Dragon's Wings

Chapter 7

Interlude

To the far north of TiānkōngXuévuán, past even the massive desert Soory Ka Hraday that many tribes call home, laid the main warfront. It had been labelled this around six years and seven months ago by a human who'd complained bitterly that fighting against the spirits there was like fighting an endless battle. This was, of course, not quite the truth—but it wasn't far from one either. 

Hróarr, at the very least, found the name quite apt. He's been on the warfront for a total of two years now, with a six-month break in between. However, in reality, he's been fighting spirits for six years ever since he left one of the Magic Allies Academies. After all, he's an elemental and so the missions he undertakes for Elemental Guild often deal with spirits. Still, those missions were nothing like the war front. On missions, he was with two others and they were only up against one or two spirits. It was like a whole different world out on the warfront.

Here, they verse groups of spirits who do not care for pain, who are not bound by the natural laws, who are more than them but simultaneously lesser.

Hróarr mused on these thoughts as he tugged his woollen cloak tighter around his shoulders. The icy landscape that made up his part of the battlefield was always far too cold for his taste. The tree line wasn't too far behind him, but it's still wasn't nearby, which meant he's one of the lucky beings that got stuck living in the draughty cabins that'd been built in a hurry and looked like the next snowstorm would bring them down.

Lifting his eyes away from the snow that blanketed the ground, Hróarr checked his surroundings for spirits. Thankfully it's not snowing, just cold and half-dark with dawn encroaching. Settling down with his back pressed firmly against the wooden wall of the lean-to, Hróarr picked up his pack of cards. He's not on patrol or guard duty, just needed on standby in case something happened. These shifts, he's learnt over time, were rather boring for the most part and it was best to have something that could entertain him and keep him awake, especially when taking one of the night shifts.

A horn goes off, three long, loud notes before a break, and then the sound repeats.

Hróarr shot up, leaving the cards to drop on the ground. Shifting nervously, he peered out into the murky darkness, trying to distinguish the shapes of spirits lost amongst the landscape. The sounds of others preparing themselves were loud in the silence of the outdoors and Hróarr swallowed.

Soon enough, everything was quiet, and Hróarr—alongside others of his squad—gazed out, watchful, wary. And then, the noise came—the sounds of a biwa rung out, and then, beneath it, quiet chittering. It sent the hair along Hróarr's arms standing on their ends.

"Jorōgumo," the being next to Hróarr said, quietly but all too loud in the silence of the lean-to.

Inhaling, Hróarr stepped out of the lean-to's shelter and onto the snow, partially sinking. Jorōgumo were one of the worst types of spirits—spiders that could shape-shift into a female form that bound their victims with spider silk threads before devouring them.

He crouched, and waited, certain that the spirits would come. He wasn't wrong.

Camouflaged with the snow, a white spider leapt at him. Hróarr snarled and called on his magic, jerking his hands upward. The earth followed his gesture, slamming into the spider and sending it into the air. Before it came down, Hróarr manipulated the earth to wrap around its eight legs and back, leaving a knee-high lump in the ground. The spider's eyes stared at him, and then someone shielded in armour sliced through it with their sword, the sword's runes glowing.

"Thanks," Hróarr said.

"Here they come," the other warrior replied, tightening their grip on their sword.

Hróarr grunted in agreement and threw himself forward into the fight. He can spy three other jorōgumo, two in the form of a spider—one knee height and the other up to his hip—and one in the form of a dwarf. The spiders chitter and the dwarf-jorōgumo screamed, and Hróarr pulled on the earth once again.

Directed by his magic, the earth loosened and sunk beneath the dwarf-jorōgumo, before tightening around its legs, keeping it stuck in the earth. Spinning, Hróarr pulled up a boulder and knocked the smaller spider away. He attempted to do the same to the larger one, but it ducked, becoming smaller than Hróarr thought it could.

It jumped, flying towards Hróarr who yanked on his magic but knew all too well that he was far too slow to do anything to avoid receiving a grievous injury or death. Except, in front of his face, a warhammer smashed into the spider, sending it to the ground. Shūfēn, Hróarr's Captain, whirled her warhammer around, sending two more jorōgumo skittering sideways and into others' weapons.

If one ignored the heavy panting and the sounds of armour and weaponry, one could almost say it was silent. Hróarr nodded at Captain Shūfēn, who nodded back, but kept her weapon in hand even as others sheathed theirs.

Sun rays were starting to cascade down on the ice and snow from their far-right. "We have an hour until shift change," Shūfēn announced. "If anyone has injuries, report back to base. We will hold here."

"As you command, Captain Shūfēn," Hróarr said, saluting her. Just before he leaves to spread the news amongst the others, he heard a scream—and it was not one of pain. It was familiar in the way the calls of many spirits had become familiar. "Captain..."

"I heard it," she replied, turning back to face the snow and ice that extended seemingly to the horizon. "Get ready!" She shouted, and further behind them a horn sung out.

There was another scream, loud and piercing. They waited.

The sun grew brighter and the snow started to become blinding. Hróarr pulled up his goggles so that they sat over his eyes rather than resting around his neck.

Against the merging dawn and night in the background, silhouettes appeared.

They waited.

Far too soon, the spirits were upon them. Upon seeing them, Hróarr flinched even though he's been on this warfront for two years. Then again, faced with maneaters, he doubted anyone wouldn't have flinched. There's no chance a person can become accustomed to the appearances of such spirits.

That said, Shūfēn doesn't flinch, but Hróarr's always known Captain Shūfēn was a badass.

Creatures with a humanoid appearance attack, screaming all the while. They lashed out with their fangs and fingernails—which Hróarr thought should be called claws. With their flaming red eyes and hair, they were a picture of animalistic fury, and Hróarr and his fellow warriors were hard-pressed to defeat them.

Between one fight and the next, in the brief seconds of respite he received, Hróarr let his thoughts wander. If he was uneducated, he would almost say that the spirits had sent out the jorōgumo as a first wave attack and that the maneaters were the second attack. Such a thing, though, could not be true. After all, spirits lacked the intelligence to consider plans that required such forethought.

The battle finally ended when reinforcements arrived. Hróarr followed Captain Shūfēn as she led their exhausted, and partially injured, force back to base. And, as they return, triumphant because there were no deaths, Hróarr couldn't help but wonder if the war will ever end, if the spirits would ever stop coming.

Because he knew, if they didn't, then their world would drown beneath them all and they would all die. 

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Short chapter here and, with it, the introduction of one of the main conflicts that have been briefly touched on throughout the book. Sorry for the late update, kinda forgot about this one. I'm attempting to complete NaNo this month and I was busy up until like past few days--I have to try and write 40,000 words in ten days. Wish me luck! 

Hope you're all having a wonderful time!