Chronicles of a Soul Jumper is the first look into my When Worlds Collide Series. For those who read it (thank you) you will notice Mallec is one of my villains. If you are like me you enjoy the villains as much as the heroes. So I thought why not give you a glimpse into his backstory. Enjoy!
The cold night cleared my lungs as I huddled against the chill. Pulling my cloak tighter against my neck, I waited patiently for him to come. We each had our positions; we waited for him to walk into our trap. Othor had point, with orders to kill him as soon as he was within range. Nethan would take the secondary position in case Othor’s blow did not kill him outright. I shifted closer to the clearing to get a better view. A curse slips my lips as I manage to find the only dry twig in this winter landscape.
A whistle sounds, breaking the stillness of the night. Its shrill tone causes me to flinch because I know it’s Othor’s way of reminding me of my place. He always takes pleasure in pounding that idea into my thick skull. Beneath him. Always beneath him.
‘Never a moment’s rest to just allow me to be myself.’ My thought igniting heat to rise within me. Anger, shame… revenge. ‘One day soon, he will understand what it means to be beneath me.’ These dark thoughts fill my mind as we wait. My hands grip my weapon tighter. I don’t even feel my cold fingers anymore, glancing down at my white knuckles with their bluish tint.
“What I wouldn’t give for the village fire to thaw my frosted limbs,” I grumble to myself as I think back to what brought us here. Othor and his ambitions. Hunting him was Othor’s idea. He brought the idea to the elders because he knew he could wound me while looking like the village’s hero.
The crunch of hooves on snow sounded in the stillness. He comes. Such soft sounds from such a huge beast, truly a King. At the edge of the clearing, his silhouette cast a shadow over me. The full moon shining brightly behind him, making him look black against the bright white backdrop. I knew differently. I knew the stories about him. He is as white as the driven snow, the magnificent King of the Forest.
His snout snuffles in the air, scenting for danger. Every part of my being screams for him to scent us. To flee from us. We are the danger only a king should be wary of. With a tilt of his massive antlers and a slow blink, he takes a few steps forward. Showing off his beautiful color and huge horns, this Stag is bigger than the others. He rules them all, keeping them safe from us. His black eyes shine with keen intelligence as he snuffles the air again before taking a cautious step backwards.
If I don’t do something, he will be lost to us, and the village will starve this winter. My hands spring into action, gesturing as I mutter the words my mother taught me. A beautiful light show follows, ending with a blood red apple. Entering the clearing, I hold it out to him in offering, bowing my head, showing him reverence. My meager offering seems to suffice because within a few moments he strides across the clearing and gingerly takes the apple from my hand.
I glance up from my lowered position in awe of the magnificent beast. I am by no means a short man but I am dwarfed by this Stag. Awe is all I feel as I reach up to touch his face. The king lowers his head to press against my forehead and visions pass through my mind’s eye. This experience is humbling as I bear witness to all of the time this spirit has walked the Earth. My eyes drift closed as tears fall freezing on my cheeks and I feel a nudge moving me back.
Blurs of sound fill the quiet within the next few seconds. Coward as I am, I refuse to look up as the others descend upon us. I fall to the ground covering my head, face buried in the snow, as The Stag rears back. A spear whizzes through the air at the same spot I had been standing in a moment ago. My ears will never forget hearing the spear pierce the chest of The Stag and the bellow of pain that filled the air. Looking up after feeling the ground shift with a thud as The Stag fell. The blood covers the snow all around me. It didn’t look right as I brought my hands up to my face, blood covering them as well. This was murder. We murdered an ancient spirit. Even the Earth refuses to accept the blood of her child.
Blood on my hands, a sob escapes my mouth as I realize what my role was in this atrocity. Frantically, I wipe the blood on my cloak which only smears it. Not wanting to be here, I huddle further into my cloak, rocking myself as I say a prayer for the poor spirit. That is when I hear the whoops, laughter and footsteps of Othor and Nethan. Anger flares to life from deep down inside me as their laughter mixes with the death throes of the Stag. Nethan ruffles my hair as he approaches us.
“You have done well, Mallec,” Nethan encourages, not understanding why I continue to rock, mutter and stare at our kill. “Now let us put this beast out of his misery and go home.”
