Haladras

Eighteen

Dead.

Still Dead.

Grim had not risen from his rocky grave while Skylar wept like a child. Why should he hope for a miracle? Why should he hope? Who would hear?

Skylar took Grim's sword in his hands. The blade had survived the blast with only a few nicks. Grim's words came back to him: I am your blade, my prince.

And so you were, thought Skylar. Better than any man deserves.

Laying the sword across Grim's burial mound, he stood and looked down into Horned Vale. It lay quiet and still, bathed in silvery moonlight, unaware of the tragedy that had befallen a few wanderlust souls. Far off, the lights of Dura Cragis glimmered like anemic stars. The city where perhaps lay the lifeless body of Barryman. How many men would lose their lives for his sake? And why? Why should his life be counted more than any other's?

The moon glowed brightly. Skylar had not seen Fenorra's moon since he came to that accursed planet. Its soft white luminance dulled the edge of darkness around him. The stars, too, were out, burning in the black heavens like a million sun-struck diamonds. A song, whether carried on the wind or rising merely from his mind he could not tell, filled his ears. He knew it at once.

It was Grim's song, of Elydar.

The song went on, seemingly of its own accord, as if Grim himself were singing it from his grave. When it finished, Skylar sighed and returned his gaze heavenward at the stars.

"I hope you find Elydar, Grim," he said hoarsely. "If anyone deserves to enter the Spirit King's realm, it is you."

And for a moment the thought brought him comfort. Only for a moment, until the stomach-wrenching pain of loss returned with full force. He was alone now. Utterly lost and alone. Not a soul in the universe knew where he was. Where were Lasseter, Krom and Endrick? Would it matter if he found them?

He could not stay on that mountain―he refused to. Of that, at least, he felt certain. Never mind the darkness, or his uncertainty of the way. What way? Where was he going? I should never have come here.

He turned resolutely and began picking his way across the rubble-strewn path toward the other side that would lead him down from that ill-fated mountain. The rocks crunched beneath his weight, loose stones challenged his footing. But he soon made his way and set his boots upon a smoother surface. Looking back one last time, he bid his friend farewell.

"Goodbye, Grim. It is my fault you are dead. I am sorry."

A single tear drop fell from his eye and gripped his cheek. Skylar, heart heavy with grief, set off on the moonlit path down the mountain.

The pathway down proved less perilous than the one he and Grim had ascended. It was much wider and surprisingly clear in the gray moonlight. Though, little difference any of it made to Skylar. Neither cold nor hunger, fatigue nor peril roused the slightest response from his numb senses. He felt like a roving corpse.

When he finally reached the bottom of the mountain, he was only half aware of it. The terrain no longer led him downward. Trees began to appear in denser groves. Giant boulders and rock formations jutted up from the ground, like eerie creatures in the dark.

Though still insensible to his weariness, he saw no reason to continue walking now that he had descended the mountain. He began to search for shelter for the night. Little did it matter where, so long as it was dark and forsaken.

He laced his way among the clusters of towering boulders, searching for a small grotto or recess where he could sleep. If he could find sleep. Restlessness and nightmares no doubt awaited him. Could it be worse than the waking nightmare that haunted him even as he walked under the moonlight?