Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Each breath filled Sunday with essence, which slowly transformed under the guidance of the Black Breath. It was a sharp and cold thing, like the bite of winter’s frost or a knife of ice. Oddly enough, the sensation didn’t feel bad.

He had felt it before alongside something else in the moment of his single heartbeat and once again, when he took in the two moths into his soul space – the cold touch of death and the comforting warmth of life. One was much stronger and familiar than the other, but neither felt dangerous. The spell had a duality that was hard to describe and its two sides remained separated by a chasm seemingly waiting to be filled.

However, unlike the purple mote that just sat there, the moth spell was like a living being that latched to his soul hungrily, craving nourishment. A thirsty child who had been offered a bottle of milk. The two moths bathed in the new environment and found a place on one of the branches in the crown of Sunday’s tree-shaped core.

Sunday was eager to understand the spells further, but at least now he had a tool to defend himself with. Jishu was certain that the white moth was a danger to all undead, and it made sense. In fiction evil and darkness always had the good and the light to counter them. Though, things were looking to be way more nuanced.

Sunday was deeply curious about the name of the spell, but the golden page had to be kept a secret for a while longer. What took precedence now was deciding what to do and how to escape. He needed Arten to earn the villager's trust and get a map out of the swamp. However, there was the possibility the human was dead. Sunday was also unsure how much the spell could do and how dangerous the flame of life would prove against the undead ghouls and Jishu.

After he felt that his new soul space was full, he stopped breathing and opened his eyes. Jishu was standing next to him as if he were a stone statue, not having moved an inch. The night was once again descending upon the swamp, not that it made much difference.

“Well?” Jishu insisted. He was agitated and his dark eyes were like two lanterns threatening to swallow all in their greed.

“I think I feel better. Do you want me to test it on someone else first?” Sunday asked. That would win him some more time and allow him to think things through. He didn’t think he could manage many moth summons. And he didn’t want to gamble on a single white one without knowing its effect.

“No. We’ll need the human for a while longer, and ranun has its value too. When I’m healed, we can kill them and I’ll grant you the human’s spell as a reward. Don’t be greedy now. Adjust.” Jishu replied. Arten was alive after all and Jishu had thought Sunday wanted to test the spell on the human out of greed.

Sunday didn’t want Arten’s spell. He felt trapped. However, the calmness his newfound strength gave him was like an island amid all the chaotic thoughts of what Jishu might do filling his head.

There was also a strange blaze inside of him, a blaze that gave him – for the first time since his human life – fear of dying. I cannot fall now. Not when I’m about to taste true magic. Not now. I doubt I’ll be given another chance at life if I fail so miserably.

“Let’s try then. Leg first?” Sunday proposed.

Jishu nodded and turned to face Sunday.

Casting the spell felt amazing. It was the call of an old friend, a stretch after a good night's sleep, or the first kiss of a new love. It was everything he had been missing and as energy gathered and a pitch-black moth appeared above Sunday’s outstretched palm, he knew he wanted more. Whether it was by design, or because it was truly what he needed to feel complete was a mystery. He didn’t care for the answer and a wide smile stretched his face.

Jishu’s eyes practically popped out of his head as he gazed at the black moth. It was a beautiful creature as big as a thumb. Wisps of death aura rose from its body and wings – a detail that had been missing while the spell had rested on the pedestal. It looked ethereal – something much more than a simple insect.

“It’s smaller than it should be, but I guess the spell was too exhausted. I cannot expect your first try to strengthen it. You’ve already done exceptionally,” Jishu whispered. It was almost as if he was reassuring himself, rather than talking to Sunday.

Sunday didn’t reply. The moth flew slowly as if testing its wings. It dropped low and neared Jishu’s torn leg before landing on it. It burst into a cloud of death essence that covered the wound and sank within the blackened flesh. Sunday’s eyes widened as the undead’s leg started mending before his very eyes. The flesh stretched and the bone became whiter. Soon the wound was in a much better state than it had been and the foot slowly righted itself. Then the process stopped. There was more work to be done for sure, but it was a great improvement.

