Draugur (The Vilkaas #2)

Author's note: this ain't great at all, but oh, well. There's nothing I can do about it now.

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Galen entered a different cave, the innkeeper sat at a desk in the small room. Beside him was the entrance into the inn, light and voices drifted from it. The innkeeper didn't see Galen as he stepped up to the desk.

The vilkaas soldier stared down on him until the innkeeper finally glanced up and started in fright at Galen's dark figure before him, silver eyes glinting. He was holding up one finger.

The innkeeper recovered from his initial shock and wrote Galen's Wilderkin name in the book before him.

"Etan will be here," The innkeeper warned. "This time he'll kick your-"

He glanced back up, there was a coin spinning on the table and Galen was gone.

The innkeeper cursed heartily and peered into the bustling dining area in the next room. Galen was seated in the farthest and darkest corner, gleaming eyes sweeping over the customers who had already forgotten him.

Galen produced one flatbread, slowly chewing. After a moment, he heard a loud voice in the entrance. He knew it well. Etan.

The massive warrior growled as the innkeeper told him Galen was inside. He stepped into the inn, moss-green eyes fell on Galen's typical spot, but the cloaked man was nowhere to be seen.

In truth, Galen had slipped away and was already removing his cloak in the dimly lit cave that served as a room. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, Galen hung his cloak on a chair near it and removed his outer shirt, dropping onto the bed, nothing but a thin mattress on the ground.

He lay still for a moment. He knew what was coming. Most nights, he didn't dream, but when he slept in the Wilderkin's inn, he dreamed the same dream every time.

Out of the darkness, a single figure emerged.

Featureless.

Ruthless.

Galen and six figures stand at the ready. Fellow soldiers, his friends.

One by one, they fade into the darkness and leave only Galen behind.

He runs.

Everywhere he goes, he is alone no matter how many people are around him.

Then, Galen stands before two paths and there are thousands of fearful eyes watching him, voices calling to him.

Galen is weeping.

Screaming.

Speaking.

Then he wakes. Every time, it goes the same.

The vilkaas rose and slipped on his shirt, still dusty from the last days' travel. He cinched his belt and donned his cloak.

Each night spent there, Galen left before the sun rose, giving the Wilderkin all the more reason to believe he was a ghost.

The soldier stole out of his room, cloak gathered around him, concealing him in the shadows. Shaken by his dream, he was unaware of the moss-green eyes watching him from behind.

Galen felt weakened after the rush of emotion from the dream, he stumbled several times as he continued through the stone corridors. With each night, he spent there; it was harder to smother the emotion and forget that night.

Sometimes, he exhausted himself attempting to bury his thoughts again.

Etan heard it. The slight scuff of boots and clink of the sword against the soldier's leg. Galen was leaving.

The Wilderkin warrior peered out from the wooden door. As he had thought, there was a shadow stealing its way down the corridor. Etan frowned as he saw the soldier stumble and support himself on the wall. His pale hair fell from his cowl, gleaming in the torchlight.

The mountainous warrior stepped out his door. The shadow paused and turned. Etan nearly fell on his backside in surprise.

The soldier's eyes glistened with tears, his face pale and twisted. There was no anger present as he saw the warrior.

Etan blinked and the soldier turned back around, disappearing around the corner.

The emotion on Draugur's face had caught him off guard. Etan had meant to finally teach the man a lesson, but he went back into his room, frowning.

________

Galen knew Etan had seen him, seen the pain on his face. His eyes were wet. He was used to that empty ache inside him, but he never felt it so acutely.

This time, he couldn't contain it again. It was like a hole in a wall that held back the sea. Usually, he would patch it and move on, but cracks were spreading too quickly for him to handle.

He was breaking.

Galen stumbled past several people, ignoring their cries of fright at his sudden appearance.

His fingers trailed on the stone, his breath loud.

He was out of his mind, his conscience floating above him, just out of his reach.

He left Hulinn, the desert night air stinging his flushed face. His feet caught on every stone, threatening to drop him on his face.

Galen kept walking, he didn't know where he was going, but didn't care.

An owl hooted, a fox snuffed nearby. A rabbit was frightened as Galen wandered past.

After an hour of wandering, Galen came to a ravine. He stood on the edge, peering into the black, tumbling water below.

Could he end his life? Would he finally be freed of the weight he carried for so long?

Before the soldier could so anything, something caught him off balance, sending him reeling toward the cliff edge.

His foot slipped off, adrenaline rushed through him as his body tipped backward.

Galen fell.

He could have sworn he saw dark and blank face peered down on him as the night air whipped around him.

Galen's body struck the water, pain shot through his body. The tumbling water enveloped him as his vision went dark.

_______

Ronan left his house in the village Litill, the sun rising and casting its red light on his large and peaceful village. There was a sword on his hip and a fishing rod in hand.

