Published at 14th of October 2023 4:59 pm

Chapter 32 – The Cursed Blessing

This chapter is updated by NovelFree.ml

Lae woke up, wincing at the feeling of frost cracking on her eyelashes. She was supposed to keep her head tucked away in the bedroll, but her instinctive dislike of being smothered ensured she always woke with her head exposed to the mountain air.

She rubbed her eyes, causing flakes of ice to rain down. She probably wouldn't have any eyelashes left by the time they made it to the Enclave. Kye was already up and warming some food over a fire. It would be another couple of minutes before he was done, so she ducked into her—or rather Kye’s—bedroll and tucked her face into the crook of her elbow to warm it up. It felt like her skin had frozen solid, but after a few minutes, she began to thaw.

She didn’t know why she bothered. As soon as she got out of bed, she’d be frozen again anyway. Sighing, she climbed out, too chilled to stretch, though she yearned to. Who would have thought that she would ever miss her straw mat back at the hut in Yayu? At least it had been warm, especially when the fire was roaring. She shivered.

Kye saw Lae looking at the campfire and gave her a tired smile.

“Breakfast will be ready soon. If you’re going into the woods, don’t go far. I scouted around and there’s no sign of any predators, but this is jawe territory.”

She nodded.

Jawes. Wolflike monsters with short snouts and a bite that could pulverize bone. She had never seen one, nor did she particularly wish to. If they were still in the passes by the Cradle, they wouldn’t have to worry about them, since the griffons kept all the other monsters at bay. But griffon territory didn’t extend past the rim of the Cradle. Even if they were still back home, she wasn’t safe from griffons, since she wore no bonnet. Without the hunter’s plumage displaying the red and yellows of baby griffons, the monsters would swoop down and carry her off like she was a goat.

This realization did little to instill confidence in her. Did griffons leave their territory? She never asked.

She crept out of camp, listening for any sounds she didn’t recognize. After her morning ritual, she hurried back to the small clearing in record time.

Kye handed her a skewer with a hunk of meat on it, then sat on a rock and began tearing into his own. Lae joined him.

The two of them had fallen into a rhythm of sorts. There was a tacit agreement between them not to speak of anything beyond their current circumstances: the route they were taking, when they were stopping for a meal, how far they were from their destination, and other things related to their journey. Lae was—if not happy—at least satisfied with this arrangement.

On the first day, this compromise hadn’t been in place.

- - -

Lae stared at her hand in a daze. It was red. Remarkably red. It was the red of her mind, like somehow her emotions had left the interior of her skull and plastered themselves to her skin.

A False Brand.

She had always wanted a Brand. She had hoped for Diligence, or maybe Temperance, like her father’s. But what was this? What did this mark represent?

No—what if she was wrong? This could just be some mad coincidence. What if this wasn’t a Brand at all, but something else entirely?

She could prove it. Orimo explained to her, once, what summoning his status was like. Lae brought up the memory, ignoring the painful spike that thinking of him drove into her heart. She mentally demanded her information to appear. If this didn’t work, it would mean this wasn’t a Brand after all. She didn’t even consider until later that False Brands might behave differently. Hope leapt in her heart when nothing happened after a moment… but then it appeared.

Name: Lae Phan

Titles: -

Class: -

Level: -

Skills: -

STATISTICS

Strength: 5

Vitality: 8

Stamina: 11

Agility: 12

Dexterity: 9

Pix: 1

Vapor: 0

A voice broke her out of her horrified reverie.

“Is that…?”

Kye had seen her Brand. She hurriedly clasped her other hand over the mark, holding it to her chest, eyeing the man like he might turn on her, but he didn’t even notice the suspicious look.

“A blessing,” he murmured. “Even now, in our darkest night, Father Mountain watches over us.”

His voice was shaky.

He didn’t know, Lae realized. He didn’t know about False Brands. Probably, only other Branded were told about them. Her father mentioned something about secret knowledge, hadn’t he?

Lae didn’t reply to Kye. She focused on walking behind the man, struggling not to trip in the nearly complete blackness of night. One foot in front of the other, on and on. She welcomed the monotonous task. It helped her keep her mind off of her father.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think. Don’t.

