The Immortals--Chapter 1

The Immortals

by Malachi Coan

Chapter 1: Hunting

     Aroch roamed the tall grasslands of the east, his bow and quiver slung over one shoulder. His breath rose in a mist of steam as he walked through the yellowed grass which drooped with the weight of the frost. Most years, he finished hunting long before the harsh winter arrived, but this year, winter’s chill had set in early. Breathing lightly, Aroch climbed a small rise and scanned the area for signs of life. Nothing stirred the barren expanse of tall, silent grass. 

     Debating whether to head for the highlands or go back, he shivered as a cold gust swept over him. He’d been away for two weeks now with nothing to show for it. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. 

     “Ah, well, winter’s got the better of me this time. I’d best start for home before I freeze solid out here. Let’s just see what I can pick up along the way.”

     As he walked, thick clouds rolled in, blocking the sun’s rays and filling the land with a haze of gray light. Far above him in the endless, pale vault of the sky, something circled on dark wings. Opening its mouth, the creature vented a single chilling cry. Aroch gave a start as the horrible sound reached his frozen ears. A screeching roar, filled with wildness and cruelty, echoed around the prairie lands. Crouching low amidst the tall grass, he fitted a shaft to his bow. 

     He knew that sound only too well. It was the shriek of a vorlek, a terrifying winged steed that was bred only in the Darklands. With the horrid face and furred chest of a bat, the rest of the creature was covered in steely scales and resembled a dragon. Barely raising his head above the grass, Aroch scanned the skies— but the creature had gone. 

     Aroch missed seeing the vorlek and the cloaked figure riding upon it. The rider, though, had spotted Aroch and now began searching the area around the lone hunter in the grasslands. Traveling in a wide circle around Aroch, the rider surveyed the ground beneath him until he found what he was looking for: a single small house built near the river. A cold wind whistled eerily, as the monstrous steed slowly descended upon the house, bearing on its back the dark rider. 

     The rider was a pale man with black hair and burning amber eyes filled with hate and rage. Devoid of all other emotions, he seemed more animal than human. His assignment was to find Aroch— not to slay the warrior but to steal his son— and the rider took malicious joy in his mission. He did not want Aroch to die, no, not yet. He wanted Aroch, and all like him, to suffer— to suffer for everything they had taken from him. 

     After the vorlek had gone, Aroch Kane’s fortune changed as he neared the last few hills before his home. He managed to bring down a silverhorn. Slinging the deer-like creature over his shoulders, he continued his journey home. He started to hum a tune; his gloom now lifted— his hunt had not been in vain after all. He could not yet see the river, but he knew that just over the next two rises the home he had built sat soundly near the bank of clear waters. 

     All thoughts of the vorlek had left him as his mind became preoccupied with thoughts of his family: Were they still doing well on food and water? How much had Jason grown? Had they been able to manage without him? Aroch was amused by this last question. His wife was more than capable. She was brave, resourceful, and wise— qualities which she proved countless times during their marriage. Aroch smiled as he thought of one other quality he could add to his wife’s list: an unwavering, mule-like stubbornness. 

     After the Great War, Aroch told her about his travels and the events leading up to the final war, and he concluded with the battle he had fought against Kadramore, the Lord of Fire, servant of the King of Darkness. She was intrigued by this last title. 

     “If there is a King of Darkness,” she said, “then there must be a King of Light to preserve the balance between good and evil.” 

     Aroch laughed, only to find that she was very serious. 

     “You’re wrong, Nyah, you’ve no idea how much evil there is in this world. There is no King of Light,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

     “No, you’ve no idea how much good there is in it. Get it through your fat head, Aroch, there must be a source of goodness,” she said, smiling at him. 

     He took her hand. “Well, some source of goodness must’ve helped this old, fat head of mine propose to you, my Nyah. But still, there is no King of Light.”

     No matter how much they talked and argued, she would not change her belief. But Aroch also remained adamant; he knew there could be no such king— not after everything he had been through. 

     Aroch adjusted the silverhorn more comfortably on his shoulders as he carried on walking, still thinking of his family. A light snow began falling as he neared the foot of the sprawling hill, over which his house lay. He gazed at the hill for a moment; it had been snowing just like this when he had first set eyes on this place he now called home. Without warning, the shrieking roar of a vorlek shattered his reminiscence and brought him to a halt. The creature had not left the area after all, and now it sounded closer. Then Aroch saw a sight that made his heart stop: black smoke billowing into the setting sun, turning the sky into a red haze. 

     Something was terribly wrong. A numbing dread enveloped him as he dropped the silverhorn. He began running as he had never run before, towards his home, towards his family, and towards the black smoke which darkened the sky.