Blood Immortal

Forgotten Tundra

Utter darkness surrounded Aarian, making him feel blind. No matter how hard he tried to see, it was pitch-black. Was he standing on solid ground, drifting deep within a sea, or floating in the air? Whispers of an unknown tongue suddenly filled his ears. The tenor and tone of these voices were diabolical. He then smelled charred flesh. The dark place where he resided started to light up. Yet this wasn’t due to the sun’s radiance. Rather, what illuminated the realm was an inferno that rapidly approached and enveloped him.

Aarian screamed horrifically with fourth-degree burns throughout his body, his pale skin completely singed with eschar. After a minute of excruciating pain, his searing flesh melted like wax, replaced by a blistering skeleton of scorching fire. Then the tormenting twinges went away, his sense of touch either gone as a result of numbness or immunity. At that moment, Aarian was able to see with eyes of fire. Izabaldo stood before him in a peninsula of hellfire—seventeen feet tall, wings expanding, and horns bigger than the prince’s body.

“You belong to me,” said Izabaldo, his laughter booming.

His thunderclap-like cackle was deafening to Aarian who closed his burning-red eyes. He screamed at the top of his lungs, resenting this nightmarish experience that felt so damned real to him. His shrilling scream shifted, becoming an outcry of anguish. He then knelt down, his bones cracking. Aarian desperately wanted Izabaldo to end his miserable existence. He knew that he’d done terrible things and didn’t deserve to be granted a soul by the immortal Nine, but he could no longer bear such agony.

Moments later, a blizzard stirred. The coldness of death gripped him, dousing the flames within and around him. Izabaldo snorted, diminishing into the shadows as a gentle light dimmed over the prince. Aarian, fatigued and defeated, couldn’t find any strength to open his eyes. Yet when the light embraced him, he felt a glimmer of hope. It soon became icy cold; one extreme to the next. Though shivering madly, he preferred the freezing weather.

Upon accepting the icy climate, he awakened from his nightmarish coma, finding himself lying in an arctic tundra. Behind him lay a shoreline overlooking a partially frozen ocean littered with glaciers and gargantuan fossils of a ten-headed hydra on which hoarfrost grew. He also spotted grisly carvings along the thick bones due to monstrous claws. His brow furrowing at the brutal marks, he wondered what kind of fiend could do such a thing. But more bizarre to him was his present location.

Turning to gaze at the stark continent, he saw a rocky permafrost landscape consisting of shrubs, moss, and lichens. Massive icecaps stood to the west, fjords lay to the east, and snowy mountains were in the far distance up north. He shuddered from a gust of freezing wind, starting to apprehend that this was most certainly not his intended destination.

“This can’t be right,” he said incredulously, staring at the aloof mountains. “How did I end up in Niratredam?”

Looking back, he observed the coast carefully. This time he ignored the hydra’s carcass, trying to locate any signs of wreckage. Yet not even a single piece of wood lay along the frozen seaboard. Then he scouted the shoreline for his crew. Despite reconnoitering the area for a little over an hour, he didn’t find Parla’vasa, Xel’vakora, or anyone for that matter. Aarian refused to believe that he was the only survivor; however, the bitter-cold conditions were worsening by the second.

With no other choice, Aarian left the glaciered region in an attempt to find shelter. As he strode through the tundra, toward the northern mountains that stood ninety-thousand-feet high, snow started falling. The wind increased, slowing his movement. With no helmet to protect his frail face—ears and nose stinging—he felt as though he’d be affected by frostbite within the next few minutes if he didn’t find a safe haven soon.

“Zartos, bringer of the sun,” began Aarian, his red eyes squinting at the white star beyond the insipid sky, “I ask for your protective warmth. Please shield me and anyone who may have survived with your fiery soul.”

He urgently continued to reach out to the Nine as he feebly traveled across the partially frozen soil. Calling out to them within his mind despite the cold blasting against him, he hoped with all his heart for a miracle to occur. Though, when nightfall arrived, and his joints had nearly become frozen stiff, it became evident to Aarian that the immortal Spirits had forsaken him long ago.

