Five of the six were hunters of the Folk, wielding flint-tipped spears and hand axes, the latter more often used to dismember kills than as weapons – unless their foes walked on two legs and came close enough.
The sixth was notable in three ways: first, age made his back bend forward in a permanent stooping stance. Second, his only weapon was a short spear decorated by feathers and teeth, a tool of ceremony rather than the hunt. And third, his face was covered in black paint that in the shadowy valley created the illusion that his eyes were floating in the air unless he showed his teeth in a smile.
Ghost Eyes, they called him, and for all his wisdom and wise ways, he was no less afraid than the rest of the party.
It was noon, with the sun shining brightly overhead, but mist rose from the swampy ground of the valley and the massive trees lining it blocked much of the light.
Neither mist nor foliage were enough to explain the darkness that surrounded the hunters and their wiseman as they entered the valley, however.
The thing that dwelled there could devour even the sun’s warmth and light.
The Folk had sent Ghost Eyes and the hunters into the valley because there were no good choices left.
North lay the ice mountains, and nothing awaited the Folk there but cold and famine. West and south were the Others, the ones who looked like the Folk but were leaner, weaker, yet more graceful.
The Others and the Folk had fought, but the true danger from the newcomers lay in the speed with which they hunted out the great beasts the Folk depended on. Gone were the mammoth, the wooly rhino; even the larger aurochs were harder to find with each passing season.
East was the only way out.
The Folk had followed the rising sun, hunting the lesser prey that provided little meat for much work, barely surviving until they had reached a hilly land with some game, enough that some counseled that the Folk make a stand there for a season until they were strong enough to keep going.
The wisewomen had spoken of something dark and terrible watching them from the hills and demanded – even begged – that the Folk move on, but the prospect of full bellies and rest had won the day. The Folk had stayed.
And the Night Claw had begun to prey on them.
It had started slowly. A missing child, not an uncommon tragedy. A woman who spied some edible berries, rushed toward them – and vanished; their best tracker found some blood and a single clawed footprint. A hunter, separated from the group, gone without a trace.
Then the night attacks had begun. Something big and yet noiseless crept toward their campsites, time and time again, and left with one of the Folk. The charms the wisewomen and their single wiseman had crafted to ward off the evils of the dark had not helped stave off those nightly visits.
The Folk tried to flee East, but found the way barred by steep hills. The only way through them was a pass leading to the shadowy valley, and the closer the Folk approached, the more frequent the attacks became.
It soon became clear that the valley was the Night Claw’s territory.
This time, the arguments had lasted a day and a night – a night during which the chief of the hunters went missing.
When the sun rose again, the Folk sent half of their surviving hunters along with the wiseman, Ghost Eyes. He had led them there.
As the hunting party ventured deeper into the valley, he sent a silent plea to the invisible powers that he dimly perceived but never truly understood. His desperate plan would condemn him in the eyes of the Folk and the spirits who protected them, but that did not deter him.
The six men moved through the fog. Silence enveloped them as thickly as the foul-smelling mist, broken only by their wet steps on the sodden ground. For several minutes, they followed Ghost Eyes through the treacherous terrain, trusting in his promise that he could follow the Night Claw’s trail.
It was the first of many lies.
The wiseman managed to guide the group without stumbling into a pocket of quicksand or a dead end amidst the thickening foliage; his spiritual senses served him well enough for that purpose.
He had no more idea where Night Claw was than any of the hunters, however. Somewhere in the valley, that was all. It was enough to suit his purposes.
A low growl came out of the mist, too distorted to tell which direction it came from, loud enough to freeze the men in their tracks as their hearts began to race. It was out there, aware of their presence.
The hunters had come with the intention of finding the monster’s lair while it slept and slaying it when their quarry was at its weakest. That growl had smashed their hopes like so many eggs dashed against a rock.
The youngest hunter in the group was the first to run, darting back the way they’d come with desperate speed.
Nobody called out to him and told him to stop. They remained quiet, and none more so than Ghost Eyes, who sank onto his haunches and made himself dim.
He had learned that skill when his mind ventured into the lands of the spirits: he could take some of his physicality with him, and doing so made him harder to see, hear, or smell, masking his very presence from all senses. He retained awareness of his surroundings, which allowed him to hear the sudden movement amongst tree and brush, followed by a brief scream of terror from the fleeing hunter, a scream that cut off abruptly.
As if the death of the young man had been a signal, three more hunters fled, going off in different directions. Perhaps one or two of them would escape.
Ghost Eyes paid little attention to their plight; while maintaining his dimness, he grabbed a bone charm he had made, one using the young hunter’s hair and blood; its twin hung around the now-dead man’s neck. A gift to help ward against the Night Claw, Ghost Eyes said.
He had made one for each of the hunters, with the help of the wisewomen – his accomplices in this desperate plan – and kept their counterparts with him. Each pair was connected.
