2

Boar

"We have made contact with a clan far south of Valenfrost. They are a foreign people, coming from the south continent of Atrox. My men and allies call them Barbarians, a crude insult. While they are strangers to our customs, I do not believe them to be savages like the raiders that already plague our waters. Nor like my own father, who had committed atrocities against our own people. The most harm they had done so far was in self defense against one of the smaller clans near Blyth territory. Even then, only one man had died from the conflict. Einar has expressed concerns, but I believe it is best to talk peace first. Violence has brought nothing but pain to our nation these past years and I intend to minimize it as much as possible. I will still express caution, but I will not be the first to strike at them. Not when they have done nothing to deserve it. Of course, that is not the only reason why I say this.

While months have passed since my father's fall, my own clan hasn't recovered fully from the war. Our standing is still there, but not many clans know of our true weaknesses. We hope to never show that side of us. The Jarls we are allied with are kind, sure, but there is a certain hunger within those eyes, like leviathans that sense blood in the water. They are waiting for a chance to pick off what they can to gain control of the territory I had inherited from my father's fall.

I must stay vigilant and keep my vulnerabilities hidden. That includes a call for peace and a show of strength every once in a while in the form of raider hunts. Keeping appearances is vital to making sure no one tries anything. When the time is ripe, once tensions have dissipated, I plan to meet with these Barbarians. Or Atroxi, as Isabelle calls them. I do hope they also share the same goal of peace.

I hope that I am not making a mistake."

Astronomy. Knowledge of stars. Constellations. Useless. All useless.

It was erased quickly, the images eaten by the void of memory loss.

Battle formation. Tactics. Soldier positions. Somewhat important for certain undead but ultimately useless.

The knowledge was sucked in by the void, not unlike the previous mound of information. Replacing it was the faint power of a single Life reserve. It all left a painful migraine that surged through Malik Ymir's head. Yet the pain was not comparable to the agony of dying. He strained to move his numb hand to his chest, his body growing colder. With a harsh whisper, Malik chanted.

"Warmth to Me. Bestow Life."

His body jerked in response, a gasp escaping his lips as he seized painfully. The gasp soon turned into a scream, his vocal cords growing hoarse as needles pricked at every part of his body. He couldn't help it. Life bestowed upon a person was not a comforting feeling. It was dark magic, simple as. With such a cursed ritual, pain was obviously expected.

Wounds healed and blood was restored to him. Still, it was barely enough to keep him alive. Malik forced himself to blink rapidly, his sight restored as he looked at the dark sky. He wasn't sure if night had started to fall, or if the sky was blanketed by the dark smoke that came from the fires that ravaged Talon.

Malik turned over onto his stomach, blood staining his robes as he wiggled his wounded body forth. His death gambit had paid off, and he had awakened long after the danger had passed. He narrowly avoided waking too late to move any part of his body whilst also being lucky enough to not wake too early when those bastards were still around.

Right now, it looked as if they had dumped all the bodies on the longship, stealing Frostbite for themselves. Malik cursed all the Gods he knew for such a shit situation. He could feel how Talon lurched beneath him, the bodies around him shifting in response. The hull was filling with water, he knew.

'Then why am I doing this?' he thought as he crawled toward one particular body. 'Why am I hopelessly trying to survive?'

He could swear that there was a particular reason. One that was shrouded in the distant past. Back before his time as a necromancer. Yet no memory came forth. He had probably erased it at some point. No matter. Malik was doing what he did on instinct, and if he learned from anything in his years, it was that he trusted them more than any phony God who controlled death.

"I will agree to every other term you may have for me. I will follow your orders as long as they don't interfere with my core beliefs and our agreements. I will do everything in my power to keep you and your allies safe. All I ask of you is that you allow me to take your body in the event you die or are killed in battle."

The terms of his pact agreements echoed in Malik's head as he looked down upon James Holter's deceased corpse. He was dead this time. Not like the Vindis Incident. He had brushed with death that time but had never been in its grasp like now. The necromancer could feel his pact with the otherworldly man become complete, leaving the last condition to be filled. Malik could do what he wanted with the corpse, to make it his own and add it to the many undead he controlled. He could study it, dissect its secrets and all.

