THE BLACK SONGS – HOME

Mathus was disturbed by the unfortunate fact that the wind bit through his chest more aggressively than he had prepared for. The crunch of icy rock beneath his boots was the only sound that accompanied the angry gusts, a cacophony of arrhythmic sounds that grated at his sense of time. This land, Bal Utan, was once a vibrant kingdom of ice and snow, a veritable wonderland, he had heard from Hursa the Maid. Hursa had said that the kingdom that controlled these lands was once well respected and feared for their technology and war power. 

Only ruins remained. Not even skeletons. Ages passed since the Era of High Songs. Mathus knew that their histories were the only place this kingdom existed today. All he knew, walking through the dead land, was that he only learned of a glimmer of a ghost, barely a whisper of the real, whole truth. 

He cursed the Golden Tablets, those long lasting, ethereal slates. The Krona, a kingdom far to the south, had created these everlasting stores of information, the only things that lasted in the world after the Era of Black Songs began. These Golden Tablets told of a great world bound by perfection, where the living were born and died in a cycle of everlasting harmony, moving through cycles of life in peace. 

But Mathus could not die, not before the Song was changed. His death, like most, would probably mean an eternity suffering as a wandering spirit, monsters that inhabited the land in numerous forms as Thralls to the dark Wraiths. The Wraiths of the Black Songs, darkness and pain made material, existing to cause suffering alone. 

Mathus stopped, looking to the horizon. Night would fall soon, and so would the Wraiths who prowled in the night. He stomped on the ground, found it too hard packed and frozen to dig a shallow tent-pit, and sighed at the situation. He was armed well enough, had medicines enough to preserve him if the Wraiths got too close. 

It looked like he would walk through the night. 

But for Mathus, it was not the Wraiths that attacked him in the night, but his own mind. As darkness fell and he could see no further than the steps directly in front of him, he committed himself to the path ahead. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a silver flask and drank a large sip of it. It was bitter, more-so than even the other of the Nine liked, but its effect was immediate. His vision grew sharper, energy filled his limbs and he found himself moving with more vigor. 

And the thoughts began, thoughts of the past that drove him across the land. Thoughts about his sister and mother, those he had lost just like so many people lose their family and loved ones. 

“A hunter cannot hope to keep any family. None besides his brothers and sisters in arms.” It was a bitter thought, but not an unfamiliar one. Rather than disheartening him, he felt the words warm him slightly against the cold. His losses and sacrifices, perhaps, felt balanced against these words. 

For Mathus was a hunter, looking for the Divine Envoy. He would fight for a new world, even if it cost him his life. Anything was better than the uncaring realm that embraced them all. 

For hours he walked, eyes half closed except to keep himself from stumbling or falling on the terrain. His thoughts quieted for a time, the rhythmic beating of his boots upon the soil a comforting counterpart to the chaotic winds that pulled as his armor and cloak. 

By the time that sun broke, he found himself nearing the last landmark, Mount Yannis, and felt relief that no Wraiths had found him in the night. His destination? The Ruins of Utani Hadras. A Golden Tablet was recently discovered to be located there in another text, and it was Mathus who was tasked with making the journey. Walking for another hour, he couldn’t help but wonder why he, again, was tasked with crawling across the world to find these snippets of information. 

His fist grew tight as he imagined a blade in his hand, Wraiths and Thralls falling to his fury. How he would have loved to fight a Wraith just then. He sighed, and realized perhaps it was these baser instincts within him that made him the most well suited to the task. Another distasteful truth.

He came upon a ridge to see the sprawling mass of Utani Hadras. Once the center for the arms technology of the lost kingdom, it was now a crumbling maze of empty buildings, rooves and walls destroyed in the fall of the Era of High Songs, people put to the sword and blades of the Wraiths. 

He now looked upon it with disdain. “The Circle of Nine has no idea how to find Adessa,” he whispered into the wind. Saying her name felt sacrilegious, as if naming her would bring down her wrath. But he steeled himself, knowing that her wrath fell upon the world each day. Her divine songs wove the curses that plagued the living, and he knew that whoever she was, she could not see him as he pursued her. 

