All of this has been an irrefutable truth ever since Callum the Wanderer, one of Airesâ greatest historians, had written an account of his visit to Hales, beginning with the enchanting line, âHales is a country of night, as dark and cold and inhospitable as the ice that threatens to consume it.â Poetic, foreboding, and, above all else, fictional.
Callum had never actually visited Hales. Heâd refused to go past the border after slipping on a patch of ice and bruising his rump, so he had instead relied on the irate grumblings of some ex-patriots from Hales to cobble together the image of the country that most Airesians imagine today.
This opinion of Hales was, frankly, unfair. The first settlers of Hales hadnât been idiots. Perhaps a little crazy, but not idiots. Beyond the frigid tundra at its borders, beyond the foreboding icy slopes that foreign poets so love for their apparent symbolism, there is green, however little, for the rural inhabitants to grow what they can and raise the sturdy, robust cattle and other animals that make up a good portion of the Hales diet. Beyond those areas are the cities of Hales, thriving places full of oil, machinery, and, alright, a little iron. Each place is alive with the sounds of people, of crackling fire fighting off the bitter chill, of machinery whirring, and of factories belching.
Donât misunderstand, however. A good portion of Hales is quite icy and silent.
âThis is bullshit.â
At least whenever there are no people the ruin it.
Consider this last bastion of humanity, an old stone outpost far from the nearest city and even a good trek away from the nearest farm. Here ice and rocks are starting to intermingle to suggest the beginning of dramatic and icy slopes that rose further in the distance, and a thick, packed layer of snow covers the ground. It was a dark and bitterly cold night, dark clouds hanging overhead blocking the moon and starsâ attempts to cast their feeble glow. The only light came from the outpost, firelight flickering through small cracks around the door and windows.
Inside the outpost were four men, three lounging around the fire pit at the center of the room, swigging a jug of Halesâ notorious Pyre Water*.
*Pyre Water is made from the root of the Pyre plant, which, surprising absolutely nobody, was as spicy as the name suggested. A normal person could perhaps take a shot of it before running off to fill their mouth with snow, but the people of Hales were a bit heartier than that. Either that or theyâd built up a sort of evolutionary resistance against it over the years. Regardless, they swigged where others would have screamed âOh, Goddess, it tastes like burning!â
âAbsolute bullshit,â one man continued. His name was Yuri, and he was the youngest in the group, still scrawny and knobby-kneed but with a big mouth to compensate. Yuri wrapped a thick woolen blanket around himself, taking another swig. âWhy in the name of the Goddess were we the ones that got suckered into this wild goose chase?â
âNot suckered into. Ordered,â corrected another man as he took the jug from Yuriâs hands. His name was Gregory, a lazy but affable man who had reached as far in the ranks of Halesâ military as he cared to. âAnd who knows? Maybe thereâs some truth to it after all.â
âYou donât really believe that, do you?â Yuri scoffed.
âMaybe not, but I do know thereâs a lot worse things we could be doing than drinking around a fire,â said Gregory with a warm laugh.
âItâs not the worst outpost Iâve ever slept in, anyways. Even the windâs stopped blowing through the cracks since weâve gotten here. Itâs almost cozy.â
âYou have Steinsson to thank for that,â said Ivan, the third man in the circle and by far the oldest in the group. He stroked his gray, unkempt beard and nodded to the last man in the room who was currently hunched over like a gargoyle, staring steadily out of the roomâs only windows. He hadnât moved in at least an hour. âIâve heard the wind always seems to cooperate when heâs here. Itâs probably too scared to show up.â The three menâs laughter petered off as soon as it began when they became aware that Steinsson was not, in fact, staring out the window anymore. He was gazing directly at them, gray eyes as cold as the night air.
âWhat did you say?â
The words werenât necessarily a threat, but his deep, raspy voice and the sharp, serious look that was permanently settled on his face certainly seemed to imply one.
The three men tensed. None of them had worked with Dorian Steinsson before, and, if they were honest, it had never exactly been on their bucket lists. Even among other soldiers he had a certain notoriety, known for his ruthless efficiency and extreme dedication to his homeland. It didnât help that he gave off the same vibes as a wolf on the prowl, all lean and hungry for his next prey.
âNothing, Steinsson. Sorry. Just joking around,â Ivan quickly amended before the three men hastily turned back to their conversation and, more importantly, their jug of Pyre Water. Yuri glanced at Steinsson out of the corner of his eye and shivered. He looked even angrier than before. Had he heard them? What on Aires could he be thinking?
What Dorian was thinking was that, honestly, he felt a bit left out. It seemed like he was always missing out on something, and no one ever seemed inclined to fill him in. Maybe it was just one of those things that you had to hear the first time, or maybe it had been a dirty joke that theyâd been too embarrassed to repeat. That would at least explain the discomfort on their faces.
He sat up slowly, straightening out as he worked out a kink threatening to develop in his neck. Usually he could hold position better, but this was his third consecutive week of field assignments, camped out in the boonies day and night with only the other soldiers on assignment with him changing. He would say that the sights changed too as he moved from camp to camp, outpost to outpost, but if youâve seen one snowy desert or icy hill, youâve seen them all.
