Chapter 17 - Growth in Blood

"Bark-skinned scoundrels!" A booming voice bellowed followed by a loud crash.

"You're my council! Go on then! Counsel me, you useless bunch!"

A squared table, headed by a grizzled grey-haired man with a well-endowed figure, was angered at the flushed men he was joined by at the table.

They were a Great Vassal Clan of the Tailed Brothers, the frontier force against the Land of the Crest, responsible for being both the vanguard of the attacks and manning the defenses against the Crested.

They had a long history with the Tailed Brothers, spanning centuries of loyally serving them, oft sharing blood ties, bounded through marriage.

"Perhaps request aid from the main clan?" One said unworriedly.

"I second that, our forces are spread too thin to deal with their looming expansion South." Another agreed.

"Winters approaching, the Ordinary under us will turn feeble and labored. The Heartlands reported a low harvest this season, it'll be too hard to sustain ourselves fighting the Crested. We didn't anticipate their fervor the moment our alliance disbanded. Now we're left alone to deal with the consequences of Atlan and Arslan's decisions." Another voice uttered, this one carrying himself soundly, unbothered by his Clan Head's outburst.

"I see, I see. So you all wish to grovel at the heels of the main clan?"

"It's for the best, Lord Isin." One responded.

With a heavy groan, Lord Isin's displeasure slowly receded, returning to his usual haughty demeanor.

"So be it, send a messenger forthwith. I want it done! Done by three nights. I want to see Third Tails of the main clan sprawling at every tower of the wall." He said as he rubbed his thick fingers against his temples

A steady silence hung in the air as Lord Isin bellowed his orders to the small council. Until the prideful voice replied:

"We shouldn't expect much. The reason why the usual circle of Third and Second Tails have yet to return to their posts alongside our men is because of the main clan's edict."

"Bah! Are they still chasing the ghosts of those blood-born? Thae! Fetch me that northern brewer's finest wine!" Lord Isin bellowed, his anger rising up again at his council's words.

He was a crude and irritable older man, past middle age and half bald. But he was far from weak, exuding an air of wildness. Instead of the silks and cottons of a Lord, he wore thick leather. His tunic was a deep grey, embroidered with the sigil of their clan, a curled iron-clad salamander.

Between deep sips of his wine, as his council watched in an odd sense of normalcy, he gurgled out:

"Oh, how have the main clan fallen! Ran by a pair of brothers so green they still smell of the cradle!"

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back in his chair. "Send the messenger at once, I refuse to believe ghosts are more important than the enemies beyond our walls! And if they refuse, and the walls come crumbling down, don't think for a moment I'll be there to — to… Go! At once!"

His small council warily glanced at each other before obliging, and with a bow, they were dismissed, returning to their duties.

"What could be more important than killing all those bark-skins… Hell, the alliance should've been made to pincer them instead of the blood fiends south…" Irin uttered to himself alone.

—

Osias was sprawled against the mud. It stuck and made his black cloak look brown and weathered. He looked at the sky in exhaustion. It was another day of grueling training and fighting. It has been close to a month since they have marched to the mountain.

And yet they never broke past their encampment by the southern ridge.

After the first day, the hounds never left their own dwelling in the north. Kiran tried to pick the Brood Mother's spawn but the mutts stayed in their territory.

It frustrated his brother, very much so. The foul creatures both cared for their own and disregarded their own.

They cared for each other as strength for the brood, not as individuals. This revelation was brought to his knowledge upon Kiran's return one day.

Kiran stormed into the hound's dwelling quickly without a weapon that day. He braved bites, claws, and venom as he wrestled with a Second Ordeal hound. He then wrapped his stone-like grip over its neck wrangled it half to death and dragged it out of their dwelling, all for its mother to see.

Kiran returned with a hound that day, and severed its legs too, leaving a trail of putrid blood in his wake to their camp. Osias was taken aback at the sight of the mangled beast being dragged but reasoned that Kiran had a great purpose.

But Osias couldn't forget the wails of the beast through that sleepless night.

The next morning, Kiran brought the near-lifeless hound, muted of its gleeful cackling for once, towards a cliff that faced where the rest of the pack was.

