THE LANDS FORSAKEN | THE FORSAKEN LANDS OF GENèSE

  600

  Solvanel was dead still.

  Outwardly, the sheep appeared terrified—trembling in a crowd of habitual creation.

  However, there was a silent chant in their heart as the shepherd stood over the dying animal—a wounded wolf howling in the darkness.

  Sand accommodated its movements, pushed away as it dug itself a shallow grave with every squirm and involuntary spasm.

  The shepherd watched intently, his enemy’s flame clinging to life.

  Tortures inflicted from dusk to dawn. Some were brief—blows to the body when he least expected it. Others… Others lasted hours—deep wounds and cauterizations—the Spineless and The Black Hand laughing themselves red as they held his mouth wide open and experimented with the digestive power of his insides. One Man Army and The Peeping Tom branding profanities into his skin. The older Red Boulder, laughing himself even redder.

  Jonah’s second glance from a distance before he left to chase some breeze.

  “Here.”

  Solvanel crumpled.

  A metal object had flown through the air and connected with the shepherd’s temple.

  “Damn it. I forgot about your illness,” the thrower said, carrying neither amusement nor compassion.

  On his hands and knees, he searched blindly in the sand until a thin, cold metal rod pricked one of his fingers.

  Solvanel peered into the thrower as his voice came again.

  “It’s what you were using to fight their leader. I went looking for it the second those guys froze up. Figured I’d take the opportunity to slit a few throats before I escaped.” It was the same person who had argued with him before.

  In the darkness, his flame appeared stronger than all the others’, albeit faintly.

  “Did you?” He asked.

  “No,” answered the thrower. “It wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Solvanel picked up the needle-like weapon, unsure of what to say as he held it with both hands.

  He returned his focus to the wailing beast. “Waaaa! It hurts, brother!”

  The shepherd watched intently, his enemy’s flame clinging to life as his once did, hope.

  He readied the blade and aimed for the source of the mercenary’s cries.

  The Nine Wolves, they once were.

  Now, there would be six.

  It would be a single puncture to the back of the head—fitting for a pig ripe for the slaughter. To pay for his atrocities—those two lives taken mere minutes ago, as well as countless others—as well as all his brothers’.

  The wolves—they come in all shapes and sizes.

  Some are gray with experience, like The Eunuch.

  Others red-eyed and vicious, like The Spineless.

  And some are natural born prodigies of the hunt, like his once-brother, Jonah.

  Physically, this wolf was the greatest threat to the shepherd’s pasture; his dying at Solvanel’s hand was only fitting. The sheep were elated at the sight of it, foaming at the mouths as though their bite-wounds were infected.

  Though in the end, it did not really happen.

  Retribution withered in their hearts as soon as the thought of it bloomed—

  “It’s okay, brother...”

  —For instead of killing it, the shepherd pocketed his weapon— “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  —and caressed the animal’s head.

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  Albane’s noise softened gradually, washed away by the tender tide of compassion. Solvanel put a hand over his wounds and massaged his hair.

  He sniffled, “Of course. Brothers protect brothers.”

  “That’s right. But not all brothers are like that.”

  “No!” A child-like explosion sent the others scurrying back. “All brothers!”

  “Not my brother,” reminded Solvanel. “Not your brother. They tried to get rid of us because we’re worthless. Do you think I’m worthless, Albane?”

  The greater giant shook his head. “No. Only eyes worthless.”

  “Good. I don’t think you’re worthless either. From now on, it’ll be me and you. How’s that sound?” Solvanel felt cold inside. The hatred in his heart, tainting his inner flame black. “I’ll be the the little brother who needs your help. And you’ll be the big strong brother who’s always there to protect me. And we’ll prove to those idiots that we’re not worthless, right?”

  Albane nodded his head, still weeping silently. A clueless hope as he asked, “And then they’ll take us back?”

  Solvanel swallowed the reflexive urge to beg the heavens for forgiveness.

  “And then they’ll take us back,” he told him. “But first, you need to prove you’re not worthless. I twisted my ankle when you fell. Please… carry me the rest of the way.”

  “…Okay,” the giant murmured, voice thin as torn cloth.

  A violent throbbing seized his side as he rose. Blood poured from the wound in thick, labored pulses, trailing down his leg and soaking the sand. Still, he turned his back to Solvanel and crouched low, waiting.

  Solvanel hesitated only a moment before climbing on, feeling the heat of the man’s life spilling away beneath his hands. “Thank you. We’ll start taking turns if it’s too hard for you. But I know my big brother’s the strongest; he doesn’t need any rest at all.”

  Albane chuckled weakly, adjusting Solvanel as he rose, echoing, “At all…”

  They started moving, tracing the comet’s trajectory across the scarred plain. Each step drew them deeper into the wake of its descent, where the sand shimmered faintly with residual heat.

  Albane’s gait was uneven, his breath shallow but determined. Solvanel kept his eyes low, tracking the faint glimmer where the creature’s light had scorched the path ahead. The silence between them was filled only by the rhythm of trudging feet.

  It wasn’t long before they came upon several dark lumps scattered across the sand.

  The escapee who had handed him the needle spoke up, his voice brittle with fatigue.

  “Careful… watch your step,” he murmured as Albane’s right foot hovered above the closest lump. “Those things— they’re not right.”

  Albane froze mid-motion, the sole of his foot trembling just inches above the sand.