Bitterly cursing under his chilly breath at Daela’han for having no compassion or mercy, rage took hold of him again. The hoarfrost forming around his face and armor dissipated without him even acknowledging it. His hatred consumed him further. This wouldn’t be how he’d die, Aarian conceded. The dark elves would pay dearly for this, particularly Saldovin Keldoran, he zealously thought to himself while walking upon an icy field void of vegetation.

He was gradually approaching a snow-covered valley. The northern mountains weren’t so remote any more. A marsh littered with liverwort lay slightly west of him, beyond the multiple fjords he’d first seen by Niratredam’s icy shoreline. He eventually found it difficult to see what with the fog forming around the marsh. It was spreading like a plague for miles on end. Soon it enveloped him and the environment where he’d been treading for the past eight hours. When blinded by the dense fog, he gave up on scouting the hazardous landscape and simply traveled straight.

Within the next hour, he finally reached the valley of snow. Aarian could barely feel his legs at this point. Though the fog dissipated, a freezing mist took its place. He was able to see, but it was so damned cold that he preferred the blinding fog near the southwestern marsh. And being caught up in a horrendous blizzard didn’t help. Yet, thought Aarian, it was far too late to turn back. He had already traveled so far. Why turn back now? Fuming with anger, fiery hatred filled his veins; this would-be “adrenaline” was the only thing keeping him alive as he pressed forward, snow blasting against his pale face. At this point, weighed down by the storm, he started limping.

“You and your damn ice can go to hell, Lólindir,” he wrathfully announced to the air, his teeth jittering.

Just then, in the near distance, he discovered a black spot to the east. Repeatedly blinking and gawking at the sight before him while wheezing as if he’d run out of breath, he realized it must be a cavern of some sort. He irrationally guffawed, a hint of madness in his laughter. Not waiting any longer, Aarian changed his limp to a wobbly sprint over to the cave nestled into a mountain.

“I won’t worship you yet, Zartos,” he said weakly, struggling not to fall. “Just a little more…almost there.”

As soon as Aarian entered the cave, he tripped on a small rock and fell flat on his face. Luckily for him, snow had built up by the entrance, breaking his fall. Aarian, exhausted by the outrageous journey, didn’t even attempt to stand. He simply closed his eyes and dozed off for the remainder of the night.

When dawn arrived, the prince awoke, finding himself covered in snow. Even though it wasn’t as cold as the previous day, the blizzard was still ongoing. Gasping in pain, he pushed aside the snow that had blasted over him throughout the night and leisurely got to his feet. His whole body felt achy, particularly his legs—no doubt due to walking for an entire day without rest. Considering himself lucky to have found the cave, he stopped complaining and stepped deeper into the dim cave.

The jagged passage was covered in ice, glittery akin to sapphire. Wind stirred inside, a melancholy whisper luring Aarian like a spell cast upon him. He eventually entered a lair with frozen stalagmites and spiny icicles jutting down from the glaciered ceiling. The icy walls were so sparkly that Aarian could see blurry reflections of himself. Midway through the dazzling chamber, from the corner of his eye, he thought something lurked inside. Alarmed, he turned to look. Yet nothing other than a few skeletal dwarves lay there.

Aarian sighed, relieved that it was simply his imagination. After all, he had no weapon; he’d lost his sword since falling unconscious within the depths of the Crey’falen Ocean, the tide incidentally carrying him here. He started to wonder how he’d be able to travel to Lar’a’dos. Would he ever be able to leave Niratredam? Simply thinking of ways to survive was stressing him. A voice within him said to give up—the voice of a young prince still living a sheltered life in Jerelaith, the capital city of Vlydyn that was now nothing more than rubble. Another voice, however, told him to stand strong and never surrender no matter what—the voice of a grown man attempting to surpass his apprenticeship and become a master.

Struggling to follow the latter voice, Aarian gritted his teeth, teary eyed. Clenching his fists in shame, he gave out a defiant roar, punching a now cracked stalagmite. If it weren’t for him wearing a gauntlet, he probably would’ve broke his hand.

“Damn this world!” he cried out, plummeting to the ground.

Regardless of how hard Aarian tried, it seemed he could never rid himself of his spoiled, brat-like past unless he killed it. Yes, he thought, raising his head. To become something greater, he had to destroy what tied him to such pettiness—his royal bloodline. His whole life he’d lived under the assumption that as the prince of Vlydyn he should always have his way; he shouldn’t have to ever suffer. The reality, however, was that he wasn’t any different than an elf or dwarf. Normally, he’d have compared himself to other humyns, but he was convinced that his race was just about extinct. Yes, he was all alone—the last living humyn in existence.