“Here,” Othor utters, thrusting his hunting knife into my hands. I glare up at him, my eyes heavy with unshed tears. I stand up suddenly, realizing with shock what he wants me to do. He wants me to finish this kill, but I have played my part. I will not get more blood on my hands. Not tonight.
I throw his hunting knife on the ground. It lands blade down in the snow at his feet as I continue to glare at him. He only laughs and picks it up. And before I know it, the sharp edge of the knife is pressed against my throat. I can’t swallow because of how close the blade is from cutting me. I would bleed out just like The Stag. Fear turns to hatred as I stand perfectly still.
“Do it, or you both die this night. No one will mourn you as you mourn this beast,” Othor vehemently hisses in my ear. He releases his hold on me, pushing me closer to the dying stag. He throws his knife down at my feet. The cold simmer of hatred in his eyes tells me he will gut me and leave me out here to die.
Mercy is what I can offer the Forest King, who is pierced through, transected by the spear and pinned to the ground. Every time he tries to raise himself up, his knees buckle under the weight of the pain and He bleats out a mournful cry. I flinch, knowing this beautiful creature is suffering by my own hand. I need to send him on his way and complete this deed. Send The King of Forest to his final resting place.
The handle of the hunting knife slips because of the perspiration on my hands as I approach my wounded friend. Sinking to my knees, I grip the knife tighter as I place my hand on The Stag’s head to quiet him. I stroke his soft fur that has turned pink from the blood. Gently, I whisper my mother’s prayer so only he can hear it. The others don’t deserve to hear any of our magic. The Stag stills finally as the hunting knife plunges into him, piercing his heart. The light vanishes from his eyes and he is gone. All that can be heard in the clearing on that cold winter’s night are my soft sobs begging the old gods for forgiveness and a chance to make things right.
*****
We trudge through the freshly fallen snow back towards our village. Othor and Nethan heft The Stag in the front and middle while I take up the rear. The King of the Forest, too large for one man to carry on his own. We trek further north through the trees, our village hidden in a grove just over the ridge we are now about to crest.
My dejected thoughts over the kill move towards warm things: food, mead and sleeping by the fireside. As those thoughts begin to warm the chill that clutches my heart, Othor abruptly stops, dropping his end of The Stag. Nethan and I have no choice but to follow suit. With The Stag on the ground, we approach Othor, who raises his hand for silence. We immediately are on alert searching the area around us before Othor points in the direction of our village.
Nethan and I approach the ridge that overlooks our home, our eyes darting back and forth before realizing why Othor has stopped. Our village sits quiet and still against the wintery landscape. There is no smoke, or laughter, nor singing rising to greet us. Something is wrong, very wrong.
Quickly, The Stag forgotten, we steal into the outskirts of our village. The coppery scent of blood infiltrates our nostrils, and it takes all that I have left not to gag on the other foul stenches that are mixed with it. Othor signals Nethan, who peels off from our group to go around the left side of the huts. Othor signals me to go the other way while he takes the middle. Even though I have no taste for hunting or war, everyone in our village is trained for it. No one is left out, or the village would fall.
I circle around the backs of the mud and hay structures that make up our living quarters. I glanced between the first two huts, not noticing any movement or people. Only the smell of blood and other things getting stronger. As I move on and look between the next two huts, a muted glow catches my eye as well as a distant sound.
‘Slurping?’ I surmise but cannot be certain. I creep along the shadows of the huts inching closer to the middle of the village and the long house. The sound becomes clearer; an animal or someone was drinking as if racked with thirst. I pause as movement catches the corner of my field of vision. Creeping closer, I realize the village fire in front of the long house is nothing but embers. Normally during the winters these are kept burning to keep the darkness out.
I barely register Othor in the fallen torch light that illuminates the meeting place in front of the long house. He is extremely agile despite his heft and size. Quietly, he approaches the huddled mass from which the sound is emanating. Without turning to my position, he signals me to stay put while he engages. As he stalks closer a whistle from Nethan breaks the silence.
The sudden sound causes the huddled mass to stop moving and a face is lifted into the light of the fallen torch. Othor hesitates slightly before striding forward. The figure moves as if it is as surprised as the rest of us. The movement knocking back the hood so we could see clearer. She was strikingly beautiful, blood dripping from her chin as she stares on, unblinking.