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  Solvanel raised a hand, motioning for the procession to slow, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. The captives obeyed without a word, their chains clinking faintly in the silence as the giant pulled back as well.

  “What is it?” He asked.

  They were nothing remarkable at first glance. Rises in the dune’s surface, possibly shaped by the breath of wind. Yet there would be no wind here apart from the mercenary leader’s. At least, not since they entered. Furthermore, the lumps repeated at perfect intervals, too deliberate to be his, about an arm’s width apart each.

  He explained this to Solvanel, who then motioned for the procession to slow, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

  Solvanel studied the lumps through the curse of his sight and saw no flame beneath the surface.

  No shadespawn underground waiting in ambush like those of the Scorched sands.

  There was nothing like this mentioned in his grandfather’s bestiary.

  And there was no reason for it to be. These lumps were most likely a phenomenon native to the Forsaken Land. Had his grandfather stumbled upon this place in his early travels, the weight of cynicism would never have survived the journey into old age.

  He patted Albane on the shoulder. “Keep moving. Walk between the lumps, never over them.”

  Albane walked carefully, placing each foot with measured grace. Between the lumps. Never over. He made it halfway across the field without disturbing a single one.

  But the others were not so cautious.

  Behind him, one of the captives stumbled. A small cry, the sound of someone trying to catch themselves—but it’s too late. His heel strikes the crest of a mound.

  A horrible stillness took the air.

  Solvanel froze. A sinking pressure pooling in his gut, as if the crook itself was warning him—some silent alarm trembling through his bones. Then came the sound.

  A low vibration hummed out across the earth.

  It rose through the soles of their feet, a purr that went into a growl, then plateaued.

  All was silent again.

  The man atop the hill let out a nervous laugh. “Heh… Guess they’re really just piles of san-”

  The lump beneath him burst open.

  There was no scream. There was no time.

  A writhing coil of darkness flashed up like a whip.

  Solvanel’s sight pierced through the pitch in time to witness the man’s flame—it flared, flickered—

  —and was crushed.

  Extinguished. Entirely.

  Gone.

  Something vast and grotesque erupted from the dirt: a long, segmented body like a locust’s, glistening with black fluid and covered in chitinous plates that clattered together like armor. Wings, too many, too sharp, unfolded like knives cut from stained glass. Its compound eyes burned with a thousand empty thoughts. It was a thing born to swarm, to consume, to annihilate.

  The man’s scream was caught mid-breath.

  No. He didn’t have the chance to scream at all.

  It was the others who'd begun to shriek.

  One of the women collapsed in panic, sobbing violently. Another prisoner stumbled backward and vomited, bile mixing with dust. The man closest to the corpse stumbled away from the gore, dragging his leg behind him, his mouth open but soundless.

  Solvanel stared at the carnage, imagining the steaming remains of a corpse smeared across the sand. His thoughts raced, leaping from one doomed possibility to another. There were too many of them, too many ways to die. No weapon, no brother, no plea to the heavens would be fast enough.

  Unless…

  He glanced down at the oaf and tightened his grip around the crook.

  Solvanel drew in a slow, shaky breath, weaving grief into his expression.

  Then, with forced incompetence, he threw himself off his brother’s back.

  Albane exclaimed in surprise. “Brother! What is it, brother? Tell me!”

  “My friend…” he sobbed. “He was my best friend…”

  He lifted his gaze to Albane, eyes wide and glistening with over-unstated despair behind the cloth.

  “Please…” His voice cracked, soft and uncertain. “It’s hungry for human flesh. It’s saying it’s going to eat our friends!”

  “What!?” Albane didn’t hesitate.

  Albane spun around, axes drawn.

  “You monster! You hungry for someone! Come hungry for me!”

  The creature shrieked in response, wings thrumming as it lunged forward in a blur of gnashing mandibles and gnarled limbs. But Albane didn’t flinch. He met the charge head-on, slamming his shoulder into the monster’s bulk with the fury of a man who had everything left to lose.

  The impact nearly lifted him off his feet, but he held his ground. His boots slid against the dirt, grinding back inches at a time, but his arms shot up—one axe falling away so that both hands could catch the creature by the jaws.

  It thrashed wildly. A thousand buzzing wings. The stench of rotted chitin and blood.

  Still, Albane held firm, muscles bulging, veins rising like worms beneath his skin. With a cry torn straight from the pit of his soul, he pulled.

  And the creature wailed

  The mandibles split. The chitin cracked. A low, wet pop echoed through the lifeless dark as its jaws tore apart in his grip.

  Then, with one final heave, Albane ripped the beast clean in two.

  Black ichor sprayed across his chest, coating his face and hands, but he stood tall, chest heaving, eyes blazing, the two halves of the beast twitching at his feet.

  Until eventually, the buzzing of its wings stopped.

  And then, it continued—a single breath of hope before despair returned in ravenous numbers.

  With a sudden, sickening shudder, the earth convulsed. The other mounds burst apart in a symphony of chitin and dust. Dozens of glistening black limbs erupted from the ground—wings, spines, mandibles, jaws.

  The locust Albane had torn in half was among them. Rising at the head of the swarm, its wings vibrating with an anger deeper than death, a sound like laughter scraped across bone.

  The buzzing swelled—high-pitched, sharp as needles, maddening. It filled the world, filled their skulls, filled their bones. It sounded as if the creatures were already on their skin, already in their ears, latching onto their backs and eating their group alive.