The Lost Bellator

Four

Tenebrae

Arlaige traveled until the sky had already darkened and as he had predicted, when the last tendrils of light had left the sky, soft snowflakes began to quietly land on the ground, first only a few, but after a few minutes it had become a frenzy. So much so that he had to keep his hood placed closely to his face to block the onslaught of snow and after a moment he had lit his lantern again.

His bird was never too far ahead, and he kept a steady eye on it as he avoided ice patches and falling branches. His feet crunched on the top of frozen ice as he walked, the ground having frozen overnight to start melting in the morning, only for it to re-freeze in the night again and begin snowing again.

He didn't mind the walk, it was quite peaceful, it was only when the night came that he always drew nervous. He hadn't a clue what was in the forest and he had grown up to stories about banshees and demons living there, taking human prey. He had stopped hearing those stories from his mother when she had died, and he retold them to Celia most nights when she was little to scare her so that she wouldn't go in the forest. Jorin had also added in his little twists here and there, and she had been fearful of the forest ever since.

He hadn't seen another soul since Hage and Kinn and he doubted he would as he got deeper and deeper. He knew by his fourth day walking that he was getting close to the base of the mountain. He wasn't worried getting there, but he was worried about his trek up. If he slid one way or he moved too fast, he would be dead and then what would become of his sister and his people? He shook his head at the thought as he rose for his fifth day. And after he had walked for a mere two hours, he broke the tree line and the mountain loomed up over him.

It was enormous, the biggest thing he had ever seen. It was blue stone, stone they used to make their weapons with, but the mountain had never been touched by a human hand. No one dared enter the forest, and if they did, they walked only a few feet, or they never returned. It shone in the day, but the snow was not melting on the surface and Arlaige could feel the cold rattle his lungs. The snow was to his ankles by now and he knew that it would only get worse as he went. He hadn't expected to get to the mountain this quick, but he knew his ascent would take longer. He was going up and every move he made had to be calculated.

He prepared himself, losing things he did not need that would drag him down. He had to keep his tent, he couldn't leave himself exposed. He knew there was a valley in the middle of the mountain and he would have to pass through that to get to where she was rumored to be and he couldn't go without a tent in these weathers, and so he kept it. He readied himself, taking deep breaths, before he placed his gloved hand on the first stone and began to pull himself up.

It was treacherous work, and despite the cold, sweat was running under his clothes as he pulled himself farther and farther up the mountain. He would land on bits where he could just dig his knife in and climb but some of them he had to actually climb. He made the mistake of looking down, once, and almost threw up. He hadn't looked down again.

He made it partway up by night and, exhausted, collapsed into the snow and caught his breath. He didn't think he could do it, find her. What if he was going all this way into nothing and came out empty handed? What would happen to his sister?

He shook his head. No. He couldn't think like that. He looked over the edge. Thinking like that would get him killed.

Arlaige rolled away from the edge and lifted himself into a sitting position. It had only taken him a day to get up this far, so he knew he would need a couple more days to make it to a spot good enough to where he could go over and into the valley. The legends always said she lived there, but Arlaige wasn't entirely sure. He wasn't even sure she was real.

He swallowed, his throat now dry. He couldn't think things like that either. She had to be real, had to be. He took a swig of his water and closed his eyes, dropping back onto the snow. His bones ached, his body ached, and he didn't want to get up and set his tent up. But he knew he had to and so, with a great effort, he rolled over and pushed himself up and forced himself to set his tent up.

Once he was done, he rifled through his pack, and upon inspection of it, decided he would need to hunt soon, which meant he would have to get over this mountain quicker than he had originally thought. He let out a groan as he crawled into his tent and curled up, the cold now having hit him with full force. He chewed on his last piece of bread, his stomach grumbling in protest, and fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke to his songbird pecking at his arm, barely dawn, and he grumbled at it before it flew off after assessing that he was awake. He packed his tent up and slid it into his pack before slinging it over his shoulder. He was hungry, no doubt, but he couldn't hunt here. There was nothing to hunt.

He looked up at the mountain before him. He knew he wouldn't have to go all the way to the peak, just far enough so that he could see over the valley, and then he would go from there. He clutches the straps of his bag.

It was a long journey, a very long journey, and he wasn't even sure if he was going to make it out alive. He was basing his knowledge off of legends, but he believed in her, believed that she could save them, and so it kept him going as he dug his knife into the ice and began to pull himself up the side of the mountain.

He didn't think as he went, only that his knife was striking true and that he was not falling to his death. He walked and walked and started up a new path and he would walk some more. It was easier this way, to block out everything as he ventured into the mountain. It was easier to think about his next move rather than his possible impending doom that awaited him on the other side of the mountain.

Maybe that was why he missed the first body.

He had reached the middle of the mountain when he stopped. Something seemed off. He pivoted around, eyeing his surroundings when they fell on the second body. He dropped to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach and trying to keep his eyes off of the mangled, frozen body before him.

He didn't want to think about what could have done that.

So, he kept going, keeping his eyes peeled for anything amiss. It was almost as if the bodies were placeholders, or warning signs, for whoever was going to stop, to turn around, to not continue. Arlaige swallowed. He suddenly didn't feel cold anymore as he passed the fifth body.

They were torn open, headless, and upon further inspection of one of them, he realized it was claw marks on their bodies. He shuddered at the thought of something that big.

But he straightened anyways, and passed the fifth body, keeping his eyes ahead.

He didn't know what kept him going, but he pushed on. And as night fell once more, he tried to keep the images of the mangled bodies out of his head as he fell asleep. No such luck. His dreams were tormented with huge beasts that dragged him far away from his family, his town, and into darkness. He awoke covered in sweat and quickly packed his things to begin his journey up the mountain once more.

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