The wind stirred again, a lament that gripped him, burying him in this cave. That instant, he saw a shadow behind him. The prince wasn’t alone. He then rose to his feet and turned to face the entity. Not surprised, the crying prince found himself staring at Aarian, not a weeping boy or an apprentice but the Master of Vlydyn.

Gazing upon Aarian, who wielded Dargain’s swords, made the prince yearn to surrender. Lifting his unarmed hands, he closed his eyes and waited to be struck down. This cleansing and purifying feeling was so meaningful and emotional to him—ridding himself forever of his pitiful past and becoming one with the master. Not a second later, Aarian raised his two swords, about to slice the prince apart. At that precise moment, the wind howled and cackled. Before the prince opened his eyes, a powerful gale manifested and pushed him against a frozen stalagmite that crumbled. Groaning in pain, he noticed that what he’d thought to be his imaginary self was, in actuality, a banshee.

“By the Nine,” he gasped.

Swiftly rolling aside, he avoided another shockwave conjured by the banshee. He found himself kneeling beside the brigade of dead dwarves, equipped one of their horned helmets, and seized two double-bladed axes, one in each hand. Ready to hurl his weapons at her, she produced a lamenting hymn that dazed him, rapidly putting him in a mindless trance.

Sharp icicles split from the ceiling, floating by the banshee. On the verge of launching the icy spikes at Aarian, a katana with a blue aura around its thin blade jabbed into her ethereal form. In an instant, the icicles dropped to the ground. She gave out a shrilling, earsplitting screech that freed Aarian from her enchanting song of death. Afterwards, he lifted his axes, ready to defend himself while he watched the howling banshee disperse like smoke and dissipate until nothing remained.

Once she banished, he looked ahead and spotted the silhouette of his savior—a katana-wielding warrior whose lamellar armor contained square-shaped scales. Curved horns placed sidelong on his masked helmet were about two feet high. Spikes jutted from his rectangular pauldrons. And the plated faulds he wore were embellished with intricate designs akin to calligraphy. His physical features remained hidden until he took a step forward. When the warrior approached, Aarian noticed his sandals, revealing monstrous feet with a blue-green pigment and long black nails.

“What in the name of Thay’tal are you?” asked Aarian.

“Tar gon elf lakar?” snarled the warrior who observed the moonstone armor, his katana steady. Not getting a response, he changed his language and grumbled, “Fel’le elf je-nei vada?” Still, he received no answer. Then, remembering the words and pronunciation Aarian had used, he gruffly asked, “What is a pesky elf doing here?”

“I am no elf,” replied the prince. “I am a humyn, and my name is Aarian...simply Aarian of Vlydyn. What is yours?”

“Humyns have been extinct for years,” said the warrior, grumbling.

“Years?” uttered Aarian, finding it difficult to swallow. “Please tell me, noble warrior, how many years?”

“Five,” replied the warrior.

Aarian, slack-jawed, widened his eyes as he hopelessly muttered, “Xen be damned. No, I couldn’t have been in a coma that long. It’s not possible.”

“I am no deceiver, elf,” snarled the warrior.

“I’m not an elf,” said Aarian, sheathing his axes and removing his horned helmet. “See? I don’t have pointy ears or strange-colored hai...wait. Forget about the hair and eyes; they’re some kind of aftereffect I received when sealing a hell rift in Vlydyn—it was conjured by a dark elf by the name of Saldovin Keldoran. Have you heard of him?”

“Tales of him conquering Lar’a’dos have reached us,” answered the warrior, gazing at Aarian’s round ears. “You really are a humyn. Might of Niratredam, you shall be a fine addition to the emperor’s collection of relics.”

“Emperor?” said Aarian, frowning. “Who or what are you?”

“Ah,” uttered the warrior, grinning and partly showing his fangs through his mask. “I am Warlord Varkagorsa of Warenyth.”

“My goodness,” said Aarian, his face pale. “You’re an orc?”

