So You Say

Through the black wastes of an ancient, long dead seabed there wandered a weary warrior, his destination unknown even to him. Tiny, fossilized shells and carapaces were crushed underneath each heavy fall of his bare feet, shredding them as he marched onward. He no longer felt pain, save for the thirst that garroted his throat and pounded at his temples. His already threadbare clothes had fallen away what seemed like ages ago, but that was of no concern, for he had no fear of the sun in this strange land.

A perpetually gray sky loomed overhead, stretching ever onward toward the impossible horizon. Everything was lit evenly, with no source of the light in sight, and the man did not even cast a shadow. There was no morning and no night, no heat and no cold. He sweat profusely despite the absence of any sun to burn his flesh. His slick, pale skin practically glowed, especially along the many scars that marred his massive frame. Naked and left with nothing to do but press forward into the nothing that surrounded him, he dragged behind him the only thing he could not bear to part with – his sword.

*

‘How did I come to be in this place?’

The warrior could ponder only this question. He could bring nothing else to the forefront of his mind. He hung his head as he walked, his long, greasy black hair clinging to his face and back. He wracked his mind for a semblance of the events that had transpired before this place, but only fragments came to him.

‘Rumors of a new land. Mine to take, and a ship to bring me there.’

He looked across the black plains, hoping to see something – anything – that would at least give him some sense of change or progress. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Even the air refused to move, preferring instead to hang lifelessly stagnant about his form. The stillness made the whispered voice that came to him that much easier to perceive.

“Empty.”

At this, he stopped, taking his sword into both of his hands. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, thick and slow like cold honey, wispy like tattered silk.

“You, Venreth, son of Bel’keth…are… empty… as this land…”

“Spirit! Demon!” Despite the pain in his dry throat, his voice was powerful and clear. He cried out, “Whatever you who spoke be, reveal yourself that I may cut you down and be on my way!”

…Silence. The huge man spun in a slow circle, keeping his feet strongly planted, the dry fossilized shells crunching as he turned. He sharpened his senses for any movement or sound, but none came. Then, far into the gray horizon he spotted a dark shape jutting sharply into the dead sky. A few more intense, quiet moments, and Venreth cautiously dropped his guard. Nothing came for him. Nothing spoke. He set off for the Shape on the Horizon, ground crackling, the tip of the sword continuing the leagues-long furrow in his wake.

*

Venreth had no way of tracking the time. Had it been hours? Days? Hunger, exhaustion, and thirst grew worse, but he did not die as he should. He did not even attempt to sleep. A deep, primordial instinct told him it would mean total destruction. All he could do was march on, oblivious to the passage of time. Counting the seconds was futile, as numbers had all but lost their meaning to his wearied mind. For all Venreth knew, he had been walking for years.

Since having first heard it, the Voice continued to torment him, always speaking tortuously slow, as if trying to catch its breath. Sometimes it would urge him to give up, telling him that his journey was hopeless, that it would be better to fall on his sword and die. Other times, it would whisper sweetly, like a lover promising pleasures and gifts beyond all imagining; all Venreth need do is submit. He knew it hated him, wanted to own him if only so that it could destroy him. Indeed, the only thing that truly grew tired was his will. But still he walked on.

The Shape on the Horizon grew ever so slowly, and to Vereth it appeared to be an impossibly tall spire, as tall as the horizon was broad, its top disappearing into the featureless firmament above.

“Does it reach on through eternity,” pondered the warrior aloud, “and into the heavenly home of Korste?”

The Voice came quickly, angrily, “Speak not!… of Korste… you useless… thing!”

“Cursed be the man who rejects even his god’s own name,” said Venreth with a sneer.

“Cursed indeed! The Pretender God… has abandoned you…” the Voice purred gleefully now, “Come… useless warrior. I will not… abandon you… I will be your new god. You will… have a new… purpose.”

The last word slithers out slowly, hissed and dripping with venom.

“I have a purpose, and I will have another when the first is finished.”

“Oh?...” The voice questioned mockingly, “And what… may these be?...”

Venreth smirked. “The first is to kill you. The second is to scale that spire. By my power, I swear the first will be done soon.”

“Ha… ha…,” the dry laugh was almost a cough. “By your... power? You have... no power. You will not succeed... at even the first. You will fail… and I will have you… forever.” A long, silent moment, punctuated by the unceasing crunch of Venreth’s footfalls.

“It is…. hopeless… give up… lay down and close… your eyes. It will all… be over soon…”

It was certainly tempting.

*

Venreth could not remember when last he heard the Voice. Maddening as it was when it spoke, all the more maddening were the steady, never-ending sounds of the warrior’s bloody steps. He almost began to miss the Voice. At least it had given him something to aim his frustration at. The march was becoming more difficult, and the weight of the sword in his hand was almost unbearable. Venreth looked from the looming Spire and down at his arms, hands, and legs. The bones of his knuckles were prominent, and veins spiderwebbed the length of his limbs. He had lost weight, his once powerful physique now atrophied into a skeletal frame.

“Fitting, that.” He chuckled morbidly, for he had finally realized where he was. “Spend your whole life pursuing more… more glory, more women, more power, and the reward at the end of it all is emptiness; an empty wasteland, an empty stomach, and an empty Voice determined to remind you for all eternity that you are empty of even a soul.”

The familiar hateful hissing responded, “Yes… now you finally…. Understand. You are not… the first to come. You will not be… the last. All will be… mine. I will… strip you… of all that you were. Just as I… stripped this realm. I will take… all… into my being.”

Venreth stopped and thought for a moment. When next he spoke, the words were small and raspy, painfully whispered.

“Perhaps you will… I will not be an easy meal.”

“Ha… ha. So you… say. So you… say.”

