Chapter 32 First Battle
The Black fog swallowed them, and neither one of them flinched from that darkness. Rowan felt Soul Seizer drawing many soul fragments with varying flavors. He detected laughter and sunlight and a baby wailing. Weird, he had never had this effect when he collected souls before.
Then it hit him, he was collecting the souls of people. Regular folks who lived their lives in contentment, their souls carried a glow that felt warm and complete.
Was this not Alana? The young woman who had a painful crush on Rowan, went beet–red anytime Rowan tried talking to her. She had an unusual way with words, always referring to herself in the first person.
This soul that felt like a piece of hard leather should be Morin, a dependable farmer who was something of a playboy.
Branrik, a mason who had seven strong boys he was very proud of…
Ragodr, the self-proclaimed most handsome man in all of Calcutta…
Fjarmir, a petty thief who had been adopted by his people because he was mostly harmless and could be called in a pinch to help do menial tasks…
Grunmir...
Voramyr...
Svegrim...
Torernir...
Gragvar...
Grarnir...
Thogir...
Please, no more…
Hundreds of soul fragments came, they brought with them a trace of their memories, but only the best parts or the worst.
Grarnir sees his wife torn apart and at the moment of his death; seizing an Abomination and tears out the throat with his teeth….
So many souls…. So many memories…
Rowan did not know how he did it, but he did not consume those souls, he kept them safe in the Jaws of Dagon—The bracelet form of Soul Seizer that was on his wrist.
As the souls poured into his being, carrying with them light and heat, his Icy Soul grew colder. Throughout the previous battle, he had never made a sound, he was imitating Maeve. Her coldness and deadly precision. But that was not who he was. He was not cold, he lived his life with passion….
His Soul may have turned to Ice, but his blood was filled with fire.
So, he opened himself to the souls, his Soul Seizer called them through the darkness, and they came to him seeking warmth and solace, he opened himself, and he asked them to witness their vengeance.
They must have heard the fury in his blood, for more of them came to him, and he kept them. He told them he was their sword. He told them whoever was responsible for their demise would pay the ultimate price.
Then the Abomination came through the fog.
The shapes that entered his sight in the fog were different from anything he had ever seen before.
Their head was mostly mouth, filled with long misshapen black teeth that oozed black tar, their nose were two deep holes, and their eyes were small and beady, and glowed yellow.
Their hands ended in thick bone spikes, and what Rowan found the most revolting was that they were skinless, their anatomy was unnatural, too many joints leading nowhere, and their bodies were a mishmash of different parts that served only one purpose to kill.
With a cry that came straight from nightmares, they charged at him. Rowan replied with a roar of his own that exploded through the fog. An utterly unearthly cry. One that was borne from a rage he could hardly hold back any longer. The anger of an Empyrean. A being born at the birth of a universe.
Something beyond what he knew erupted from his body, and Maeve was driven to her knees. She looked at him, her face was that of pure astonishment. The cry that came from his lungs was primal and seemed unending, and the surrounding fog began to retreat as if fleeing from that cry.
The effects on the Abomination were distinct as they fell to the ground shrieking in confusion, There were dozens of them, their alien bodies writhing on the ground. The spikes were their limbs digging massive holes in the ground.
The cry from Rowan ended, and the fog had retreated for hundreds of meters around him, Maeve picked herself up, her footing unsteady.
"Watch yourself!" Rowan told her as he tackled the first Abomination, and he did not hold his strength back. His sword and shears turned it into a pile of minced flesh.
He disregarded the training from Maeve, his fury could not let anything through. He began to butcher them as they lay on the floor confused, but they soon recovered, and he was already too deep in their midst.
Not only that, but he was swamped by a dozen Abomination, and he fell to the ground, for a moment he was buried under bodies, spikes, and claws and fangs scrapped his body, wishing to dig through his shell and find his flesh, but they were all denied.
He screamed again, stunning the Abomination on top of him, and he erupted with all his strength and fury, digging deep inside and his bloodline began to boil and heat up, the two golden tattoos on his chest began to glow and growls began to emanate from them.
He seized an Abomination by the throat, he had lost the shears in the confusion, and he pulled and twisted, breaking the spine with a sickening crack, he used the body as a shield and began to push his way out of the pile.
His sword fell and killed and maimed any Abomination he could reach, while he used the body he held as a battering ram, limbs were thrown out and bodies were cut in twos and threes, when Rowan stepped out of the pile he was covered head to toe in yellow gore, and no Abomination bigger than a brick was left.
His chest was heaving and his legs were shaking, his mind burning like a furnace. Ahead of him, more Abomination poured out from the ruins of homes and fields, and Rowan began to laugh, for in his Primordial Record he had harvested more than a hundred and fifty soul points.
He poured them all into Ouroboros and his strength returned, his lungs filled with air and his leg steadied and grew stronger like a piece of divine oak whose roots could touch the core of the planet.
"Maeve… Weapons!" The sword he was using was now bent and useless, he discarded it, and it shimmered away.
She sent two swords toward him, he caught them and said, "I want bigger ones next time." Maeve was standing back and watching his surroundings, she held back, knowing Rowan wanted to vent. She would stay back and protect him, she materialized many 'Sparking Beads' and began burning the bodies he left behind.
And he charged towards the Abomination, going forward deeper into the town, the beacon behind him blazing blue, hoping that they heard him. Hoping that they still keep faith.
Rowan began to kill.
His thoughts were aflame. Why should he hold back his strength? He was different from Maeve, he did not need to measure his blows, did not need to fear weakness or tiredness on the battlefield, for with every slain enemy he got stronger, faster. His fatigue eased, his technique for slaughter got more refined, and with every step, he took he got better.
Rowan roared again, and this time it was as if two voices were roaring with him.