
Seven.
Zeb came to, one-third of the way up the steep ascent, feeling weightless. Hands and feet continued to move without instruction, fingers clutching the rocks like claws.
Seven wolves in all, circling him in the darkness. But they were not alone. Bipedal figures stalked their footfalls, hooded and robed in shadow. Each brandished the hilt of a rusted knife, the blades outstretched and closing in on their quarry. A wraith to every wolf...
Seven.
Zeb lulled as he found himself closer to the top of the cliff. The air was thick, stagnant, penetrating his eyes, nose, and throat. Somehow, his limbs continued to climb. He closed his eyes.
The wraiths overtook the wolves in perfect synchronicity. Seven pairs of forms each melded into one, black dissipating into blackness. They were gone and, for a moment, Zeb’s mind was empty. Then, from oblivion emerged a lithe figure with raven hair, adorned with fetishes of feather and bone. She drew forward, her image mirrored on either side. Three women, matching stride for stride, pervading the very depths of Zeb’s soul. Behold. Your destiny dawns.
Three.
Zeb awoke, climbing with all his might, feeling again his wet hands and boots as they overcame the impossible, jagged ledge. He crested the top, bringing himself to stand before the trio of keravela witches that he knew haunted his every movement.
And saw nothing.
It was easy not to panic. Every fiber of his being was focused on the next precarious handhold, on dragging his weight slowly up the rock wall. If Malar had come to claim his soul or to seek some retribution--for indeed, Zeb believed the crimson-eyed wolves were manifestations of his bitter former patron--then he would. It was no use worrying over things he could not control. All that was important was finding the next handhold.
ReplyDeleteThe wraiths were confusing to him, enough so that he paused in his ascent to shake his head violently, as if that would have some affect on the tumult going on in his head. He realized he was hallucinating, though whether it was from stress, his recent death and rebirth, or apparent journey through time, he did not know.
By the time he reached the pinnacle of his ascent, wearily pulling himself atop the ledge, his lungs burning with the strenuousness of the climb, he had little patience for the Keravela witch--or witches, it was not clear--and made no reaction to their presence, hallucinated or real.
When he finally stood, they were still there--though how he could 'see' them in the impenetrable darkness of the cavern was a mystery. Zeb's voice came out a rasp, and the content of his words was no less harsh.
"You hold no power over me. None of you."
Zeb was quiet after that, curious if his hallucination would respond.
Silence echoes in the cavern. Zeb takes a few steps forward to ensure he doesn’t fall from the ledge. The darkness at the top is impenetrable, and he can feel his adrenaline-fueled sense of invincibility waning. Audric is no more. Nerrick and the others never were. Malar is forlorn, distant, unwelcome. A fragment of conjured dreams. And Zeb is completely and utterly alone.
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