He lived alone, fishing every morning for his food. It was dangerous, though. For a decade, raiders attacked their village.

Food taken.

Animals killed.

Houses burned.

Despite their dire situation, Ronan was a peaceful and friendly soul, always whistling and talking people's ears off.

As he walked, He watched the scrawny trees around him, hand on his sword pommel.

Many people were attacked on the road.

Today, there was no trouble.

Ronan reached the river safely and began to dig for worms. Finding none, he stood and moved on, walking over a small, sandy hill. He crouched to continue digging, but something caught his eye.

It was dark, a stark contrast to the pale sand. Ronan squinted at it and then his eyes widened.

It was a person, lying crumpled and soaking wet on the sand.

Ronan straightened and approached cautiously. He gently rolled the figure over.

His eyes widened even further.

It was a man, sandy, pale hair plastered to his bruised face. His dark clothing was sodden and heavy. Ronan touched his neck, sighing in relief as he felt a strong heartbeat.

His relief vanished as he realized the man was trembling with cold, his skin purple and lips blue. He needed to get warm very soon. Ronan frowned. The man was much too heavy for him to carry by himself.

The young man pulled the man away from the water and propped him against a grassy knoll. Pursing his lips, Ronan turned and ran as fast as he could in the direction of his village.

_____

"Andor! Andor!"

The front gate guard's face lit up as he heard Ronan's voice. The young man had become like a son to him and Andor worried something would come of the sixteen year old.

However, as Ronan emerged from the woods, Andor could see worry etched into Ronan's face. He was running, hand keeping his sword at bay.

"What is it, Ronan? Raiders?" Andor asked, catching Ronan as the young almost barreled into him. Ronan shook his head, heaving for breath.

"There's a man!- he's cold, too heavy for me!-"

Andor cut him off. "Ronan!" he barked. "You're not making any sense. Who's too heavy? What are you talking about?"

Ronan caught his breath. "I went to go fishing, but there was a man on the shore! He's pretty beat up, possibly has cracked ribs. I can't lift him, I need help."

Andor stared for a moment, but quickly snapped to attention. "Okay, I'll get the boys. I can't leave my post, but they'll help you."

_______

Only moments later, Ronan led Andor's two sons to his fishing spot. They let out exclamations when they saw the slumped figure. Ronan checked his pulse again. "He's bruised and cold, but he'll live."

Andor's sons nodded, their identical dark hair hanging in their eyes. They bent on either side of the violently shivering figure, locking their hands beneath him. Together they lifted him, grunting.

"Oy!" One of them exclaimed. "He's soaked!"

Ronan nodded grimly, retrieved his fishing rod. He following on their heels down the wooded path to Litill.

Andor sucked in a breath as his sons and Ronan emerged, carrying a dark-clothed person between them. As they approached, Andor saw it was a man, almost white hair hanging limp in his face. His breath rattled in his chest, shuddering as he trembled from cold.

"Take him to the infirmary, they'll care for him there." Andor told his sons. They nodded in unison and entered the front gate, Ronan trailing behind with a crease between his brows.

Andor's sons entered the infirmary. "Hue!" the oldest called. "Are you here?"

A petite woman emerged from a door, smiling. The two boys visited too often for their own good, but Hue had grown fond of them.

Her smile disappeared as she saw the man between them. She bustled over, examining and muttering.

"Who is this?" she asked. "An outsider?"

Ronan stepped forward and nodded. "Yes, Hue. He was on the fishing shore. He is very cold and bruised. Would you care for him?"

Hue bobbed her head, long black braid swaying. "Go fetch some blankets and get a fire going in the hearth. Set him down there."

She directed the three young men and they scattered, Andor's sons placing the man on a bed and rushing off to get blankets.

Ronan knelt by the hearth, striking flint and steel until tiny flames licked hungrily against the dry logs. Satisfied, he rose and hovered by Hue, who removed the man's belt, piling multiple weapons beside the bed.

Ronan frowned. What if the man was a raider? If he woke alone, he could pose a threat to the people of Litill.

"Hue?"

The healer glanced up.

"I can stay with him today."

Hue smiled. "Very well. If he wakes, let me know."

Ronan dropped onto a chair, pulling his leather-bound journal from his jerkin. Hue bustled away in search of Andor's sons.

Ronan's feather scratched on the yellowy pages. Hue removed the man's outer shirt, tending to the ugly bruises. She frowned at the many scars on his skin and catching Ronan's eye. "You better not have brought a raider in here, Ronan. The headman would not be happy."

The young man nodded distractedly and continued writing.

Hue finished what she was doing and laid several blankets over the man. "That is all I can do for him now. Keep an eye one him, Ronan."

He nodded again, not even glancing up.

_______

Galen's eyes cracked open. He felt contusions all over his body, but he had worse. He was mildly surprised it wasn't worse.

Becoming aware of his surroundings, he turned his head. There was a young man sitting in a chair beside him, immersed in whatever book he was holding.

