Chapter 3

“There are in nature neither rewards nor punishments — there are only consequences.”

- Robert G. Ingersoll

Who was he? That question had lingered in the back of his mind for what appeared to be ages, staying
dormant and just out of his memory’s reach until it suddenly surfaced now, giving him a new reason to be afraid.
Who was he, and what was his natural form? Was it like this, a bodiless spirit destined to meander among what did
not exist, or did he have an actual body at one point, only to have it ripped from him? The most frightening piece of
the ordeal was not that he was afraid of why he had been sentenced to this existence, but why he existed at all. He
pondered upon this and, although he could not count the minutes, hours, or days that he was stuck in this misty place
of lost hope, knew that it had to be a very long time indeed.

In a few short minutes (or hours, or years, or even possibly centuries, for time had frozen still in this
dimension) he was plucked out of this subsistence by an unseen hand, a figureless device. In fact, he did not think
of it as being pulled out more as him floating to the top. He could see light once more; yes, it was true light, an
array of gloomy blue and red but light nonetheless! There was also smell, although now the faintest feelings of
dread were beginning to creep into his soul; he picked up the stench of a room not dusted or cleaned for centuries.

His body was beginning to form as well. As soon as he had unwillingly left the void that had imprisoned
him, a semblance of a head, torso, and legs had started to appear in hazes, eventually solidifying until his previous
form was back. The sinews of his flesh, the bones and joints, and the organs reassembled themselves as if in a
grotesque surgical room, and blood started pumping through him again. He could now breathe, and the sensation of
the intake of air was so exhilarating that he was compelled to breathe deeply. This was a mistake, he found out
within a moment of doing so, for the air was so dirty that he immediately began coughing and choking until his
throat was hoarse. There was still no real feeling in his body yet, but he was confident that soon all of his senses
would return to him. As soon as they did, slowly and meticulously, he was able to judge a smell, an odor that
reminded him unpleasantly of sulfur.

A thought shook his mind like a bolt of lightning. The only thing he could remember was being killed, and
the fright that he was in the underworld, doomed to decay and rot until the end of time, ate him like a nest of
vultures, ripping at every portion of his brain in anguish. That had been several years ago…or had it? Time meant
nothing to him. Now, he drifted in another state of consciousness, oblivious to anything outside of his own mind.
There was nothing out there to save him, and there was no point wasting his energy to use any of his five senses now
that he was confined in here forever. There was to be no escape.

Now, his sense of feeling had returned to him strongly enough that he knew he was on some sort of ground,
a rocky ledge that continued in every direction without an end. Afraid of what might be outside of where he lay,
Rasmus shuddered, trying to rub his shoulders and coax out any warmth that would save him from the biting cold
that had taken over his body.
 After some moments, the ground began to rumble uneasily as if bracing for a storm. The noise became
louder and louder, and finally cracks started appearing on the stone floor. Alarmed, Rasmus tried to move away
from the fissures, but they were so large and so numerous at this point that wherever he ran, another line formed
under him. As he darted from side to side, trying to avoid the cracks, the floor roared and all of the stone blocks
comprising it shifted, falling one by one into an abyss below. Rasmus followed suit and felt himself plummeting
through the endless air, to a destination he knew was somewhere hundreds or even thousands of miles below him.
However, the sensation of falling ended abruptly as he collided with the floor.

A deafening roar echoed through his sensitive ears, for he had not heard any sounds besides the scratching
of his own wretched fingernails for a long time, and he ducked in terror, pressing his whole body face-down on the
glassy black ground beneath him. After several seconds of cowering, Rasmus finally felt brave enough to glance
upwards slightly to detect what had been attacking him with such a ferocious noise. His eyes scanned his horizon
and the surroundings, but he saw nothing to make him suspicious. It was then, with some rising embarrassment
towards his own folly, that he realized that the wound must have been simply the airstream breezing past his head;
after all, this spot was quite windy, and blusters of air continually cast themselves upon the foggy sky, carrying with
them nothing but a scent of smoldering fire. Now that Rasmus knew he was safe, he stood shakily, propelling
himself up with his arms first in order to truly ensure that he was out of his miserable and dark nonexistence that he
had been previously confined in. He stretched his body and absorbed his surroundings in with his newfound senses.