There, Kiran slowly dismembered the hound, and Osias could recall the resounding cries even though Kiran was both far away and facing the entire other side of the mountain.

Eventually, the whining howls echoed down, and yet nothing approached. The Brood Mother never left its confines on the northern edge.

And so a stalemate dragging on for days followed.

…Today, Osias found a stray First Ordeal hound, ascending a slope on the eastern side, probably returning to the rest of the brood.

While Kiran was busy plotting against the horde itself, Osias was lucky enough to find this stray one.

Both the hound and Osias were uninjured and full of health — and immediately Osias pounced on the lone hound and a dreadful battle ensued.

Black blood, torn forestry, and a withered husk of a deformed hound remained.

Osias himself was slightly injured, but exhaustion was more of a dire worry than the pain. The training with Kiran opened up many things, and his awareness of his inefficiency was made apparent.

The repeated beatings he withstood from his brother were needful and effective.

Pulling up his garments, his body was littered with thick circular bruises. It looked incoherent, nothing more than whimsical beatings of Kiran. But there was purpose.

Closing his eyes, he focused on his flow of essence. He wanted it to be smooth, just as how blood moved with each pump of the heart. His habit of flooding his entire body as he infused it with essence was slowly being erased — replaced by an intricate and methodical technique.

Each aching throb of pain only reminded him of where to direct and infuse his essence. It made it easier to keep those areas in mind, even in the fervor of combat.

But it was still crude. He still had a faraway place to reach.

Every movement, from the mere lifting of a finger, took an innumerable amount of steps. To pick and choose each and every part of that 'simple' movement and apply the essence to the right ones… his small triumphs seem so minute to this goal.

And this was for such a small movement, how about throwing in the ways he fights? How did he swing a sword? How did he take a step?

He was too far away from using these foundational skills to tailor them to his own.

Afterall his 'technique' is still currently worse than the instinctive essence control of a beast.

But it was admirable in a way — for beasts to instinctively infuse themselves for great bursts of strength to turn the tides in battle. It made him think, 'Do they too train?'

'Slowly. A little more slowly next time and I'll be even better.' He thought.

Looking at his left, he found the withered husk of a hound. The mighty beast perished after he caught it with a clean cut, dismembering its leg. After that, it is an execution, left with but a single swing for the killing blow.

With a sigh, he got back to his feet. Feeling slightly dismayed for his choice of laying on the wild grounds of the mountain forest in case of being pounced on by a stray beast, he began to disembark. Not before he went on to grab the withered corps—

…He paused and stopped himself from grabbing the corpse in a show of habit.

Perhaps it was because of his time atop a forested mountain, but he couldn't help but think of his parents and the others in the Band. He frowned to himself as he recalled them.

The other youth were outside of the Band's reach, they followed the First and Second Bloods into battle while he was left within the confines of their Great Mountain after passing the selection.

In his brief time between sessions from the chambers within, he followed his father into the small forests of the foothills that led down to the valleys. Nothing of note appeared there, cleared of its strongest dwellers long ago during the Band's forming, but the occasional hare and stag wandered about.

… He once slew a small hare and brought it to his father in excitement, grabbing it from its long ears in a bundle. His father was proud and surprised that he managed to catch one despite his weakened body constantly under distress from Garm's needles

The thought of home brought a wan smile to his face.

Then a familiar pain stabbed him in remembrance, his smile twisted into a deep frown. He pushed his thoughts aside to think about what was important:

'Stronger. Strong enough to be of use to brother.'

That was the way of this cold world, those born of blood were brought forth as short-lived children from beds of blood and pain. To be of use to those who sired you. To those who have fought for you. Repayment…

Instead of taking the hound's corpse as a token, he reached for its fur with his short sword and cleaned the grease off with it, eventually leaving the dirtied corpse as he left.

His legs ached and burned, only noticeable on his return to their small encampment.

His sword felt heavier than usual, a burden he bore with a grim sense of satisfaction. Each step was a reminder of his continuous effort, but he had no qualms about returning from his outing. He needed rest.

Looking up from his walk, he found the setting sun, and the tops of Laria and Dyrus revealing themselves in their father's absence. He gently smiled to himself, he seemed to be in a mood for reminiscing today.