When they finally stopped, Lae too exhausted to move another step, Kye set up a quick camp in a rocky outcropping, where they would be hidden from searching eyes. There was to be no campfire this night. He acted unsure, treating her like some delicate piece of pottery, as if the slightest push might break her. Had she made that much of a scene earlier?

Lae asked him for a knife. He hesitated, but handed one over when she held out a palm. She began to cut a length of material from the sleeve of her shirt.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

She didn’t speak, wrapping her hand tightly with the fabric. He watched for a moment.

“That’s a blessing, child,” he said. “You’re not injured. That’s a B—”

She cut him off, voice hoarse. “Have you ever heard of a red Brand?”

She tied off the knot and turned to stare at the hunter. He looked taken aback.

“No,” he murmured. “No, I haven’t. Why is it red? What does that mean?”

Lae took a deep breath.

“Papa taught me about these things,” she said. “It’s not a Brand. Don’t act like it is.”

“What is it?”

“It—it’s a curse. Please, you can’t tell anyone that I have this thing on my hand.”

Could she trust him? Orimo seemed to, but with him d—with him not here, would Kye stay true?

“A curse? Lae, then we need to hurry to the Enclave!”

He stood as if they were going to pack the camp that very instant. “The Shaman will—”

A thrill of fear ran through her at his words.

“Listen to me!” she interjected, a little too loudly.

What would happen if he really went to the leaders? What would they do to her?

She tried again, more quietly. “You can’t tell anybody. Please. It’s not a normal curse. This thing can’t be removed.”

Kye was silent for a moment. He looked nervous. “If you say so, Lae, but I still think it would be better to let them know. Did your Papa… did he say if that curse was dangerous?”

Lae chewed on her lip. Should she reveal any more? What if Kye decided to abandon her after learning about what it meant to have one of these marks? Did she even know what it meant to have one?

If she didn’t impress on him the important of this secret, he might go behind her back once they reached the Enclave and doom her out of a simple feeling of concern.

She had to make the plunge.

“It’s not dangerous as long as I’m careful, I think. Kye,” she said, calling him by his name. “If you tell anyone in the Enclave about this mark on my hand… I think they will kill me. That’s why you have to keep it secret.”

He didn’t ask any more questions.

Thus began their silent trek through the mountains.

- - -

Despite Vanalath’s decision to join hands with the necromancer named Rellika, not much had changed. There was over a week before they had to depart the Cradle, so he spent his time training. He ordered Kalaki and Anamu to train as well, stating that if his own growth was delayed, they wouldn’t be long for this world.

That approach hadn’t worked quite as intended.

Kalaki was simple: he didn’t react to the threat at all. Vanalath was starting to see that he reacted to almost nothing. The ghoul continued to drill with his spear, but it was at the same sedate pace as before. In combat, Vanalath had seen that spear strike like lightning. Now, his movements were sluggish. Precise, but lethargic. However, he was only a ghoul, not yet evolved to the third Tier like Anamu and himself. Vanalath remembered all too well the sluggishness that threatened to overtake him when he was a lesser undead. That sleeplike stupor was a powerful opponent when no tempting prey was around.

On the other hand, Anamu reacted with an excess of motivation. The instant Vanalath related his order, he became a flurry of limbs in motion. The problem wasn’t his drive—no, it was that the ghoul had no idea what training was. Currently, he was copying Kalaki’s motions (poorly), perhaps holding with the philosophy of hard work surpassing talent. Of course, he wielded no spear, so it looked rather like he was energetically dancing with a ghost.

<If I beat Kalaki, I will not die first…!>

Ah, his true thoughts came forward.

Vanalath began to realize he hadn’t paid his Peons much attention. Something changed in him after his earlier introspection, and he realized that he wouldn’t be able to effectively rule others without at least understanding them first. That became clear while watching the duo.

But this… this was tiring. He still wanted to focus on his skills for a while longer. Losing to Orimo had made him realize that he had a long way to go.

Perhaps he could dump this work on someone else.