A canopy of leaves extended overhead, blocking out most sunlight but leaving filtered rays of gold to beam
down sporadically. Large trees and small vegetation alike crowded the area, pressing in around Rasmus. The leaves
were moist and although there was no rain falling, dew drops hung precariously off each leaf, occasionally
dislodging themselves and falling onto the coarse floor below them.

Rasmus’ eyes took some minutes to become accustomed to this new setting, but when he had, it seemed as
if he had stepped into another world entirely. The colors in this forest were not just striking, he realized, they were
vibrant– almost as if they were glowing. As he plucked a water-coated leaf from a nearby bush, though, he saw that
the hues were simply so dashing that they gave the impression of radiance. Strangely, the bark of every tree was
camouflaged by a layer of moss or lichen which clung on so resiliently that when Rasmus attempted to scratch some
off, his fingers ended up sore and aching because the tuft-like material on the bark simply refused to be removed.

“Down!”

Rasmus’ head snapped up in alarm. He peered into the undergrowth ahead of him, sure that he had heard
someone calling out from beyond the thick of the greenery.

“Get down!” cried another urgent voice from somewhere in the tangle of trees, vines, and bushes behind
him. Immediately Rasmus spun around, trying to find whoever had spoken to him.

“Please,” he yelled, making his way through the foliage. “I’m lost and I need to know – ” There was a
rustling sound from the bush next to him and before Rasmus could react, he had been slammed on the shoulder by a
hidden foe. Groaning, he stumbled to the loamy floor of the forest and felt his face colliding with a thin layer of
dirt.
 At that moment, the forest exploded with the sound of screaming men and weapons clashing against cold
steel or wood. Immediately, Rasmus’ mind flew into flight mode and he rolled to the side, trying to get up so he
could see what was happening around him. All that were visible were metal and fabric booths running every
direction, scuffling the ground. An arm pushed Rasmus back down and this time there was a body to accompany it.
Rasmus looked up in fear and came face to face with an impassive black face gleaming light off of its metallic
surface. The man inside pushed up the visor and stared at Rasmus, unbelieving; his eyebrows furrowed as his blue
eyes pierced into Rasmus’ own in an icy glare. Another man grabbed the soldier’s throat, uttering out a devastating
war cry, but the black-armored warrior drove his fist into the side of his enemy’s ribs. The foe staggered back,
clutching his torso and letting go of his short spear, which landed on the floor inches away from Rasmus. At once,
the soldier turned his attention back to Rasmus.

“What are you doing here?” the man roared. An arrow flew past and he dragged Rasmus upright with one
hand, holding a nimble sword in his other. More arrows flew past and landed on the trunks of trees, either
splintering or lodging themselves inside of the bark. Men from both sides ran into the center of the area, drawing
weapons and rushing one another in another clash of weapons that grated against Rasmus’ ears. Through his
stricken and bewildered emotions, Rasmus could vaguely see that some of the combatants were wearing only black-
plated suits like the man who had protected him from the first assault. The entire uniform was as dark as a midnight
stallion and completely undecorated, save for a behemoth red skull that was painted on the breastplate of each suit of
armor. The black metal covered everything – even the faces of the soldiers were not visible, as grated visors
shielded their eyes under a sheet of dark gray, impenetrable and cool. These men wielded iron spears and swords
which, as Rasmus saw with horror, they used to deadly efficiency.

The other group was dressed more simply but at the same time more sinister in a subtle way which Rasmus
could not understand. The warriors streaming in from the left of the clearing had no armor whatsoever; all that
covered them were ragged, misshapen and colorless cloths that hung from their hips down to the bottom of their
knees. The most striking, and most terrifying, feature of these soldiers was the paint that they had spread over
themselves, a mix of hues ranging from dark blue to green. Their faces were the most heavily painted; however,
occasionally a warrior would have doused himself with paint from his hair to his legs, leaving no skin exposed.
Their hair was unkempt and stuck out at every angle as if to give them a further, mad uncivilized persona that
matched the way they battled. Screaming and lifting their wooden lances and bows into the air, the soldiers were
horrifying enough without the paint. Without worrying for their own lives, the barbarian warriors would strike at
whoever they came across first in blind war-lust and fury.

