Page 5 of Bound By the Beast Man

CORVAK

M y first sensation is the grating of wet sand against my cheek.

The second is a fire in my lungs, a desperate, burning need for air.

A violent, racking cough convulses my entire body, and I spew a lungful of stinging saltwater onto the dark shore.

I roll onto my back, gasping, each breath a raw, painful thing.

My world is a smear of grey—a grey sky, grey rocks, and the grey, churning sea that tried to claim me.

The memory of the storm is a chaotic nightmare, but the image of the entity within it, the Devourer with its eyes of cold starlight, is terrifyingly clear.

Slowly, I push myself into a sitting position.

My ornate Osirian armor is a wreck, dented and scraped, one pauldron torn clean off.

I reach for my sword out of pure instinct, but my hand finds only an empty scabbard at my hip.

It is gone, lost to the depths, and the loss feels like a part of my own soul has been torn away.

I force myself to my feet, my legs shaking with exhaustion, my body a map of deep, aching bruises.

Looming over the rocky shoreline are immense, jagged mountains, their peaks dusted with snow.

The Prazh Mountains. A cold, bleak continent, and I am utterly alone.

My brothers. The thought is a jolt of pure agony.

Silas, Caspian, Tarek, Ronan, Lucaris. Are they at the bottom of the sea, victims of the Devourer?

Or are they like me, washed ashore on some other desolate stretch of this cursed coast?

Our vow echoes in my mind, a sacred oath.

But Rach is a world away, and I am stranded here with nothing. First, I must survive.

I begin to walk, my movements stiff and pained, my eyes scanning the shoreline for any sign of my kin.

The tide has left a line of debris: splintered ship timbers, a torn piece of sailcloth, the stark, white horn of a Minotaur.

And then I see them. Tracks. Not one set, but several, pressed into the wet sand near the tide line.

Hope, fierce and sharp, surges through me.

Others survived. My brothers may yet live.

I follow the tracks, my pace quickening, but my hope soon sours to a grim practicality.

The footprints scatter, heading in different directions.

Two sets lead north along the coast, while another veers south.

A fourth set, heavier and deeper, heads directly inland, toward the foreboding mountains.

I have no way of knowing who made them. To follow one set at random, into a hostile and unknown land, would be a fool's errand, a gamble that could lead me further from my brothers, not closer.

A leader does not gamble with the lives of his men, even when they are not present.

My duty is clear. Before I seek my own survival, I must do what I can for them.

I search the shoreline until I find what I am looking for: a large, flat-faced boulder near the treeline, a landmark that would be visible to anyone searching this stretch of coast. I find a sharp piece of flint, and with painstaking effort, my cold hands clumsy and stiff, I begin to carve into the rock.

It is slow, arduous work, but I do not stop until it is done.

I carve the Osirian warrior’s symbol: a stylized manticore head, and directly above it, the northernmost star of the King’s constellation.

Rally Point. North. It is a message any of my brothers would understand.

Having left the marker, I feel I have done all I can for my brothers for now.

I have left them a sign of hope, a direction, a promise that they are not alone.

My duty as their leader is fulfilled. Now, I must focus on my duty as a survivor, so that I can be there when they find my sign.

I stand at the crossroads of the desperate paths, the cold wind whipping at my torn tunic, and I weigh my options.

The coastline is a long, exposed route into the unknown.

The mountains are more dangerous, more difficult, but they offer the promise of high ground, a better view of the surrounding land, and a greater chance of finding a defensible shelter and fresh water.

My training and my instincts are in agreement.

I must gain a vantage point. I must assess this new, hostile territory before I can hope to navigate it.

The path inland is the only logical choice for a warrior in my position.

My long-term mission remains the same: find my brothers and continue our quest to Northern Rach.

But my immediate mission is brutally simple: survive.

I turn my back on the grey, hungry sea and the scattered tracks in the sand.

I look up at the jagged, snow-dusted peaks of the Prazh Mountains.

With the image of the Osirian rally symbol fresh in my mind, a silent promise to the brothers I hope to see again, I take my first step onto the mountain path.

The climb is steep, the air is thin, and I am alone.

But I am a manticore of Osiris. I will endure.