And as Osias drudgingly returned to camp, he found Kiran already present. He was busy stoking a small fire with thick cuts of a felled boar skewered above. His enormously large cloak was draped over branches, probably drying.

'I have to wash mine as well.' Osias thought as he looked down on himself.

"How was it, find anything?" Kiran asked.

Osias nodded as he set down his scabbard against a stocky tree's stump before adding:

"A few hares and birds. But I found a stray First Ordeal hound earlier. I think it was headed north, to the brood."

"I see."

The pair didn't speak, both silently stared into the small fire as the boar meat cooked above, dripping grease onto the fire, feeding it.

This continued for a few minutes before Osias spoke once more:

"How much longer, brother?"

Kiran continued to gaze into the dancing fire along with the swaying light it emitted. Then finally, he looked at Osias and remained silent for a little longer.

Osias felt a little nervous under his brother's gaze. He was bound by blood with him, yet that didn't take away from Kiran's deep-set eyes and the permanent scowl strewn on them. Anyone else would be terrified of him, just look at the damned size of him.

"They've huddled down. Their numbers patrolling outside have remained the same, but I think they've lost a few within. The Brood Mother… she's sending her kin into the mist."

Osias just stared at him. He wasn't too shocked at this conjecture, but it was surprising to hear his speculations out loud.

'The mist…'

A shared silence hung, only broken by the popping grease and crackling of the fire.

"It's ready. Eat."

"Mm."

Taking a grand slab of meat skewered by a stick, Osias could only wish it was slathered in Hosen — a sweet sauce his mother and other women of the Band frequently made from the crushed bloodwort stems that grew in their Great Mountain

Between bites, Osias lacked his fingers and asked:

"Do you think they'll kill themselves without us lifting a finger?"

"Maybe. But I don't know why they would. I can't see past the Brood Mother, anything beyond that is the mist."

Osias nodded. Unfortunately, this was beyond him. All he could do was train atop this mountain, leaving the rest to Kiran. Begrudgingly, he then uttered something that bothered him so:

"We… We are going to have to enter it too — eventually, right?"

"Aye." Kiran nodded.

Finishing their meal, they each attended to their own matters. Kiran disembarked, once again scouting out the north.

Osias meanwhile checked his gear and washed his worn-down cloak.

It was an Ordinary cloak, roughspun and weathered. Its once splendor as a well-crafted garment was gone. It was beginning to break apart, soiled by grime, blood, and mud.

'Could've left with a better one, I'm the Red Sky's successor!' He mused to himself.

Alas, the band had few Path Finders capable of crafting and molding such materials.

Such precious resources were made specifically for those who already deserved them — first, Second, and Third Bloods, all of renown within the Band. There was too little time to prepare something for Osias near the fall of the Band.

Besides, it was only a matter of time for Kiran to find a fitting Path Beast to butcher. A crude, makeshift cloak could be made from a First Ordeal's pelt.

Finished with cleaning and maintaining his belongings, Osias returned to the camp.

It was a long day of training followed by fighting. He greedily absorbed everything to be stronger than the day before.

Laying on his back, he found himself wondering just how much longer can they stay like this. Continuing to live at leisure. Even though this net of safety could be overrun in moments, it hasn't happened. He was sure, that if the Brood Mother deemed it necessary, he and Kiran would be run down by the horde. Clawed at their heels as they ran beyond the mountain, the ridge even.

This peace wouldn't last — not out here.

Before long they'll hunt down the rest of the already scarce Ordinary animals. They'll forced to feed upon the grass eventually. But what then?

The hounds must eat as well.

It was an uncomfortable thought, something that set him unease despite the need for rest.

Alas, that was for later to worry.

And so he'll sleep, wake up the next day, and do all he can to prepare for the inevitable.

Closing his eyes from the dark of night for the darkness of rest, he ignored the aching pain and soreness that resonated throughout his battered body. If it was for the calm embrace of sleep, then his body and mind could only comply as he fell asleep.

… But suddenly he whipped his eyes open and shot to his feet. A piercing howl sounded through the night, louder than anything he had heard before. As if the mountain itself cried as it was torn asunder.