Yet Malik did none of that. He instead searched his memories quickly, his hand moving to the fatal wound on James' neck. It was still warm. He had time. The body twitched under his touch, still going through its death throes. James had taken a while to die. A horrifying experience, to be sure.

'Urichal Histories, don't need that. Arenian Death rituals, get rid of that.'

Malik tore through memories, erasing what he considered useless at the moment. Yet it did little to converge a single reserve. He needed two, dammit. To do that, he would have to erase something big. Something important.

James' body was losing heat. If more time passed, there was little chance that he'd be able to tether back the souls it had held.

Malik paused as he debated heavily in his mental space. Making a choice, he collected a chunk of memory.

'Possession and body swapping. Demon summoning. Resurrection rituals. My entire knowledge of body modifications.'

He offered it up, and the knowledge was greedily sucked out of his mind. A sharp pain then struck him, like a hot blade twisting around the inside of his skull. Malik clenched his jaw tight through the pain, feeling three distinct reserves of Life appear within him. Bearing through the migraine, the necromancer focused on James' corpse.

"Warmth to You. Bestow Life."

His reserves of Life poured into the dead man, whose body shuddered in response. He twitched and shook, his wounds slowly healing as they emitted steam. Malik stopped after the second reserve, saving the third for another time. He had to make sure that his attempt worked.

The dagger wound in his throat was the first to heal, leaving behind a faint scar. The cuts all over his limbs and face healed right after, leaving little to no evidence of ever being there. The missing eye, however, did not heal. While the bleeding stopped, the open wound remained.

Malik waited a moment and heard it.

James gasped deeply and let out a guttural noise, his lungs expelling any and all air and blood he had left in them. Red spattered over the stained deck, the Jarl's body shuddering as it turned over on its side. Seizures accompanied his return to the world of the living, the overpowering fluctuation of Life jolting him. It was nothing like the ungodly revival he went through during Midsommar. That had been the power of ley lines, and it filled him with such awesome power that it nearly killed him there.

This revival was barely enough to bring him back, leaving him with only enough energy to get his heart beating and his lungs breathing. This power could only do so much. Malik had to burn through the last of his conserved Life just to bring himself back to a state of consciousness where he could summon the strength to erase the memories needed to produce another reserve. Two barely got him up when he was already on the verge of death. To bring someone back with the same amount was a risky gamble.

Malik still wasn't even sure it paid off yet. He looked toward James, whose seizing was growing faint, his breathing ragged and hoarse. The necromancer placed a hand on the man, summoning what little strength he had to cast a spell.

"Descry."

He felt his mana pour into James' internal ley lines, searching through the man's body for any signs of a soul. As he did so, he heard the telltale sounds of another ship rowing. The shouts of men accompanied the sounds, and before he knew it, the ship came into view. From his skewed point of view, Malik could see a mast with white sails pull aside the sinking ship, men throwing hooks and bridges onto the right side of the ship. Malik forgot what it was called for some reason.

The necromancer didn't have time to think about such things, however. He instead focused on the men who jumped onto the deck, their gear much better than that of Ivan's or even James' clan.

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'Not raiders or Falk soldiers…'

Malik saw the red and gold they wore, the colors synonymous with one of the southern clans. He didn't know which one, though. He had never bothered to learn such useless things. Or perhaps he did, at some point, and traded the knowledge for Life. He would never know.

Among them was a tall, bearded man who wore a red cloak over his figure. His head of hair was cut short to perhaps a knuckle's length. His beard was tied into three distinct braids, each one held by silver rings. A Jarl's band wrapped around the top of his head, signifying him as a clan leader.

Next to him was a woman whom Malik instantly recognized.

'The Outlander.'

She looked the same as the last time the necromancer had seen her. Dark kasani clothes and black cloak that wrapped around her shoulders. He could see the strange blade resting in its scabbard by her belt. The Outlander stood with the Jarl, her expression a mix of stunned horror and shock. She searched the burning deck, looking over the bodies and remnants of battle. She stopped when her lone eye focused on Malik and James.

"There! They're both alive!"

Malik couldn't say or do anything as men hurried to him and James. The necromancer hurried his Descry spell. He searched James' ley lines, searching for any sign of life. A sign that his soul was back. Any soul, in fact. Just as long as his work was for nothing and he didn't bring back a Hollow to life.