Galen's eyes flicked down to the blankets covering him and the fire on the far side of the room.

The last thing he could remember was hitting the water. As he thought of this, his head pounded more acutely. Every part of his body ached.

The more his conscience returned, Galen remembered why he had fallen. The blank face staring down on him. Had he only imagined it or was the featureless man really there?

The emotions he had felt before returned, gathering like a storm and boiling inside him.

They would not be smothered, instead smothering him.

Galen shifted again, drawing the young man's green eyes to him. He closed the book, beaming.

"I am Ronan," he said. "Are you well?"

Galen stared, suddenly realizing he had no idea where he was or how he had ended up there.

The rather loud young man, Ronan, frowned at Galen's silence.

"Should I call Hue? Do you want me to? Can you even understand me?"

Galen nodded once, still staring.

He struggled to pull himself upright, bruised arms trembling slightly.

Ronan hesitated for a moment, then rushed away into another room. Moment's later, he returned with a small woman, a long braid swinging near her feet as she walked. Her dark, almond eyes were full of worry and even fear.

"Are you well, My lord?" she inquired, standing at a distance. Galen nodded once again, still thoroughly confused. Glancing around, his eyes fell on Ronan's book, feather and inkwell.

He slid the off the desk and opened the book. Ronan started forward, protesting and blushing.

Galen glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, stopping the young man cold. Deftly, he ripped out a page, dipped the feather and scribbled a quick message, holding it up for them to see.

Hue and Ronan squinted at the paper. On it, the sentence was: Call me Draugur. What is this place?

Hue finally understood and nodded. "You are in the village Litill, north of the Wildlands. Where do you hail from, Draugur?"

Galen, unused to such communication, froze for a moment before scribbling one more word on the page and presenting it.

Ronan's eyes widened. "You're from the Wildlands?"

When Galen nodded confirmation, Hue's eyes widened and she rushed out the door, braid flying behind her.

Ronan groaned and started after her, but glancing back at Galen, he stopped. He held up a finger. "Don't go anywhere." he commanded and then tore out the building, calling Hue.

Galen got to his feet, swaying, his hand on the wall and his other on his head. His silver eyes flicked to his bare arms, riddled with purple bruises. He slipped his shirt over his head and picked up his sword, inspecting it for nicks.

At that instant, Ronan and Hue returned, but they had company.

It was a dozen large men, carrying swords on their hips and wearing leather armor.

Everyone cried out in surprise when they saw Galen upright and wielding a sword. The dozen armored men whipped out their own sword, the largest of them roared for Galen to drop his weapon.

Equally surprised as they were, Galen brought his sword into ready position, glaring at the intruders. Ronan rushed over to him; Galen flinched away. The young man looked nervous, gesturing wildly for him to put down the sword.

"What are you doing, Draugur?" he hissed. "Put it down!"

Galen's mind was still murky from his fall, his thoughts weren't whole and his emotions shattered.

Scared and angry, Galen turned and ran.

He gripped his sword as he slammed his shoulder against the door and sprinted into noon-day sun, shouts of surprise and anger echoed after him.

More shouts echoed through Litill as the barefoot, sword-wielding man ran past.

Galen narrowed his eyes as he saw the front gate and the wall surrounding the village. It wasn't very high. With an extra push, he could jump it.

Unfortunately, he had nothing to give him an extra push. His legs shook as he ran. He was weakened from his fall.

Growling angrily, Galen made a decision to something he hadn't in a very long time.

Ronan and the dozen armored men were a few meters behind him. Galen took a couple steps back and ran full tilt at the wall.

__________

Ronan watched Draugur run at the wall, dropping his sword to the ground. Before everyone's eyes, the man transformed into a massive black and silver wolf mid-air and cleared the wall.

Andor started in surprise as a black and silver blur hit the ground with a thud and bounded away, there were shouts echoing from inside Litill.

"Open the gate, Andor!"

Andor, and the other guard with him, heard Ronan's call and the front gate swung open. Six village guards and Ronan rushed out, calling someone's name.

Andor was thoroughly confused as he watched the seven men run after the massive creature that had just passed.

He and the second guard exchanged looks, frowning. They weren't supposed to leave their posts; they could do nothing to help them.

________

Galen's black wolf tongue hung out as he bounded away, a black and silver streak in the silence of the wooded surroundings. He could hear the men behind him, they were gaining on him.

His legs buckled slightly as he pushed himself harder, finding every ounce of strength he had left.

He had to get away from the noise, from the people.

He could feel too much.

Galen wanted it so badly, yet feared it over anything else.

To feel.

Joy.

Sadness.

Something besides the anger and guilt that consumed him.

No, instead, he kept running.

Running from helping hands, from loving hearts.

He had to run. If he found joy in people again, if he had friends, he would be too afraid to lose them.

So he would keep running.