One could always tell just how long Dorian had been out on assignment from the beard developing on his usually clean-shaven face and the way that his black hair had begun to outgrow the military cut it was usually shaped into. He looked a bit wild, but out here there was no one to impress and, more importantly, a severe lack of mirrors.
Dorianâs gaze flickered back to the window for a moment. It was an unusually dark night, and even with the help of the flickering fire inside he could barely see four feet in front of the outpost. That didnât stop him from remaining in position, however, although he allowed his mind to wander towards the conversation that had picked up again among his team members.
âIâm not sure what could cause all that damage,â Gregory said, leaning back on the floor. âDid you hear about the bodies? Absolutely disgusting.â
âIt was a bear, probably. Or a wolf. Maybe a pack of them,â said Ivan, finally taking his own pull from the jug. âProbably starving and desperate. People are just getting spooked. Things like that happen this time of year. Itâs because the nights are so long. Itâs easier to believe in scary stories when it stays so dark.â
âWhat was that scream they talked about, then?â Gregory asked, more out of amusement than any desire to start a real argument. âThey said it was still ringing in their ears a day later, you know.â
âDefinitely not a fucking Cyclopean,â Yuri grumbled. âBut what can you expect from ass-backwards farmers? Most of them grew up with that fairytale bullshit. Itâs rotted their brains. Makes them see and hear Month Warriors and monsters everywhere. Fucking embarrassing.â
Ivan glared at him. âMy wifeâs from a farming family, so Iâd watch my mouth if I were you.â
âWell, if I were you, Iâd-â None of them ever found out what Yuri would do, although it did promise to be something quite creative given his penchant for artistically turning foul words even fouler, because a single sound rang out in the night.
The thing about sound out in Halesâ uninhabited region is that it wasnât swallowed by the silence; it was amplified by it. Even a whispered conversation seemed to carry on for miles, and this noise was no whisper. It was a screech, blood-curdling and as painful to hear as nails scraping down a chalkboard. There was something primal at work here, forcing the men to drop to the floor and cover their ears instinctually as if it was the most natural reaction in the world, until the last of the scream had faded away into the night.
âWhat the fuck,â Yuri breathed, the first of the three around the fire to recover, as he shakily sat up, clutching at his heart. It was silent outside again, but this time uncomfortably so. They knew they werenât alone.
âShould⊠Should we go check?â Gregory asked in a tremulous voice that clearly expressed what heâd prefer the answer to be.
âYou want to go out and see whatever that was, be my guest. IâŠâ Ivan trailed off. He couldnât even bring himself to sit up, still huddled over and trying to calm his nerves.
A humming, electrical sound sparked in the room. The three men jerked around to see Dorian already slipping on his thick wool gloves and pulling on his hat, the light of his artificial torch (âScience, Dorian!â His uncle had exclaimed while presenting it, waving it around like a crazy person or, to an Earthling, like someone at a rave) slowly growing in strength as it warmed up.
âSteinsson, what in the name of the Goddess do you think youâre doing?â barked Ivan. He didnât get up to stop him, however. âYou want to go out there with whatever made that noise?â
âMy mission is to take care of whatever that is,â Dorian said simply, pulling out his sword and picking up the torch with his other hand. It might have been wiser to wait for day, but who knows where it may have gotten to by then. He opened the door, and the wind suddenly began to pick up, biting and bitterly cold as it swept into the room, making the fire flicker.
âWhat if itâs⊠itâs not. I mean-â Yuri couldnât bring himself to say it.
Dorian paused, considering for a moment.
âIâll kill it,â He said firmly and shut the door behind him. No one moved to stop him.
~*~*~*~*~
Even bundled up as he was in the thick gray, fur-trimmed uniform of the Hales military, the frigid night air managed to seep into Dorianâs bones, nipping at the exposed flesh of his face. He ignored it as best he could, hunching his shoulders against the wind as he followed the steadily growing beam of his torch in the direction the scream had come from. The way the snow crunched underneath his boots and the noisy hum of the torch did wonders to stave off the eerie silence.
Dorian was scared. Of course he was. If youâd asked him, he would have easily admitted it. It was the most natural thing in the world to be scared right now. Fortunately for Hales and unfortunately for Dorianâs own well-being, fear had never been much of a deterrent for him. There were worse things than being scared to Dorian, like disobeying direct orders.
Whatever this thing was, it had been terrorizing small farming communities on the edges of the Hales Empire, which, as his commanding officer had assured him, could not and would not be tolerated. Dorian was inclined to agree. It was the duty of the Hales military to look after and protect its populace.
And maybe, just maybe, it was a bear. Well, a bear with a nightmarish voice, but Dorian could deal with bears and wolves. He had in the past. Those were simple, living creatures. You killed them if they tried to kill you. Just like people. Simple.
He was far from the encampment now, so far that the firelight dancing in the window was only barely visible, a soft, beckoning glow. He pressed onwards into the night.