As the men finally pulled the necromancer up—breaking his contact with James—Malik had gotten the answer to his dreaded question. He did not find a soul in the body.

He had found three.

Cold stone walls surrounded Miles Fowler as he meditated. The confines of his dungeon were cramped and suffocating, but the mercenary did not mind. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do in here other than pray and mull in his thoughts.

It had been eight months since he and Edmund Baker had parted ways, their journey through Valenfrost ending once the young man had arrived at Norum, his eyes set on traveling home alone. And so, the follower had bid his farewells and left for a journey of his own. One that Myr had set him on.

The dreams had stopped a long time ago. Back when the mercenary was captured and arrested a few days before the Midsommar celebrations. He had headed back to Vindis in search of a new job, as was insinuated by the strange and cryptic dreams he experienced. However, his quest had been cut short when the ship he was hitching a ride on was suddenly raided by pirates.

Things had devolved quickly, and before Miles knew it, he and the crew were saved by a clan ship that flew the colors of the Villtur clan. The symbol of a Boar, outlined in red and gold. The men on that ship had mistaken the mercenary for one of the pirates, and their focus was set on him after the action had died down.

Miles was then promptly arrested, with none of the crew coming to his defense. Not that it surprised him. He was used to the stigma that surrounded those who bore Myr's symbol. He was lucky that the men did not kill him then and there.

Miles assumed that this was another test from Myr. Perhaps it was also a sign. Not long after he was thrown into the dungeons, word had come from the south. A large battle had taken place on the floating city, and the Draugr had laid claim to it. Myr had orchestrated it. Someway somehow, he had nudged and pushed things into place. Miles' arrest was not an accident. It had a purpose. What kind of purpose, the mercenary would have to be patient to find out.

Miles opened his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. He looked over at his facemask, which sat near his cot. Cracks lined the upper left side of the wooden mask, the pieces glued together with a glue that glittered with gold. It was a form of art, one that Miles had learned back in his homeland of Kasan.

The mask had been broken during an… altercation during his journey with Edmund. Miles had nearly died and, as a result, had a near-death experience. That brush with the other side was enough to awaken something in Miles.

The world had a different color to it, the hues deeper and richer. The sounds crisp and almost musical. Myr had spoken to him.

'I'm not crazy,' Miles thought as he reached over to the mask. His fingers brushed over the cracks, a small smile forming on his lips. 'I am enlightened. A tool for Myr's greater plan. Whatever happens next, I shall be ready.'

He placed the wooden mask over his face, slipping the leather straps around his head. As he tightened its holdings, a vision flashed over his eyes. The first one in months. Miles paused at the sudden flash of colors and images, his body stiffening.

The experience was only for a moment but felt like an entire day's worth of information.

Miles grinned. The visages shown to him were ones that amused him. It reminded him of the ones he had witnessed the week before he met with James Holter. Before he had crossed paths with a man that was Myr's own chosen.

The vision was blurry, but Miles managed to pick out an image from it. A man clad in worn steel, a torn cape over his torso. His helmet obscured his face, the chainmail covering all features. Yet there was a glow that emanated from his right eye, magical smoke seeping from the helmet's visor.

'I've been wondering when I'd see him again,' Miles thought. As he contemplated the meaning of the vision, sounds echoed throughout the dungeon he was kept in. Footsteps. Soon enough, a guard with a red tabard adorned with gold filigrees walked by the cell. He stopped when he saw Miles. Without a word, the guard carelessly dropped a wooden bowl. It hit the ground, some of its sloppy contents spilling.

"Food," the guard grunted before he used the tip of his boot to slide the bowl through the small gap under the bars. Miles stared at the bowl, which consisted of what he assumed was a mix of beef fat and old porridge. It was barely enough to sustain him for the day.

Almost as if on cue, the follower's stomach growled angrily at the smell of the food. Miles grimaced underneath his mask at that.

"Prep that bucket of yours, as well," the guard said. "Someone will come soon to get it."

Miles did not say anything. He simply grabbed the bowl of slop, all the while ignoring the guard's words. Of course, the man before him didn't seem to notice or care. He just simply droned on with the procedure as if Miles hadn't heard it over and over again for the past four months.

Back against the bars, hands on the wall. Bucket by the door. Wait until it is all clear to even. If his hands separated from the stone by just an inch, he would be beaten down until he couldn't move. Standard procedure. If anything, this particular prison was rather nicer than the ones Miles usually found himself in.

