Chapter 33: Residuum (1,343 words)

Left beyond the taste of sight
far from this dawn of meddling tripe;
where leaves do swirl in eyes of blue
drawing hazel worlds through rainbow dew

Instinctively, Kyre headed East, in the direction of the Twin lakes. As the gale of Ossimer had, quite thoroughly, cleared the trail of loose rock, the sure-footed rhinoyak had little problems negotiating the steep, uphill climb. Not until he had reached the pristine glacial waters that lapped quietly upon the shores across from the blue cave did Kyre stop. There he dismounted, allowing Cantank-rhinos a chance to drink and graze. He refilled his water flask and even as it was being replenished he could not help but wonder why. He stared blankly into the waters where Lxndra and he had once shared the breath of life held within a prickly sporefish. His garbled reflection held more merit than he and he wished he could have traded places for he saw no reason to continue his nightmare of a life.

His son, Wulfmaer, lay trapped, frozen in time— ambushed by the naivety of youth and the woeful advice of charlatans. Lxndra— she hated him. He could not blame her. He hated himself too. Ossimer would be glad to be rid of him. To him, he was just one less war-mongering mercenary. They didn’t understand— they couldn’t. There was only one thing left to do— die— except something within him cried for vengeance or at least some meagre measure of it. Hatred brimmed within him, the likes of which he had never felt before. Whereas normally he would have tried to pushed thoughts as these from his mind, now, he welcomed them.

He saw no chance of obtaining victory over the Blackwitch— even if he had of had two arms and the wicked brightest of Solareth still strapped at his side. He was not sure if she could be killed. His father had not be able to. Ramule was another story however. Ramule the deceiver, along with everything that catered to him, deserved to die. If he succeeded in slaying Ramule, perhaps then, the Blackwitch would die. He pictured himself plunging Raspbar through Ramule’s smouldering heart and he wondered who would scream louder— Ramule or his deserted lover, Mytya? Then, in the rippling water, he watched an army of hideous creatures surround him and tear him to pieces. It mattered little. The die cast; his role, if it played out, would allow the game to end triumphant.

The way around the Twin Lakes was long, cumbersome and to the North. Cantank-rhinos would not be hurried. This was not so much due to the terrain as it was to the bounty of lush foliage that inhabited the area. The fragrant aromas proved too much for the hulking rhinoyak and he paused to eat often, gorging himself upon the crisp lichen and clumps of tender shrubbery. Had Kyre been more attentive their progress would have been twice that it was but his mind had wandered far ahead of him for it was consumed with thoughts of vengeance.

Game roamed plentifully amidst these rolling hills and valleys. A large herd of caribou crossed their path as it migrated south as the first chill autumn winds began scribing themselves through the air. Kyre did not hunt however, choosing instead to sustain himself with roots and, few and far between, the occasional tego nut. Sometimes he cooked his food by laying Raspbar gently against it, most times he did not.

Beyond the territory of the Twin Lakes the land became abruptly harsh. Here the winds blew unchecked by trees and vegetation grew scarce. For days Kyre and Cantank-rhinos traveled further north, plodding straight forwards through the ruthless winds with their heads bowed low in determined effort. He remembered when he had first witnessed the advancing spyters and more importantly now, their direction of approach. Ramule had to be in that direction— somewhere ahead of him and so he journeyed on.

The further he journeyed north, the more barren the landscape became. It appeared now as if the land had banished all form of food and, though at times, he thought he saw small groves, to the west and east of him that might hold hidden bounties, they did not fall upon the path he had chosen and therefore he refused to stray. Soon Cantank-rhinos grew so fatigued that Kyre was forced to dismount and walk. He did this without hesitation and without looking back. As always first and foremost in the mind of Cantank-rhinos was the well-being of his master, forever lodged there since the day he had rammed the great tree and so he found himself with no other choice but to follow.

The winds grew increasingly cold, increasing in intensity with every laden step achieved. Enormous stone landmarks sprang up out of nowhere, carved free of the areth by relentless, howling breaths of wind. For the most part, they were more sheltered than they had been but coupled with this was the fact that it became impossible to advance in a straight forwards direction. It was like walking in a giant maze and many times they were forced to retrace their steps because some giant stone buttress had suddenly jumped out to block their path.

It was upon the discovery of yet another dead end that the spirit of Cantank-rhinos gave way. Kyre heard the crash and turned and as he watched the giant rhinoyak struggling to find its feet, the full measure of his fatigue crashed down upon him and he collapsed as well. Crawling headlong towards the heaving rhinoyak he stroked its twitching ears until the beast lay calm. Propping himself up against its warm body, he untied his flask from its side. He took a small sip before pouring the rest of it into the gasping mouth of his hairy comrade. Kyre closed his eyes and thought of sleeping— to sleep; perchance to dream. Perhaps a new dawn would bestow brighter promise— or perhaps it would never come at all. He heard scurrying sounds above him and opened his eyes. Everything seemed suddenly darker and he wondered if he hadn’t, by chance, fallen asleep.

Not a spinner length of web away, a scout of Pakoble hurried to gain the guidance of their new leader.

“Chief Pakoble— intruders have breached our sacred maze of stone!” Pakoble’s response was instantaneous.

"Double the guard over Queen Mycera! I will come at once. We shall
watch them most intimately and if they appear, even vaguely, to be a threat or if they do not continue quickly upon their journey— we shall kill them forthwith," declared Pakoble. Seizing his rusty axe he hobbled out from his webbed hammock with surprising speed.

Dusk advanced hurriedly and Kyre became even less sure that he was not, in fact, dreaming. Perhaps it was some treacherous plot employed by the Soul Reaper he mused.

“If this be true," he called out, "then damn me for all my wickedness— but come swiftly for know well that I would come find you were it not that my legs have left to find my missing arm and sword!"

He watched the hideous shadows of Pakoble's misfit spyters scurry out from the caves and crevices above. So tired of the fight, he accepted his fate willingly. Smiling, he fumbled within a pocket of his glaukos and finally pulled out his father Cyren's pipe whistle. He began to play.

He played the forbidden tune that lurked, always, in the back of his mind. The melody Mytya had mimicked to entice a boy into a Pit; the same song that forced Ossimer to choose between a father and a son; the beat of a blackheart which, even in that moment, wanted to lead him into blacker places still. Darkness fell hard and the shadow Helen stood tall. Kyre close his eyes, releasing all of his emotions and sadness through the finger holes of a tiny, wooden instrument. The sombre notes wept, seeping into the ever-invading wall of black where Pakoble stood transfixed.