What happened next occurred in less than a minuteâs time. Something was suddenly behind him. Dorian could hear the quick steps skittering on the snow. That sound was his only warning before something was on his back, pushing him bodily down onto the snow and rocks beneath him. It was pure instinct that drove him to roll to the side as he fell, narrowly avoiding a long, sinister black claw longer than his own forearm that pierced the ground right where his head should have been.
Dorian never stopped moving, struggling to his feet and dodging to the side again as the creature reared up, screeching once more as the light of the torch finally encompassed it. Black scales glittered in the artificial light. The creature was at least two feet taller than him, but thin and dragon-like its features*. Its teeth were bared into a snarl, long fangs sharp and glistening with black saliva. It was a familiar face, the face heâd seen in nightmares as a child and in those morbid occult books his grandmother tried to insist were for children too. A Cyclopean.
*It should be noted that a Cyclopean actually more closely resembles a lizard. Dorian, however, has never been quite sure what a lizard was, even though heâd read about them in the Hales comedic classic âCallum the Wandererâ. Dragons, at least, heâd seen in paintings.
The creature lunged for him suddenly, and, in his haste to get out of the way, the torch slipped from Dorianâs hands, light fading with a sad little whine when it hit the snow until there was only darkness left behind. Dorian blinked rapidly, trying to let his eyes adjust as he scrambled backwards, away from the creature. The Cyclopean was so close now that he could see its glittering outline vividly even in the dark night, and with it came shadowy claws darting forward, talons grasping and slicing at its prey.
He gripped his sword with both hands and parried against the claws as well as he could. Sharp claws still managed to catch at him as the monster advanced, tearing clothing and finally catching his right arm, slicing into the flesh. His arm was burning, and Dorian could already feel the hot blood rising, soaking his sleeve.
It had never been in Dorianâs nature to give up. Well, maybe it had been once, but years in the military academy had beaten that trait out of him. His feet dug into the packed snow, and he swung his sword towards the Cyclopeanâs side, putting all of his weight into the movement. The resulting clash sounded like a thick pane of glass breaking. The Cyclopean stumbled forward, alive but wounded. Dorian moved back, preparing his next move when quite suddenly he realized that there was no more Earth behind him.
It could have been a tunnel, a cave, or even an old spot where someone had once drilled for oil. Whatever it was, it had been covered only with snow until he took that step. He was falling backwards, and the Cyclopean was falling with him.
That was, according to Dorian when he would later recount this story, when things got weird. When asked why the Cyclopean wasnât the weird part, he would simply tell you that he could handle something trying to kill him, even if that something was a fictional monster. Fighting something trying to kill you just made sense, after all.
The fall seemed to take an eternity, and the Cyclopean above him kept fading in and out of sight. One moment it was above him, the next somewhere to the side, and then just gone. It was letting out that blood-curdling scream, for all the world a wounded, frightened animal. He didnât have time to worry about it, however, because the world around him was rapidly changing, starting with pure darkness, then a sea of stars glittering around him with strange, amorphous blobs moving in his peripheral, followed by a veritable kaleidoscope of bright colors and shapes. All the while, something was burning under his shirt, right where his aquamarine pendant should be. The heat was hot enough to blister skin, but it kept him present, kept him grounded as he continued to fall. Then he stopped.
It wasnât that he hit the ground. There was no thud, no actual impact. He had simply stopped falling and could now feel something solid beneath him. It was soil, loose around him, surrounding him like a shallow grave. Dorian flailed for a moment before his sword thrust through the loose dirt above him, and he scrambled out of the earth, dragging himself out of the hole and crawling a short ways away. Dorian attempted to open his eyes as he staggered to his feet, but it was too bright. When had the sun risen? And, he realized as all of his senses started to come back online, why was it so hot?
He was broiling beneath his heavy layers, a humidity unlike anything heâd ever experienced weighing heavily on him. It was like the saunas dotted around Kora, only worse because there was no way normal weather should feel like this. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, before hesitantly attempting to open his eyes one more. It still hurt, but he pushed through the initial bright flash and finally got a look at the world around him.
It was green. Vividly, painfully green with other dramatic and bright colors added in. Heâd never seen plants so bright and so many trees with bare bases, not a needle in sight. There were people here too, but they looked so strange, their clothing something embarrassingly otherworldly, holding strange devices, yelling, and was that someone at the center of a herd of cats? And there, there on the horizon. What was that? It looked like a giant shiny metal tower, glittering and gleaming with glass and other metals woven in. There wasnât just one, however. He could see more clearly now. The skyline was dominated by great metal towers.
Where in the Goddessâs name was he? The best case scenario was that he was dreaming. The worst case⊠Well, the worst case scenario was that the Cyclopean would suddenly appear behind him, climbing out of the same hole and bleeding black ooze everywhere from a wound on its left side, knock his sword from his hands while he was distracted, and then his sword would fly approximately fifteen feet from his person over towards a strange group of people around a tree.
This was, of course, exactly what happened.
Dorian let out a frustrated snarl and quickly pulled out his field knife from the confines of his coat. It wasnât exactly what heâd prefer to use to fight a nine-foot nightmare realized, but beggars canât be choosers.