As both armies clashed, the bloodshed increased and the air filled with the brutal sounds of battle; shouting
and terrifying screams were all that could be heard. As Rasmus crawled away, his newfound ally at his side, he saw
swords, spears, and arrows cutting down men left and right, littering the floor of the forest with injured bodies.
Some were huddled on the ground permanently while others staggered up again, ignoring their injuries and leaping
onto the nearest enemy with whatever weapon they could find. Occasionally, a man would lose courage and break
away from the bitter skirmish only to be skewered from the back with a well-aimed spear; one such man, his armor
stained with red and his helmet torn off of his head, limped toward Rasmus, dragging a leg that had been torn
repeatedly by enemy blades. He moaned and collapsed to a ground as an arrow stuck out of the back of his neck.
Sickened and fighting the urge to throw up, Rasmus forced himself to look away from the body in front of him.
Grimly, he continued to crawl haphazardly out of the forest, noting with some comfort that the man who had first
alarmed him was still there, escaping with him.

Once both Rasmus and the other man had traveled to a relatively safe distance where there was no fighting,
Rasmus was pushed up against the trunk of a tree. “I asked you,” the man demanded once more, his voice coming
out as a blazing inferno. “Why are you here? Are you a villager?” At this newest notion, he drew his sword upright
and pressed it towards Rasmus’ neck as if warning him that he could push it forward anytime, cutting through the
throat.

“No!” Rasmus shouted, raising his hands in the universal sign of surrender, or at least in what he hoped was
a sign of surrender. He forced his voice down to a much calmer state. “I’m not a villager. I don’t know what I’m
doing here, or who I am, or why I’m in this forest in the first place!” He hesitated. “Don’t kill me.”

For a long moment, the soldier kept the tip of the sword at Rasmus’ neck. Then, without saying a word, he
lowered it and grabbed Rasmus’ shoulder, pushing him away and into the surrounding forest. Quickly, he nodded at
Rasmus and pointed in a vague direction ahead of him. Still bewildered but somewhat comforted due to the fact that
the men had to be an ally, for he had not used the lethal sword yet, Rasmus turned and ran through the brambles of
the forest, swatting crackling bushes and boughs out of his way in haste. Behind him, he heard more sounds of
weapons colliding and injured men screaming behind him from the unlucky souls who were still engaged in vicious
battle. Shuddering, Rasmus tried to ignore these sounds, although that only became possible when he moved farther
away from the area of the skirmish. Finally, the noises disappeared into the forest surroundings and all was quiet,
except for the crunching of boots against the leaf-blanketed floor.

Panting, Rasmus stopped in mid-run and started to lean against a nearby tree to assuage his aching legs
from the brambles that they had to endure during the journey through the forest. Before his back could touch the
trunk of the tree, the soldier spun around, alarmed, and his hand shot forward. He grabbed Rasmus’ shoulder and
violently tore him away from the tree, glowering at him the whole time.

“Stay away from the Bala Tree!” he practically screamed, lifting his visor so his furious eyes could be
trained on Rasmus’ face. After his outburst, the man seemed to calm down slightly but his gloved hand still
squeezed against Rasmus’ shoulder painfully, tight with the sensation of cold metal. Rasmus wrenched himself
away angrily and looked back toward the benign tree. Its bark was sturdy and richly brown, with no holes or
blemishes on the trunk. Apart from the strange trunk, the rest of the tree was normal; leaves, green and fresh, hung
onto large branches as they raised their pointed heads toward the sky above, dampened by the canopy.

“What did I do wrong?” he demanded fiercely, dusting his shoulder off in defiance. “I was tired.”