Some of the dead man’s lifeblood flowed through the charm and was claimed by the wiseman. His spirit drank it greedily, feeling the frailty of old age depart as he was filled with the vitality of youth. The charm collapsed into powder, its work complete.
It was not enough, but there would be more.
Night Claw moved. The massive creature struck with impossible swiftness. One by one, the fleeing men were brought down and killed. One by one, the charms activated, filling Ghost Eyes with power.
Soon, only one hunter remained, crouching near the hidden wiseman.
The survivor was the strongest of the group, experienced and proud. Knowing that he could not escape, he stood up, drew two deep cuts upon his cheek with his hand axe, and roared a challenge. The scream reached beyond the physical world and dispersed the mist around him, leaving a clear area.
Ghost Eyes felt a stab of panic run through him; he had been counting on the fog to help reinforce the dimness protecting him.
A black-feathered bird, perched on a nearby branch, was startled into flight by the disappearing fog.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Night Claw emerged into the clear area as the last echoes of the shout faded away. For the first time, the two surviving Folk saw the shape of their enemy.
A great cat, a cousin of the Long-Tooth that sometimes clashed with the Folk, competing for prey and living space, but this one was black as night, and its fangs were shorter if not less deadly. Its yellow eyes spared Ghost Eyes a single contemptuous glance before focusing on the last hunter with cold interest.
The two apex predators looked upon each other for one long moment. When they moved, they did it simultaneously, as if they were two fingers of the same hand coming together.
The hunter carried two spears. He threw the lighter one and rushed forward as Night Claw pounced. The monster yowled as the flint point scored a shallow wound on its shoulder, but it kept moving.
The pair of killers met, and blows were exchanged.
The last charm crumbled to dust in Ghost Eyes’ hand.
Knowing death was inevitable, the last hunter had put everything he had into the thrust of his spear, all but baring his throat to Night Claw’s massive claws. Two swipes had torn off his head and removed one arm at the shoulder. But the second spear had struck true, driven by the beast’s own weight and strength as much as by the Folk hunter’s. Half the spear’s length was buried in Night Claw’s breast, blood spurting with every beat of its mighty heart.
And by the second beat, Ghost Eyes arrived, his short spear held high in both hands.
Empowered by the deaths of the hunting party, the wiseman struck with impossible strength and speed. He had diverted some of the lifeblood he had gained into his weapon; the flint head glowed with a red and black light that burned hide and flesh as it pierced the wounded beast’s flank and slid between two ribs to reach its lung.
Night Claw wheezed and kicked.
Even the weak, dying reflex was enough to shatter one of Ghost Eyes’ legs and send him tumbling to the ground. He howled in pain as he rolled onto his stomach and used his arms and good leg to crawl toward the monster.
He had one last thing to do. One last thing to ensure the Folk lived, no matter what it cost him.
Ghost Eyes could see Night Claw’s spirit as it began to pull away from its dying body. The great beast had more than a normal predator’s soul. It was a thing that lived to bring death, that hungered for killing as much as it did for flesh.
The wiseman suddenly knew that the bones of hundreds of victims littered the floor of the cave where Night Claw slept, bones of Animals, Folk, even several long-limbed Others who had the misfortune of wandering into its hunting range. Night Claw lived for the kill.
Ghost Eyes needed that hunger if he was to become what he needed to be.
Ignoring the torn leg that bled his own life away, the wiseman touched the twitching body, still as warm as a fire-touched stone, and called upon the beast’s spirit. The last of the strength he had taken from the dead hunters went into the call.
Ensnared, the spirit fought at first, until something changed. It realized that Ghost Eyes sought far more than its death. The wiseman offered a joining, a rebirth of sorts.
The spirit realized that the killing times were just beginning. It gleefully stopped resisting and flowed into the wiseman’s soul, threatening to crush and expel it with its own.
Now it was Ghost Eyes’ turn to fight for his freedom. He threatened to allow his body to die, leaving the great spirit with nothing to inhabit but a cooling corpse. Faced with a stalemate, the spirit grudgingly allowed him to remain in control. Beast and Folk mixed their identity, their essence, and formed a greater whole than the sum of their parts.
Ghost Eyes and Night Claw were no more. In their place rose something else.
The Folk’s doom was postponed for many generations as they fled toward the rising sun, eventually mixing their blood with the Others, slowly dwindling until they were no more than a small part of the Others’ blood.
For much of that time, he who once had been Ghost Eyes followed them, dealing with any threats to the Folk with dread finality. The Folk wove legends about him, tales that combined their fear and adoration for a being who protected or killed at his sole discretion.
They called him the Bringer of Death.
* * *
“How long was I out?” Roland asked the second he came out of the trance.
It felt like it had lasted longer than his entire ‘real’ life.
Especially toward the end, where he watched or heard endless variations of the tale of the Bringer of Death, beginning with the original pack of red-haired cavemen who were probably Neanderthals or something along those lines, and the shaman who had mixed his soul with some kind of saber-tooth black panther critter Roland had never heard of.