Jishu sighed like the humans he despised so much. There was emotion in the gesture. Emotion and something else. He turned toward Sunday. “Pure. So potent and so pure. Your essence is wondrous. Even as weak as the spell had become, it still healed so much. In a few weeks, I’ll be as good as new.” Jishu was beaming and his voice shook as he spoke.

Sunday nodded then felt the world slip in a familiar sensation. Was all of his essence gone?! A crutch went falling and Jishu’s arm caught his, keeping him upright with surprising strength.

“Don’t overdo it. Pace yourself. You just became a mage. It will take days, maybe weeks or months, until your soul space starts working properly and you get used to the spell. All things need time to adapt. Come, rest now, friend. You’ve done me a service no one else could.”

Sunday cursed inwardly as what had been a weak undead until moments ago supported him. If each cast left him feeling like this then how could he even hope to escape the ghoul horde? Thankfully, he hadn’t struck immediately.

He had thought Jishu would lead him to the hut, but he was wrong. They reached the initial clearing and Sunday leaned on one of the erect stones for support before sitting down. He felt beat and for the first time since his rebirth, sleep was calling for him. It was not like the first time he had cast where he had knocked himself out. It was a deep fatigue reminiscent of the time he had to go days without sleep. The old bastard pushed them hard when times were tough, but everyone had to pitch in. Sunday smiled thinking of Old Rud’s mean face.

Jishu’s words echoed as if from miles away and he paid them no heed. Sleep was a sweet release and took him in its warm embrace like a long-lost lover. Unconsciously, the Black Breath circulated on its own.

Sunday dreamed.

He was in the cemetery again, but it was devoid of corpses or gravestones. The mists were churning, thicker than ever, moving away from him as if scared and each of his steps brought him closer to the yew tree in the middle. He sat in its roots, felt the warmth of its bark, and smiled. It felt good. It felt peaceful.

Sunday sat lazily, letting his mind drift off and his gaze relax while staring at the misty sea before him. Two moths flew around him, playing around the leaves of the yew tree. Unfettered, uncaring, strong and unbound.

A mote of purple light dropped, before returning to its original position. Barely noticeable.

A young one walks the cemetery grounds again. The old tree enjoys his company.

The last to step on the path of sinners has joined his brethren as a mage. Pain and suffering await those meant for the greatest of heresies, for the greatest of deeds. Heroes, villains, warriors, and wretched. The unlucky and the grand. Rest now and cherish this moment of peace. Rest well. May your soul be strong, and may your mind be quick. Challenges await.

There was a large pause.

Two have fallen, returning to the dust they were reborn from. Their souls shall not know peace, and their legacy shall remain a nameless death. No one will utter their name again.

Many remain, but for how long?

The wind rustled the crown of the mighty yew tree and made the grass around its trunk sway. The narrator’s voice came again, hushed, worried.

The first hound lurks in the shadows. A test, a warning, an executor. It stalks and nears its prey.

Will it attack?

Will it play with its prey’s mind until the rustle of leaves in the night brings fear?

Do not break. Do not succumb. Do not fall.

Do not let your name be forgotten.

Only the worthy...

Only the worthy...

Only the worthy...

Whispers and chanting from myriads of voices startled Sunday from his dream and his eyes shot open. He looked around searching for the danger. The swamp was dark and the form of Jishu could be seen sitting on his wooden chair. There were ghouls around, deathly still, listening and waiting. The jittery and playful monsters were on high alert and Jishu seemed nervous for the first time. His dark eyes shifted as Sunday rose and looked around.

“Are you well, friend?” Jishu’s voice came hoarse and tense.

Sunday nodded and stood up. Shivers shot up his spine and he looked uneasily around. The shadows were deep and the warm air brought along a strange chill.

“What’s going on?” he asked despite knowing the answer.