“That, young scamp,” the soldier interrupted darkly. “Is a Bala Tree. It’s a beautiful thing, almost as
wondrous – and dangerous – as this forest. I saved you from utter destruction because, judging from your cowardly
behavior back in the clearing, I assumed you want to live. Do you?” When Rasmus stayed silent, his anger giving
way to curiosity about the strange tree, the man nodded satisfactorily. “Good. Now stay silent and follow me.”

Before Rasmus could shoot back a poisonous reply, the foliage to his right exploded in a flurry of
movement and shouts. Shocked, he turned only to be thrown onto the ground by a body that had stumbled through
the trees. Groaning, Rasmus found himself on his back, staring at the body of a soldier who was dressed in the same
uniform as the one who had saved Rasmus from the preceding battle. The armor on this man’s corpse was nicked
and dented to such a degree that Rasmus could barely recognize it but for the skull that had been painted on his
chest. Terrified, Rasmus looked to his side, hoping to be assisted by the man who had been traveling with him for
the last few minutes. His hopes immediately collapsed as he realized that the man was gone, apparently, having run
at the first sign of this new danger.

Another crash echoed and two barbarian warriors, each streaked with light blue that had begun to melt
because of the heat of battle, leaped out of the hole in the forest that their victim had made. Whooping and hollering
to the sky, they advanced on Rasmus and he could not stop himself from looking into their bloodthirsty eyes. The
gleam in their expressions was so animalistic that Rasmus almost felt weak simply staring at them; in a split second,
he made a decision to duck just as the first barbarian swung his wood spear forward and just above Rasmus’ head,
rippling his hair by a thread’s width. Delirious with a cascade of emotions, namely fear, that swirled in his mind,
Rasmus took hasty steps back and avoided another strike from the spear. Angrily, the first man grunted something in
his own guttural language and advanced forward.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous roar and the soldier who had left Rasmus hastily a few minutes before
came running back into the area, his sword drawn and held at his side. Almost as fast as he had come, he plunged
the weapon into the first barbarian’s painted body and pulled it out again with a sickening wrenching sound. For
some seconds, the tribesman did not even realize that he had been hit. He continued to walk forward with his spear
ready until he suddenly looked down at his wound, took in a sharp breath of abrupt realization, and crumpled to the
ground.

His comrade, an equally fearsome man dressed in a ragged cloth and blue paint as well, garbled something
ferociously and leaped forward, throwing his spear at the armored soldier. The man deftly avoided the weapon as it
crashed into the bushes behind him and raised his own bloodied sword. The two adversaries circled each other,
staring down one another but refusing to move in for the first attack.

Rasmus had been watching the fight from a close distance and, perhaps because of a sudden impulse,
crawled forward silently, his eyes trained on the wooden spear that was lying next to the fallen man. As he reached
it, a wave of disgust rippled through his body but he ignored it with great effort and continued. Soon, he had hoisted
himself up, holding the spear in both hands, although he was not sure why he was interfering in the brawl. Now was
not a time for logic, he thought to himself grimly as he steadied the weapon.

Quickly, he moved forward and threw the spear ahead of him, completely unsure as to whether his aim was
good enough for his attack to succeed; it sailed through the air, a lance of death, directly toward the target.
Fortunately, the barbarian had his back to Rasmus and the whistling spear found its horrendous mark, lodging into
the man’s right leg, spouting red everywhere as it pierced straight through. The warrior gave a pained shriek and
dropped his own weapon with a thud that resonated through the area, reaching down to wrench out the lance that had
torn apart his knee. At that moment, the other man took his opportunity and rushed forward, grabbing the barbarian
around the neck and throwing him into the center of the wooded field. The injured fighter, far from stumbling to the
ground, kept going forward, unable to stop his own luckless momentum that spiraled him to the edge, and landed,
with a sickening sound, against the Bala Tree which Rasmus had been gravely warned about not a few minutes
before.

Before the man could move away, the bark on the tree immediately began to quiver and shake
uncontrollably as if the tree itself were going to erupt. Horrified, the barbarian began screaming obscenities and
flailing desperately, trying to escape; his wounded leg was forgotten as he thrashed against this newfound horror.
However, he could not move an inch no matter how strenuous his attempts, and as Rasmus moved closer toward the
dismal scene in morbid fascination, he realized why.