It almost felt like he hadn’t woken up. Like the things he was seeing now were the actual dream.
Very irritating, in other words. That kind of existential mess annoyed the crap out of him.
Trixie answered. She was holding a tiny chronometer in her hand.
“Thanks.” Roland turned to Raven, who was looming over him from the back of the couch. “I think that was the origin of my Bloodline.”
“Neat!” the bird said out loud.
“And you were there, weren’t you?” Roland said, remembering the bird he’d glimpsed.
A black bird was there. I hope you are not suggesting that all black birds look the same.
“Am I going to spot black birds every time I have a vision?”
Only if you look hard enough.
“I’m going to need some egg rolls to go with your fortune cookies.”
Raven croaked. “Hah!”
Roland tuned out the bird and focused on the vision. He remembered all of it with vivid detail, to the point that he had to drag himself out of it after a few seconds, worried he would end up going through the whole thing all over again. Even at twenty minutes a pop, that would be a waste of time.
The important thing was that he remembered the magic ritual the shaman – Ghost Eyes – had used to tap into the life force of his pals, and then into the spirit of the proto-panther or whatever the hell that critter had been. Nothing that he could remember from science class. Maybe some mutant saber-tooth tiger?
Ghost Eyes’ ritual seemed to match aspects of Roland’s You Keep What You Kill Dao. He might be able to cadge together a new Technique if he spent some time meditating on it – or he would once he fixed his Dantian issue. Or maybe he could use his Ritual Magic Skill instead and turn it into a spell instead of a Technique?
The answers would have to wait until later, but it gave him something to look forward to besides the near-impossible task of rebuilding his Dantian.
Even better, a notification let him know he could now choose a feat for Dread Glare or upgrade the Skill.
You have reached Mid-Tier in Dread Glare (Rare, Beginner)
You have gained +5 to Aura Rating (already awarded).
You are eligible to gain a feat and to evolve this skill to one of higher quality. Make a choice from the Feats and Evolutions below.
* Dread Nimbus (Feat): In addition to targeting single foes, you can now imbue your Aura with your killing intent, affecting all hostile entities that see you as if you had used Dread Gaze on them individually. Activating the Nimbus costs 5 Mana, which cannot be regained until the effect is canceled.
* Mark of the Deathbringer (Feat): After inflicting Dread Glare on a target, you can place a Mark that denotes the target as your rightful prey. While the Mark remains, all your abilities’ effects, including damage, duration, debuffs and range, are 50% more effective against its bearer.
* Piercing Stare (Feat): After using Dread Glare successfully on a target, you can deliver a burst of Death Mana through the connection between you and them, burning away their very life force.
This Feat delivers 5 points of damage per Mana point spent; this damage cannot be resisted by most defensive Skills or Techniques. The maximum amount of Mana that can be spent on each use of this Feat is equal to (Skill level x 2).
* Judgment Gaze: (Evolution, Epic Skill): This Skill focuses on one of the many aspects of the Death Bringer’s Bloodline, that of the Executioner. It limits the use of this Skill to those that you believe to be guilty of heinous crimes or those who seek your death unlawfully (this will extend to most non-sapient Dungeon Dwellers but not Bosses with a lawful claim to a territory you are invading).
Turning your Gaze on the guilty party will not only freeze them in fear but will also inflict (Aura Rating/2 + Skill) points of Death-attuned damage for every second you maintain eye contact. The target may attempt to break contact; this is a resisted attempt pitting his Willpower and any defenses against mind control against your Aura Rating and Skill level.
Evolving the Skill will reset the Skill to Beginner 1. Any Feats you previously acquired will be automatically included in the new Skill.
It was a tough choice. For his Feat, Roland selected Piercing Stare. The extra damage would make it a good replacement for his still locked Technique.
Judgment Gaze limited the Skill, but he felt that limits were just what he needed. It was already too easy for him to kill; he welcomed anything that helped him avoid hurting people who didn’t deserve it.
Yes, the way the new Skill was described suggested that he might still screw up and kill someone he mistakenly thought was guilty, but that was true of all his abilities. At least this way there was a smaller chance of abusing his power.
Roland Evolved his Bloodline Skill, accepting the Beginner 1 downgrade. He would likely bring it back up during the dungeon crawl.
Something weird happened after he accepted the System offer and the Skill changed.
He felt an unusual energy flow inside his body and went into meditation mode to examine his Dantians and Cores. A tiny blob of energy that he identified as the new Skill pulled itself out of his Class Core and migrated until it rested in his Third Eye Dantian. A few seconds later, a Second Skill followed suit: Ancestral Visions, his other Bloodline Skill.
Roland did nothing to stop the process, not that he had any idea how to do that even if he wanted to. It somehow felt right, and when the two Skills were ensconced in their new home, a sensation of relief ran through his Pattern, even near the damaged areas, and for a change Roland didn’t feel any pain from the destroyed Dantian.
I bet this is important, but it will have to wait, he told himself.
It was time to get some gear ready.