“Do not be afraid, humyn,” said Varkagorsa. “This is destiny smiling upon us. After all, I was tasked to fulfill the pilgrimage of the tundra as warlord of the swarm. You will, however, surrender and come with me. Think of it as a token for me saving your petty life from the banshee’s wailing decree of your death.”

“Is that so, oh mighty Warlord? Perhaps she was wailing about yours,” retorted Aarian, raising his axes.

Varkagorsa’s response to this was a coarse laugh.

“I may not have a soul,” began Aarian, “but I am a bad omen. Those who confront me die, even without my understanding,” —his mind strayed to the sight of the dead hydra—“I suggest you step aside and let me pass so I can get the hell off this continent and obliterate Saldovin.”

“You humyns always did have a wild imagination,” said Varkagorsa, grimacing while tilting his blade forward. “Your pathetic Nine won’t save you.”

“I won’t need them,” scowled Aarian, readying himself for battle.

Varkagorsa was startled by such words but nonetheless charged forward, swiping his enchanted katana at him. Aarian leapt over an attack and then ducked the next. Afterwards, he rolled aside, got to his feet, swerved around a frozen boulder, and dodged a barrage of assaults. Upon backing away from the eighth strike, several stalagmites split and collapsed. This caused the ice cave to tremble.

Aarian thrust his axes in retaliation, missing Varkagorsa by mere inches. Only once did he manage to hit and clip off a scale on the orc’s lamellar cuirass. Aarian’s swift movements and defensive postures caught the orc by surprise. Only a fellow warlord could evade his flawless strikes, he thought to himself. He persisted with his assaults against the prince who continued to evade him and riposte. In the glaciered cave, between icy stalagmites that glittered, they fought vehemently.

“You were taught the art of the blade well, humyn,” said Varkagorsa, blocking. “It is unfortunate you are the last of your kind.”

“If that’s true,” began Aarian, parrying with an axe while sundering the orc’s cuirass with the other, “then I will go out in a big bang—one the demons shall never forget.” Hearing the orc gasp in pain due to his attack, he kicked him in the face and disarmed him. “Surrender.”

“I surrender to no one!” growled Varkagorsa, unsheathing another katana while glaring at Aarian who hastily released his axes and took hold of the glowing katana on the ground.

Varkagorsa’s mask had fallen after being kicked. He still wore his helmet, but his facial features were now exposed: thick fangs, ominous eyes, and a monstrous blue-skinned face with a bald cranium—with the exception of a ponytail. He charged toward Aarian again and struck with all his might, trying to slice off a limb. Instead he missed every assault and was pummeled in the jaw with the handle of the prince’s new sword.

“You will surrender,” said Aarian.

Falling down to the freezing ground and dropping his other katana, Varkagorsa raised his hands as though yielding. A bit surprised, Aarian allowed the orc to stand. Upon doing so, the orc warrior grinned maniacally. He brought his palms together—eyes glowing—and conjured a fireball, hurling it at his foe.

“How?” gasped Aarian.

The sphere of flame blasted him, sending him through a glaciered wall that melted as a result of the impact. Aarian lay on the ground in shock, his breastplate charred and his face burnt. Before he could move, Varkagorsa reclaimed his katanas and crisscrossed them along Aarian’s neck.

“Katar vor-bik jah’ta,” said Varkagorsa, smirking. “By the divine Nine...is that how you say it? Yes, by the divine Nine, did I forget to tell you that I am also a warlock?”

His face healing, Aarian replied, “It seems I forgot to tell you something too.”

“That’s not possible,” said Varkagorsa, withdrawing with a ghastly, perplexed face. “No humyn could possibly become such a skilled swordsman and wield magic that powerful at your age.”

“I am no wizard,” said Aarian. “I’m simply cursed with the blood of demons.”

“The prophecy!” blurted Varkagorsa. “Can it be?” He fixed his eyes on Aarian’s red ones and shuddered with anxiety, coming to the realization that the humyn wasn’t lying. Then the orc bowed. “Can it be that you are the Dralekar?”

“Drale...what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Forgive my barbaric behavior,” said Varkagorsa. He rose to his feet, handed him one of his katanas, and added, “You must come with me, humyn of immortal blood. I will escort you to my fortress, none other than the impenetrable Warenyth. If you pass the Challenge of Titans, I shall explain everything.”