The bark on the tree had immediately unleashed a type of white sap as soon as the man had touched it, and
this same sap stuck to the warrior wherever it could find a sticky hold, restraining him back in an unyielding
embrace that was becoming tighter as the seconds passed by.

The man still struggled furiously and began to howl in panic, stretching his arms and legs forward in a
desperate try to break the sap’s hold on his limbs and torso. It was to no avail. The more he resisted, the more the
sap covered his entire body. Soon, it had completely wrapped him in a liquid coat, save for his head, which now
bore the expression of an agonized being that saw its doom but kept fighting to the end, no matter how ineffective its
defiance was. Finally, it reached his jaw and poured into his open mouth like a flood of destruction, leaving only his
fear-blossomed eyes to convey the level of pain and terror he was being inflicted.

The soldier dressed in black had now come up next to Rasmus and silently stared at the condemned
barbarian, shaking his head piteously. “And that is why I told you not to go near the Bala Tree,” he said in a
monotone, apparently drained of all emotion. “It works like a silent hunter, ensnaring its prey in a sticky resin and
swallowing it whole. The juices in the tree’s fluid slowly break down and dissolve the animal that it captures from
the inside. Sometimes it takes hours for the victim to die. Sometimes a day.” He spat on the floor and turned,
walking into the forest without even looking back at Rasmus. “We have to move. That man was destined to die
from the beginning; it will do us nothing to watch him spend his final moments like this.” After a moment, Rasmus
followed him, but not before taking another glance at the tree. By now, the man’s face had been covered by the sap
so that he resembled nothing but a quivering, shapeless mass that every so often emitted a sharp, yet muffled
scream. The barbarian was wholly unrecognizable within his viscous confines that created his final resting place.
Soon, the form stopped quivering and was completely still; the only sound was a gushing cacophony from the sap
busily draining its prey. Rasmus could look no more upon the ghastly sight and turned away, his heart raw with
disgust and a hint of sympathy, although he still remembered with fresh anger the way that the two warriors had
tried to ambush him.

Reluctantly, Rasmus trudged behind the man’s large frame into the wilderness beyond, taking only one last
glance at the Bala Tree that was rapidly shrinking from his sight; from the distance that Rasmus was at; even the
globular, yellowing mass was no longer visible. The sound of faraway battle once more floated through the air and
reached his ears; shivering, Rasmus remembered that there were more important things to be concerned about – and
flee from.

The soldier who had saved Rasmus did not say a word for a long time but simply focused on the path ahead
of him, slashing away the branches and vines that came in his way. Silently, Rasmus followed and with each minute
that he walked, a desire to actually talk to a fellow human grew inside of him. Finally, he cleared his throat and ran
forward, catching up to the brisk pace of the armored man.

“Where are we going?” he asked, sounding as visibly shaken as he felt at the moment. “They – those
warriors with the paint – could come back again at any moment, right? Unless you think that our side – your side –
won, in which case we should be walking back toward the – ”

“Quiet,” the man growled, not even turning back to face Rasmus. “I’ll explain later, if or when we find the
rest of the unit. First, though, I want to know your name and how in Tisigaerto’s blessing you managed to make
your way in this forest without so much as a sack of food for provisions.” Now he did stop and brusquely spun,
glaring at Rasmus as if he had said something insulting. Without warning, the man pulled out his sword and pointed
it at the Rasmus’ face, spinning it in a small circle like a predator would gambol with its prey before striking it down
in a sea of claws and blood. “Well? Speak up now, for this world has taught me to trust nobody. Tell me your name
and status, or by grace of Miladà, I swear…” He left his sentence uncompleted and as dangling as the sword that
was now perched with an air of apprehension on the lining of Rasmus’ neck.