“You’ve slept for a full night and day. There is something new in the swamp,” Jishu replied with a strained voice. “To have waited so long for someone like you to come along, only for fate to play its tricks on me. Preposterous.”

Sunday neared the man and saw his rusty old spear still standing where he had stabbed it. Without hesitation, he pulled the weapon out from the ground and looked around.

On one hand, he was sure Jishu wouldn’t let him leave alive, much less with the spell. The army of ghouls was Sunday’s best bet against the so-called hound that was coming. And Jishu wouldn’t give up his only chance of healing without a fight. It was uncertain what the monster truly was, but the way any thought about it felt promised horror beyond his imagination.

On the other, the undead was the sole reason Sunday was not lost and dying in the swamp and the sole reason he had managed to become a mage. Unrestrained thirst for power flowed through his undead veins now and Sunday couldn’t be happier about it. Did Chaotic Step bring him here to let him acquire all he had? The thought of a puppeteer standing behind him, waiting to pull on a piece of string was almost as terrifying as the coming hound.

The best-case scenario was escaping and leaving the swamp, Jishu, and his ghouls behind. He didn’t want to leave Arten to the undead, mostly due to the memory of little Pearl’s eyes and voice, but he had little choice.

Sunday’s grip tightened around the spear. The words of the narrator were seared in his brain. He would not die nameless. Not a second time. He reached for his soul space and was surprised at the strength emanating from it. The sleep had allowed his soul space to expand many times and recharge. It was brimming with essence and both spells felt vibrant.

“Something roams nearby. I don’t know if it’s waiting or looking. I know this place. I know it too well. I refuse to kneel or cower to the unknown. I may have done reprehensible things in my time, but I’ve never knelt!” Jishu spoke slowly, baring his teeth. If the words were meant for Sunday the undead did not indicate it.

There was a sound from behind the chair and Sunday nearly jumped, only to see a bare human foot there. Arten’s. Thankfully, it was still attached to a body. The human’s mouth was tied with a thick cloth while ropes and chains bound the rest of him.

“Arten?” Sunday asked incredulously.

“The human still has use, but he has grown ill. The medicine you brought him from the village was poisoned. Whether the poison was meant for him, or you, I don’t know. I’ve seldom dealt with such petty things.” Jishu explained while his eyes darted around the darkness.

Poison? What little tricksters those innocent and helpful villagers turned out to be. I’m sure they didn’t think I’d use their medicine… Was it insurance on the rare chance that I found Arten and helped him? The question is whether it is something between him and the woman, or the chief is involved too. Ah, the plot thickens.

“Why is he tied?” Sunday asked.

Jishu stood up and grabbed something Sunday had missed – an old beaten scabbard with a rusty handle peeking from it. “The human is delirious. Praying for death and even calling on a name better left unspoken. How he knows of it I have no clue, but living or undead, it is no good thing to speak some words. I fear he might’ve drawn something in his madness. If it is so, our chances are next to nil.”

Sunday remained silent. He was sure deep to the core of his bones that the one responsible was not Arten.

“Do you feel capable of healing me more without needing rest afterward?” Jishu asked.

Sunday thought about it then nodded. He needed Jishu battle-ready. “I’ve recovered a lot. I can possibly cast it twice without repercussions.” Maybe four or five times. This sleep did more for me than I could imagine. I wonder if I can do it again.

Jishu smiled wide, “You’re born for this. As much as it pains me the smart thing is to save most of your strength. However, I’ll ask you to heal me once.” He moved his robe to the side to reveal an almost hollowed-out chest. Sunday swore he could see the ground on the other side through the hanging flesh and skin. The upper ribcage was obliterated too.

A black moth larger than the previous one popped into existence and slowly flew toward Jishu’s chest where it nested itself, before becoming streams of death essence. The flesh and bone drank greedily as they started to reform and Jishu sighed in contentment. Soon his frame straightened and a large part of the damage was gone.

“Marvelous,” he said. “We wait through until dawn. Rest easy. No foul beast or nightmare will touch you.”

A bone-chilling howl echoed through the night.