Echoes of the Fallen

Chapter 5: Unlikely Saviour

Chapter 5

Unlikely Saviour

Myko led him into the Elder Rise, a small district cut into the mountain towering above the rear of Silverseat. Sytre didn't venture here very often. It was a long hike and he didn't much care for the magic practiced by those whom resided here.

They reached the plateau where large blazing bon fires crackled and the air smelt of incense and herbs. "Shamans," Sytre muttered under his breath. Shamans were the mortal links between the living and the elements, and the ancestors. "What are we doing here, Myko?" he demanded.

"Just, trust me. Please." He placed a hand on his older brother's shoulder.

Sytre grimaced and contented himself to endure whatever his younger sibling had planned. After all, it can't be too taxing. It seemed to him that the shamans did nothing but stay in magic induced trances and gave pray and offerings to the supposed elemental lords.

Moments later they entered an old tent. A small campfire burned in the centre, the fire burned green, then red and blue before turning brown and returning to green. There were many colours in between, but those were the ones Sytre could see clearly. Bones, furs, totems and trinkets hung about the tent, all of them tools of the shaman.

"I've brought him," Myko said from behind.

"Hmm," the old one groaned as he lifted his head. "You were right to do so. Take a seat, young Prince." The elder's eyes flapped, as flies crawled across their fur.

Sytre rolled his neck and gave his brother a pained look. Myko didn't take the bait. "Sit." Myko pushed his older brother further into the tent.

Sytre sighed and took his place opposite the shaman, sitting on the ground in front of the fire.

The shaman was a biershan. They were usually large, horned beasts with tough tan hides and enough muscle to lift a large horse with ease. Though this one was old and weakened, Sytre knew the shaman could still overpower any human. This biershan had chosen the path of the Spiritwalker rather than the one of the Plainswalker.

The old bull sprinkled bonemeal over the fire, causing it to leap to life and dance wildly. Sytre listened to him chant his spells asking for the spirits and the elements to come to him. After a time he slowly opened his eyes, he had a sad look to him. "Your heart is heavy with regret, my Prince, and your spirit is tormented by the past. We shamans call it the Echoes of the Fallen and you have it upon you. It has dragged your soul into its depths."

Sytre tried to speak, to reject the truths this biershan was saying, but he could not. He couldn't talk, nor move. The tent and the fire faded away, his brother blurred out of existence and he found himself back in the Scorched Peaks, with his five hundred doomed souls around him. He watched himself march his army to their deaths. 'Stop, damn you stop!' he willed his feet to obey, but he couldn't control them. "Why are you showing me this, shaman?!" he shouted, hoping he was speaking in the real world.

"Relive your darkest hour," the voice of the shaman thundered around the entire world, but no one but himself seemed to hear it. "Relive it and find your salvation or your damnation. May the ancestors guide you with their wisdom."

"Why!?" he shouted, and this time Sytre's voice echoed across the field. No one turned their heads, or even noticed he was there. "Don't do this to me, you old beast! Don't..." his voice caught in his throat as he witnessed the first victim to fall in the battle. It was Tristran, a man he'd shared many nights with drinking and laughing around a campfire.