“I saved your life!” Rasmus started hotly and then halted as the soldier in front of him snorted like an
enraged bull ready to begin charging. Perhaps the best path was to simply succumb to the man’s wishes for now,
Rasmus decided glumly in his mind. He cleared his throat and forced down his anger, which was a gigantic task
considering how fury was bubbling up in his chest, ready to be unleashed. “I have already told you as much as I can
without committing a lie,” he explained cautiously. “My name is Rasmus Erhart – that is all that I know and all that
I remember since I woke up in this hellish place.” He stared at the unwavering man steadily, forcing himself not to
show any emotion except indifference; negotiating would be made much easier if he kept his feelings inside of
himself, locked from the world.

The man seemed to consider that answer satisfactory, for he sheathed his sword in reluctance and shook his
head, removing his helmet with both of his hands and casting it on the ground vehemently. Now that he was not
covered by a shroud of metal around his head, Rasmus could see his face much more clearly. His hair was brown
mixed with white as if he had seen many years in his life, and wrinkles were beginning to form on his weary face.
Although old, the expression on his face gave him an air of having aged beyond what he should have at this point in
his life.

“I have no need for that anymore, not where we’re going,” he muttered, breathing in and running coarse
fingers through his hair. “We must make this alliance mutual,” he said to Rasmus abruptly. “You’ve told me your
name, and I will give you mine: Edgard ine Kalva.” He kicked his coal-black helmet into a bush that was squatting
near the path that he had just forged. “It’s a dangerous world out here in Oasilhael Forest and until we can spot any
Divine outposts, the safest route is toward Ceydara, a border town where we can safely leave you and send a
message to the capital, Brinshez.”

Rasmus shook his head slowly, duly confused; he was beginning to feel the weight of ignorance in this
land, especially the names that the man had just uttered without so much as an explanation. “Are you part of the
military?” he asked. “Are you at war with those other men back in the clearing?” He remembered the fierce
fighting and endless bloodshed that had ensued as soon as the two groups had seen each other, and cringed as the
virulent memories came flooding back into his mind.

“Indeed,” replied Edgard grimly, heaving a low-lying vine out of his way so that it went flying to the right
until it lodged on a branch and lay there limp, quivering. “We’ve been engaged in conflict for two months now, if
you can use that term for the massacres they inflict upon our people every time we are unfortunate enough to meet.”
He grinned without any joy in his face and gave a coarse laugh that seemed to send ice flowing through Rasmus’
bones.

“If you’re so used to bloodshed, why did you save me?” Rasmus asked abruptly without thinking; if Edgard
was a battle-hardened soldier, he reasoned, he would have left Rasmus dying in the forest.

“Perhaps it would have been more expedient,” Edgard said, sounding almost as quizzical as Rasmus. “I
followed my emotions, and something told me to rescue you. You are a fellow man.” He shrugged and looked
away into the darkness of the woods as if he was brimming with underlying emotion that lurked in his veins but
could never be released. Finally, he looked back toward Rasmus and his eyes were reflections of a forlorn hope, a
gloom that he knew was coming.

“I suppose I saved you because I had to. I may have been steeled by war but my conscience can never be
extinguished. But the world does not work that way.” He laughed coarsely and there was no humor in his voice.
“Both sides have been maddened by the conflict to the point where they know no emotion of sympathy nor concern
for their brethren.” He shrugged. “That’s the way life goes, and it is not my duty to try to slow it or halt it.” His
voice became more businesslike and he pointed to somewhere in the forest. “If we travel towards the River Mont,
then we can follow the water to Ceydara, which rests just on the bank of the mighty river. I hope we will reach there
in time; for all I know, it could be lain to siege by the barbarians by the time we get there.” He laughed coarsely and
began to walk.

“Traveling toward the river and to the city will be the safest route?” Rasmus asked hopefully. “I don’t want
to face another group of barbarians like the ones back in there.” He looked back to the section of the forest from
where they had come.

“Ha!” Edgard laughed again, and this time he had clearly found something amusing about what Rasmus
had said. “Nowhere is safe from the barbarians, Erhart. They have already seen us and I would be surprised if they
do not attack us again. My friend, we are doomed,” he chuckled and started to make his way through the shrubbery.