Nethan joins Othor as they surround the woman. Her petite figure dwarfed by the two huge warriors. Though they towered over her, she didn’t look afraid. She didn’t quake in their presence. She stood to her full height wrapped in a lilac, gauzy shift, barely covering any of her body. A dark color stained the front of her body and I froze where I was hidden; shock falling away as I drank her in. Her raven hair cascaded down her back, as she stood gazing up at Othor; her golden eyes transfixed on him. Othor spoke to her but she didn’t respond. Her hand reaches out to him, but he just smacks it away. The force of the movement knocking her to the ground.
The next moments are burned into my mind for all my days. Her head whips up as fangs descend in her mouth. A low growl hissing from her throat as she lifts herself up, flipping her hair back and flashing crimson eyes. I stumble back as the sounds of Othor and Nethan’s screams fill the night, accompanying sounds of ripping and tearing of flesh. Their cries and that awful slurping sound follow me as I trip over my feet to get away.
Coward. The one word deafening me as I blindly scramble to the village entrance, tripping over baskets, slipping in blood and guts and falling over bodies. Coward. This is your punishment for killing the Forest King! Run or die!
The condemnation echoing through my mind as I run. I can make it to the next village. I just need to keep running.
As the archway to our village comes into view, relief floods through my body as I push myself. I just need to make i–. All my efforts to escape are ripped from me as my body is lifted up by my cloak and I sail through the air landing next to the corpses of the best two warriors in our village. I didn’t even have a chance to scream before two golden orbs lock eyes with me.
“You …. Are…. Different…” a hoarse voice croaks out in my native tongue. This beautiful creature tilting her head and moving her mouth as if trying to familiarize herself with the sounds.
I shake my head vigorously at the dry words, closing my eyes so as not to look into hers. Try as I might, I can’t seem to look away. Especially when her smallish hand touches my cheek. I lose the fight and give in to the pull of her.
Her eyes strike through to my very soul, stirring something deep inside me. I lift one of my hands, which causes her gaze to snap to it, watching like a snake watches a snake charmer. Scared shitless, I rely on my magical skills passed down to me by my mother and I deftly move my fingers producing another light show above us. Glowing orbs and stars shine against the darkness, and she lets go of me. She watches as they twirl and dance before blinking out.
Her shoulders slump as they shake as she quietly sobs. She looks very young and innocent. My instincts battle with my heart. Every fiber of my being tells me to run and hide in the forest. The forest I know like the back of my hand. Out there is safety and protection.
However, the spark she awakened in me has me moving towards her and cradling her in my arms. Her small frame turns into me as her sobs continue. She needs me to protect her, to be her love. She needs me to be strong. She should have chosen someone else. I can’t be what she needs but by the gods I want to try.
After some time of us sitting in the snow her sobs lessen to nothing. Her arms snake up around my shoulders pulling me closer to her. Her face was half hidden in shadows cast by the fading torch light, but I could still see the stains of the blood-soaked tears that had trailed down her cheeks.
“What are you?” I ask her, still taken aback by her beauty under the dirt and blood. She reminds me of another beauty. One I will never get back and for which my heart aches in remembrance.
“You can …. Stay?” she asks, confusion drawing her brows together as if she is searching for the right words. “with … me? You are …. Special.” Her gaze intensifies as I smile at her. Those golden pools glowing under their own power, causing the spark in my soul to grow.
“Yes,” the answer escaped my lips before I even knew what I was saying. She smiles as if I was everything she ever wanted in life. I nod my head ‘yes’ again and she jumps up and down in my arms before pulling me down into an embrace.
Pulling back to stare into her eyes again I realize how close our lips are; selfish of me, I want to taste them. Her breath flows over my own and I want to know all of her. I need to possess her, and I slam my lips against her soft supple ones. We kiss long and hard, exchanging pieces of ourselves with one another before I draw back reluctantly, left breathless. She snuggles against my neck, leaving kisses to my ear. Once there she speaks in a language I have never heard before, not even from the Romans.
“What?” I ask trying to move to look at her beautiful face again. But I can’t move. She has her fingers locked in my hair and a vise grip on my arm.
“Special one, I have given you the choice of this gift. May you always serve me with it,” she repeats in my native tongue, chilling me to the bone. I pull back enough to see the flash of crimson in her eyes before she latches onto my throat. My vision begins to fade as the stars dance above us and the moon whispers: Coward.
Mad Woman Rambles 