It continued to repeat these same words ad nauseum, until they became a part of the continuous sounds of the warrior’s shuffling feet and dragging sword.

*

The Spire was close. From this distance, Venreth thought he could see more details in the face of the tower, but it was sickening to gaze upon. Its size alone bewildered his already fragile mind, nearly impossible to comprehend. From this distance, it spanned the entire horizon, and Venreth almost had to double over backwards to look towards the top. It was the same stygian black as the wasteland that surrounded him, though in the even gray light, he could make out the various forms and distorted architectures that comprised the Spire. Twisted humanoid forms, husks of destroyed ships, and the rubble and remnants of ancient buildings — some whose style Venreth recognized and others that were completely alien in their design. All of this was tightly compressed together; almost melted in its joining. The blackness that coated the whole structure reminded him of mold, of rot. It all hurt his head to look at. But he was almost there.

He limped and shuffled, throwing the weight of his frail body to and fro with each step, struggling to stay upright. Despite this, the grip on the hilt of his sword remained tight. The once lustrous blade was now coated in the black sediment of the land, and the sword no longer had a tip, having lost several inches of length after being dragged for so long.

‘Surely sharp no longer…’ Venreth thought, unable to even muster his voice.

“So you say… So you say…”

It was almost a lullaby. The warrior halted, his body shaking, his head down. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the Spire, matted black hair falling about his face and halfway down his back. He hated it. He hated the Voice. He hated himself. His whole life came racing back through his weary, near-mad mind, and he was filled with regret. He had murdered, plundered, cheated, and spoke his god’s name only in curses, boasts, or lewd exclamations. He claimed Korste as his god but had not once been in a temple except to steal their treasures or seduce their priestesses. What a fool he had been.

He whispered, barely audible, a desperate and humble plea; a kind as such he had never before uttered in all his days.

“Korste… save me. I give my worthless, empty heart to you…”

“So you say… So you say…”

And with that, he collapsed.

*

“Finally!”

There was a great commotion; the displacement of the countless tiny stones and shells clacketing against each other as something moved rapidly through the ground. Venreth laid facedown, motionless, completely aware of but terribly helpless against the coming oblivion. The Voice now screamed with a terrifying glee and energy it had never hitherto exhibited.

“Forty years! Forty years I wore you down! I told you I would have you!”

A new Voice came to Venreth, then. It came from deep within the core of his being, filled with strength, warmth, and love.

Get up, my son. Take heart, for I have not abandoned you. Take up your blade once more, for I have greater purpose for you yet.

The warrior’s eyes flew open, and he finally saw the horrific form of his tormentor as it erupted from the cursed earth. Amorphous flesh, pink as a babe’s that rapidly aged, wrinkled, and finally turned black before sloughing off, only to regrow anew made up its bulk. Human teeth rotated constantly around its hollow center, and Venreth could see it had plenty of room for him. Its hate was palpable and familiar. It was the same hatred he had felt for himself; had always felt for himself. The emptiness in its being was what Venreth had spent his life attempting to fill.

When he gazed upon his would-be destroyer, there was no fear. It rushed towards him with a surprising speed and flung itself through the air. Venreth’s grip on his sword had never faltered, and he dove away, rolling as he hit the black ground. He stood quickly, amazed at his sudden alacrity. The warrior looked down and saw the impossible – his strength had returned! Or rather, it had been given back to him. He stared at the Voice and felt nothing but pity for it and he resolved to end its suffering.

“I will pray for you, creature, when this is done.”

It screamed back at him, “No! It will never be done! You will never be rid of me!”

Venreth took his sword into both of his hands and smiled gently.

“So you say. So you say.”

*

The warrior had meant it when he said he would pray for the thing. Its foul corpse decayed rapidly, the stench incomparable to anything Venreth had encountered before. He finished praying the first earnest prayer he had ever said, and stood to face the Spire. It seemed less daunting now, somehow less… large. He knew that it wasn’t, but he also knew that as hard as the climb would be, he would succeed.

He stood at its base in what felt like no time at all, placing his hand on the cool black surface, tracing the shapes with his finger. Human faces, splintered wood, and quarried stone all morphed together into an alien amalgamation, coated in the strange black sediment. He looked down the length of it horizontally, and its base was impossible to see the end of. There had been no shadow in this place until now, where the Spire took up so much of Venreth’s field of view that the sourceless light almost could not reach his eyes.

Gazing vertically, he saw there were many handholds, but no places that stuck out far enough to rest. He would need both hands. He gazed down at his sword, his only true companion in the decades he had spent here. He had lived by it all his life, never hesitating to use it to achieve his selfish needs. He was reluctant to part with it, and was pondering on ways to keep it with him during the climb. Then, the warm and loving voice he had heard welled up from within his heart.

Leave it, my son. For the things I have for you, you will have no need of it. You need only me.

All hesitation fled his mind. He quickly dug a long, shallow divot into the ancient, dead seabed, and buried the sword there. Then, he began to climb.

*

Warm sunlight bathed Venreth’s naked back, and gentle wind kissed his face while waves lapped at his feet. His eyes shot open, and he began hacking violently, coughing up a concerning amount of water as he did so. Sitting up, he looked around and saw blue waters and white beaches, and the most beautiful and vibrant green he had ever laid eyes on. He was surrounded by splintered wood planks and lengths of thick rope strewn everywhere. He stood, shielding his eyes from the dazzling sunlight, and looked down the length of the beach. There in the distance, he saw the wreckage of a ship – his ship! He ran towards it, singing, dancing, and praying aloud as he went. A warrior no more, now a new man with a new heart and no longer haunted by his past sins, Venreth, son of Bel’keth took a new name that day.

He is Varis, son of Korste, and one day he would come to be known as T’arc-Latos — the Summershield.