- - -

Vanalath approached Orimo, who was currently organizing squads of undead alongside Iokina. The two of them had taken on positions of leadership among Rellika’s undead. Iokina was the one mainly ordering the ghouls around, while Orimo acted as more of an advisor. The groups were five or six strong, each led by an evolved ghoul so that there was some capacity for complexity in the commands they were given. They were in the middle of teaching the undead certain phrases that corresponded to a set of actions. The command phrases were simple words, sometimes paired with a modifier: “go there,” “quiet,” “attack that,” “protect this,” and so on.

Orimo was going around, correcting the undead by steering them like puppets when they messed up an order. He turned to Vanalath, scratching his temple with a finger.

<Train your Peons? Sorry, but that doesn’t fall under our agreement.>

Vanalath said, <I thought as much. But do you have any advice? At least for the idiotic one.>

Orimo scratched his chin. <Hmm, Anamu? That kid was always a bit unruly. I remember one time when he swapped out Old Moke’s washing water with a bucket of goat piss! Hah! You know, I didn’t see much humor in it at the time, but it’s far funnier to me now that I’m looking back. I should have asked how he procured the—huh? What’s with that look? Fine, fine, I’ll ask the mistress about helping you out a little.>

<You need her permission to give me advice?> Vanalath asked.

Orimo replied, <Not really. She gives me more free reign than most of the others. Handing out advice doesn’t go against her orders, but… I’m just asking to make sure helping you train those Peons isn’t going against some secret agenda of hers. Not that I think it is, but you know how she can be.>

The hunter waved a hand and walked off.

The man really did speak his mind when he wanted to. Come to think of it, Anamu was similarly uninhibited with his tongue, though the savage ghoul’s chatter was more inane. Was it a trend among ghouls to be so free with their words? No, one look at Iokina proved that wasn’t the case. He knew she was capable of speaking by the way she was currently ordering these ghouls around, but he had never heard her engage in conversation. She was even called a “proto-screamer” by Rellika, whatever that meant. She certainly didn’t scream much. As for the other evolved ghouls… Kalaki was a quiet one, and Vanalath himself preferred silence over noise.

Perhaps ghouls simply had their preferences.

While Orimo was gone, Vanalath inspected the other undead. Most of the ghouls who were sent out earlier had returned to take part in these drills. He approached one of them. He recognized it as one of the hunters he had slain in the preliminary ambush before taking on the main hunter force. This was a spirit that had been absorbed by his Deathstone. Now, it was a simple lesser ghoul.

Vanalath waved a hand in front of the subject’s face. The ghoul gave a bleary blink, turning its gaze briefly to him before returning to stare at the ground.

Not all undead were created equally. Why was Orimo so superior to the others upon his resurrection? Was it because he had been Branded? Was it better materials? A stronger will? Back in that gray world, Orimo mentioned something. This had happened after Vanalath compared him to the other two hunters he’d killed and absorbed, whose souls could do nothing but stand in the place they had died, muttering words of hate.

The crunching of footsteps behind him made Vanalath turn.

<She says it’s fine for me to help out your Peons,> Orimo said, <But only after we get the rest of the ghouls to understand the eight basic commands.>

Vanalath nodded absentmindedly.

<Orimo, what is “strength of spirit”? You mentioned it before.>

<Ah, you’re asking me why I’m different from the others, right? Like this fellow here?> he asked, nodding towards the ghoul Vanalath was inspecting.

<That’s right.>

<Our people, the Children of the Mountain, have a story that might help explain that. Come, walk with me.>

Vanalath fell into step alongside the hunter. Iokina was the one giving the orders to the “trainees,” so Orimo talked while he worked.

<In the time before the first grass seeded the valleys, when the world was only ice and snow, Mother Sky and Earth Below were the only gods we knew. Mother Sky loved Earth Below, but her love was a stifling thing. She couldn’t bear to part from the land, so she lay upon it, much like how our clothes drape over our own bodies. But she did not warm the land like our clothes warm us. Do you see these mountains above us? Up and up, the higher you go, the colder it becomes. When Mother Sky rested on the ground, the entire world was like a mountaintop. No water flowed. No seeds sprouted. Her embrace was cold and dead, and all warm-loving creatures existed deep down, where the frost did not reach.>

Orimo paused to shove over a ghoul who didn’t obey Iokina’s “down” command. He surveyed the rest of the ghouls, nodded, and continued with his story.