He made his way down to the ruined city, awaiting anything to spring forward and attack. But there was nothing, only the ghostly wails of the wind curling down the rows of broken buildings. Mathus knew not where the Golden Tablet was hidden, only that those who kept it were Priests of the High Songs. The Arghas Temple would be the best place to start. 

He could see it from the ridge, but from the street view it was more imposing than he had expected. He had read about it before, but seeing it was a different experience. A tall spire made of black bricks, the Arghas Temple was like the shadow of a black spear towering above the city. A place to be humbled, the Arghas was known as the beginning of the end, built by the Black Priests who defiled the Divine Word and called into question the known dogma of the time. 

“So long ago,” Mathus said again, whispering to the wind. “Yet it is the last knowledge we have about the connection between this realm and that of the divine envoy.” He sighed, for he felt familiar frustrations boiling up. 

“So much history lost when the Era of High Songs ended, the decay and destruction stopping us from really understanding the past. The Golden Tablets help with some of this, but they cannot answer questions about the end of the High Songs.” Mathus’s thoughts raced, trying to find some answer for these old, old questions. But like usual, one alluded him and he simply felt confusion. The loss of history, even though it wasn’t his own, was still a weight that he carried around. So many things that he just couldn’t know. 

The temple grew closer, his ability to fight off the negative thoughts getting stronger the closer he got. Inside could be Wraiths, those bastards of the darkness, and any of their thralls. It was almost always more dangerous when he had to go inside of a building. No lights, scattered rubble, it was a perfect place for a Wraith to hide in wait. As he came up to the simple, rounded doorway, the door long ago blown off its hinges, he could see nothing but blackness inside. 

In his pack, he had a torch from the Era of High Songs, a strange crystal wand that lit up at the end when spoken to in a hissing, airy language. He only knew the words that activated the device, but couldn’t comprehend what they could actually mean, or what they might have meant long long ago. Like all devices, technology, or artifacts from that Era, only very few remained, and fewer still that could function. 

He twisted the ring at the base and felt the air grow sickly hot as it came to life, the crystal at the end of the wand glowing brightly like a flame. He held there at the entrance for a long moment, unable to cross over into that inky blackness. The longer he stared into it, the more sure he was that there were many Wraiths inside. He felt excitement at the prospect of fighting them, but sick at the idea of becoming one of their mindless thralls. The very shadows themselves seemed to hang languidly in the stone hall, reaching out for Mathus. 

He took a long, deep breath, exhaled slowly, and steeled himself for this next part of the journey. He stepped forward into the Temple. 

There was no hint or clue about where the Golden Tablet was, it was most likely hidden behind a wall or beneath the floorboards. Despite the fact that he wished to get in and out quickly, he was resigning himself to the idea that it may take hours, perhaps even days to find it. It was daunting to think about, and he had barely made a handful of steps into that darkness. 

He turned around suddenly, the doorway substantially darker than it should be, like a dark fog encroached on it. “Wraiths!” Mathus thought. He gulped in excitement, his free hand dropping to the blade on his hip. He drew it slowly, the clean rasp a welcome sound to the still silence around him. 

Wraiths rarely came forward when expected. They were devious, viscous, and clever enough not to be seen. They flitted from shadow to shadow, corner to corner, hiding in the periphery so that they could avoid being detected until they had a window to strike, perhaps even kill, their target. It was not a pretty sight to see the aftermath of such an attack. 

A small scuff on the floor was all the signal he had before he swung around, a dark shadow flying across the room like a demon. Its eyes were smokey red, intense in their deadly focus on Mathus. The light of the crystal wand cast hideous shadows across its face, the darkness a ghastly cloak around a fiery visage.

On reflex, he held the torch before him, the Wraith hissing and lifting upwards suddenly to go over it. He smiled as his blade followed, running the Wraith through in one simple motion. There was no blood, no carnage. A simple breathy gasp was all the Wraith had time to make before the misty shadow of its body began to evaporate away on the stone floor. Mathus looked around, the inky blackness having receded slightly, and began walking once more, this time with more confidence. 
He proceeded into the darkness with less fear, more zeal, able to think about what his goal was in a clearer manner. His blood was pumping, adrenaline flowing throughout his body. This is what I live for.