Four months in most of the northern dungeons, Miles would've been at the edge of starvation, body bruised from the constant beatings. His hands would've been bleeding from the constant work in the mines or mills the wardens would've put him through. And that was if he wasn't sold into slavery.

Miles was lucky that the clan he had been captured by had outlawed the practice years ago. Back when Jarl Lukas Villtur had taken the title and position from his dying father. Whether the ban on slavery had been out of morality or rebellion mattered little to Miles. He was just thankful that it had been this clan that captured him. Had it been Vulpesson or even Olafson, Miles would have either been executed or forced into chains, a brand set upon his neck.

"Did you get all that?" the guard asked tiredly.

Miles nodded as he lifted the mask just a little bit. He dipped a couple fingers into the slop and brought up a chunk of fat to his lips. He chewed, ignored the taste, and swallowed quickly.

"Why do you even wear the mask?" the guard asked out of nowhere. His tone had shifted from gruff soldier to curious child. Miles lifted his head, his left hand instinctively shifting the mask back into place. Through the low light of the dungeon, he could see how the guardsman crossed his arms, his head tilting in thought.

"It makes no sense," the man continued. "It's a death sentence to walk around with such a thing. Even in Valenfrost, you have to know how dangerous it is to be seen in it. Hel, you got arrested just for having it. You didn't even commit a crime, as far as I know."

"It is my faith," Miles responded in a low voice. "That, and this mask has a…sentimental value."

There was a pause. Both men looked at each other, the silence growing between them.

"Jarl Villtur believes that you're like the other ones of your faith," the guard muttered, breaking it. "Are you? Do you kill randomly to please your God? Do you just burn villages for the hel of it? Are you insane?"

Miles took a moment to think. He thought back to the battles he had fought. The men he had killed. None of it had been random. Unjustified neither. However, all of it had either led to chaos or was simply a result of it.

"I do not kill randomly, and I don't do things for the fun of it," Miles answered. "I simply go where I am needed and do what I must."

"They say that a Follower of Chaos started some trouble east of Valenfrost," the guardsmen said. "Bootstead, I believe the town was called. Nearly burnt to the ground around the start of the year. The most notable thing about it was the trail of dead men by the town's edge. Followers, all of them. The witnesses say that some man bearing their mask had cut them all down. Killed them all on his lonesome. Said it was for the Will of Myr."

Miles was silent. He knew exactly what the man was speaking about. How could he not?

"Of course, a question comes up after that," he continued. "What kind of man would kill his own? A man who butchers the ones who bear the same symbols as he. I suppose that's why Jarl Villtur believed you were dangerous."

"Why would you ask a question," Miles started. "That you supposedly know the answer to?"

The guardsmen stiffened at that. He didn't say another word to Miles' counter. He only stared at him, a look of what could be perceived as reprieve painting his face. The Follower of Chaos knew that his fractured mask was an unsettling sight to look at. Especially if one had grown up being told the stories of his following.

Before any of them could continue this 'conversation,' a commotion sounded out from outside. Miles could hear voices bounce around the dungeons, some of them hushed and hurried. A horn then blew, and a voice called out after.

"Jarl Villtur has returned! Bring healers now! There are injured to be taken into the infirmary!"

The guard in front of the cell hurried to the exit, leaving Miles to his lonesome. The Follower set down his bowl and moved to the small little window that lay above him. He hopped up, his fingers grasping the edge of the sill. With a grunt, he brought himself up to peek out into the outside. Through the grass and tall weeds, Miles could see men mobilizing to the nearby town that inhabited the island. They rushed in a hurry, heading to the docks.

While Miles couldn't exactly see the ship that Jarl Villtur rode in, he overheard conversation from a couple nearby soldiers.

"Strange woman…went out with the Jarl…"

"Brought back injured…another Jarl?"

"Dead…maybe…"

That was all the follower could catch. Regardless, he felt excitement bubbling in his chest. He thought back to the visions, and the excitement turned to realization. Myr had brought him here. The reason as to why, was slowly becoming clear to him.

Miles sat down, his focus on the bowl before him. He picked it up and continued to eat. For now, he would have to be patient for just a little longer. Just until fate freed him from this prison.

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