<The Enclave was all that our ancestors knew. In those days, Father Mountain was a man like you and I were, but one who lived his entire life underground. One day, he looked at his people, their small and wiry frames, skin pale from lack of sunlight. He felt pain, knowing that if only they could be allowed to spread their wings, they could be so much more. After seeing the graves of generations upon generations of his forefathers who had only ever known hard rock and stone overhead, he decided he would venture out to find Mother Sky and ask her why she kept the world from them. Many men had gone before for this same purpose, but most never came back. Those who returned to the Enclave brought tales of a foggy cold so chilling that it made them forget who they were. Father Mountain knew of these tales, so when he went out, he went with the resolution to never forget. Towards this purpose, he went to the smith and had him use an iron to brand his name on his flesh. That way, if he began to forget himself, all he needed to do was look down at his Brand to remember. Once this was done, Father Mountain left the Enclave.

<He walked the frozen land. On the first day, his skin turned blue and frost settled on his shoulders. He carried on. On the second day, a numbness wormed its way into his ears, nose, and throat. He carried on. On the third day, he couldn’t move his hands or feel his feet. Now, the cold reached his spirit. It dulled his mind, slowing the pace of his feet. It took Father Mountain three days to reach this point, when other men would succumb in hours. When this happened, he did not give in. He looked down at the Brand on his flesh and recalled his promise. He carried on. The wind howled and icicles grew on his beard. The whole Sky tried to make his spirit forget, but he did not. He began to change. He fought the cold of Mother Sky, and his footsteps grew firmer, his strides longer. Some say he walked for weeks, some say months or even years, but all we know is that eventually, his head broke through the cold. He looked down to find that he now stood far above Mother Sky. She swirled around his legs like a bank of fog that stretched on forever. He learned in this moment that he could not speak with her. He couldn’t accomplish what he set out to do—speak with Mother Sky. But now, he was a giant who loomed over the entire world. He had conquered a god, and in the process, became one himself.

<Father Mountain reached down, picking up Mother Sky. He lifted her overhead, separating sky from earth for the first time and allowing life, which had before been limited to the underworld, to spread on the surface. Mother Sky, now that she did not smother us, released her life-giving snow and rain and gave birth to the seasons. Father Mountain continued to watch over his children, giving the worthy among them his Brands. These Branded, like him, are said to possess true strength of spirit. When they pass on, they become mountains themselves, growing the world. Well, that’s how the story goes, anyway.>

Vanalath allowed a moment of silence to pass before he spoke.

<That was a roundabout way of explaining why you haven’t changed much after dying.>

Orimo laughed. <In Yarang, you aren’t considered a man until you can tell a good story. It’s been a while since I last tried it. I was worried I had lost my flair.>

<You are saying that Brands are some sort of anchor? You didn’t forget yourself, just like Father Mountain didn’t when he walked the surface long ago.>

The hunter shrugged. <That’s what the story wants to tell you. I don’t think that Brands are exactly that sort of blessing.>

<What do you mean?>

<There are plenty of other stories that go on to speak about the Brands and Father Mountain. The way these tales go, you’re led to think that Brands are like something that turn you into a demigod. They all follow the same pattern. A hero finds himself facing a trial, Father Mountain gives him a Brand, and he conquers the trial. But I’ve never thought of my Brand that way. Father Mountain didn’t become a god because he Branded himself. He became a god because he faced death and the dissolution of his spirit and won. If he wants his children to grow, then he wouldn’t give them a simple blessing like that. I’ve never heard of anyone else who thought this way, but as for me, I believe that Brands are the trial, much like the cold of Mother Sky was to Father Mountain. We must conquer the Brands that are attempting to mold our spirits. That’s how we grow. If you fail, you’re no better than a normal human. No, you would be even less.>

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