Soul Caller 1 - Prologue (Patreon)

The moment the warrior stepped through the portal, he knew he was home. Despite the acrid air that filled his lungs and the billowing smoke he saw rising from the factories in the distance, he could feel it in his bones. It had once been a beautiful place, but was beautiful no longer after the mighty hand of the Empire had established itself. Though they had created a bastion powerful enough to withstand the assault of the enemy, the cost had been too much for the world to bear.

Walking through the mud-covered streets towards the far gate that would lead out into what remained of the wilderness, he stopped at the usual spot. A small hole-in-the-wall bar, its double-winged doors hiding all manner of low-life scum and thieves. The bartender had gotten used to seeing him, though he only came once every few years. A sorrowful expression flashed across the bartender's eyes when the warrior entered and he put down the glass he was holding. Bellying up to the bar, the warrior nodded his thanks for the glass placed before him and the amber liquid poured into it.

"Is this the last one?" the bartender asked, noticing that no companions had come with him.

Silently, he nodded, tossing his drink back. It was. The last time he had come, there had been one other with him, but no longer. This was the last trip he would take to his world, as there was no one to bring him home when he finally fell. He was the last who would make this trip, the last of his people. The last of his friends. The last to survive the terrible war that surrounded them all. Taking a moment as the alcohol burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, he welcomed the pain, relished it even. These days it seemed that pain was all he had to keep him grounded, to prove that he lived. And now, with the death of his closest friend, that reality was all too sharp. Though he rarely drank these days, he placed his glass on the bar top and gestured for it to be refilled.

Lifting it to his lips, he paused for a moment and spoke a prayer to the spirits, in memory of the deaths of his friends, the death of his people.

"Where are you going to go?" the bartender asked.

It was a question he always asked, though he never received an answer. He felt he owed it to the silent warrior, the basic respect of the warrior’s long service. This time, however, the warrior looked far into the distance, as if he could see through the soot-covered window to the far mountains beyond.

"Out there," he growled, revealing the sharp canines that had made his people so famous for a time.

"Are you serious? There's nothing out there," one of the patrons of the bar muttered, shaking his head.

"It's true," the bartender said, leaning forward on the bar. "There isn't much out there anymore. Whatever you might have expected to find in days gone past, it's all gone now, savaged by the war."

The warrior nodded. He knew, he knew all too well. He had spent too much time on that front line, too much time in those broken mountains, fighting against the enemy. It had cost his people dearly. And only a remnant of them had made it out alive. Yet, no matter what the other said, he was going to go. He owed it to the spirit of his people. Leaving the bar and the chatting patrons behind, he made his way through the gate, the heavy gear that adorned his body giving the guards pause. Had he come from the other direction, trying to enter the city, there would have been many questions. But considering that he was leaving, nobody cared to stop him.

The ground was familiar, ground he had walked many years in the past. Tracing his way up the main road that led into the shattered mountains, he kept watch, waiting for the small path that he knew would appear, leading him off into the Badlands. What had once been lush forests and high mountains, now lay in absolute tatters, like a vase broken against the hard ground, all jagged spires and hard stone. The ground lay thick with dust, all vegetation destroyed by the fierce war that had been waged upon this world.

There was little that remained of the world that he knew, the world he had grown up in. And yet, there was something, something in its spirit that called to him. He could feel that call now clearer than ever as he lengthened his stride, heading into the deep wilderness. There was nothing here. The men in the bar had been right, there was nothing. And yet, further he pressed, passing through canyons of twisted stone, ripped apart by the heavy weapons that the enemy had brought to bear. The empire had many enemies, and at one time or another, all of them had descended on this world, forcing his people to cling tighter to the empire for protection. Yet even as they did, their world inched closer to the edge of oblivion, carrying their people with it. He remembered when it had finally been too much, and he had taken the remnant of his people away, leaving this world to the empire.

After this world, he had gone to many others, fighting the enemy wherever they appeared. They had destroyed his world, and he had taken the fight to them, making them pay in blood. Nothing he did could save his own world, but he had sworn not to rest until the enemy had been vanquished. The men and women of his people who had gone with him had slowly, one by one, succumbed to the horror of war until only he remained. Did he even remain? His body had been wounded so many times, his flesh replaced with metal manatech that allowed him to fight  the enemy so effectively. Bit by little bit, his body had been torn apart, but the empire’s tinkers were always there to add their improving touch. Bit by little bit, his body and soul had been stripped and replaced, transformed into the most potent weapon of war the Empire had ever seen. And yet, even that was not enough, not enough to protect his companions, not enough to save his world.

So here he was, making one last long trek into the deep wilderness to lay the last of his companions to rest. He owed it to them to place them here in their own world, hoping that they might be able to find the rest he never could. When he finally arrived at his destination, he felt something stir in his breast. It was here, all those years ago, where he had completed the first challenge, where he had heeded the warrior's call, and yet nothing remained of the once glorious mountain where he had completed his test. Instead, it was a broken pile of rocks scattered on a small hill. He had not been here when it was destroyed, but he had seen enough of the weapons of war that he knew a dozen that might have caused it.

It was here that he had returned, carrying each of his two hundred companions back here to be buried. Finding the stone pillar under which the rest of his companions rested, he took a small box from his pack. It contained the ashes of his last and closest friend, a friend who had saved his life on multiple occasions, had carried him through some of the hardest periods of his life, and had preceded him into death. With a finger, he carved the name of the bravest warrior he had ever known on the top of the box, scratching it deep into the metal.

“Maro.”

Speaking the name of his companion aloud, he lifted his head and began to sing. His voice was terrible, partially replaced by the magical device in his throat that allowed him to operate his metal lungs, but even after all these years, all these battlefields, he knew the words and could sing them without hesitation. A deep pain tore at his heart, but his broken voice didn’t shake as he sang of the courage, of the strength of his friend. There were many times when the warrior wanted to die himself, to let the enemy kill him, but he knew he couldn't fall. It was the way of his people to fight to the bitter end, and that is what he would do, bleeding the enemy wherever he found them for what they had done to his world. With his song complete, he reached out, seizing the heavy pillar and moving it aside. Into the hollow underneath he placed the box containing the ashes. 200 simple boxes, each one named, 200 lives extinguished by the fire and fury of war.

Yet, even as he placed the box among the others, he paused. He could sense it - whatever was calling him in this world was approaching quickly. Like every good warrior, his senses were always alert, always sharp. And though he could see nothing or hear nothing around him, save the gentle wind that kicked up dust, he knew something was there. This world had long been devoid of any sort of animal, and yet an animal approached. Not just one, not just two, but five. His senses, honed by years of fighting on the fiercest battlefields among all the worlds, picked them out, and suddenly he knew - wolf, bear, falcon, jaguar, snake. The five guardian spirits that were said to protect this world, that had granted his people their power, their strength, who had not been strong enough to keep this world alive. Five indistinct forms began to coalesce around him, and as he turned to look, he felt their stares.

"Who are you?" Bear asked, staring deep into his soul.

Silent, the warrior said nothing.

"You, you seem familiar yet so foreign," Jaguar paced back and forth, his tail lashing, as he stared.

Again, the warrior said nothing. The spirits should have had his respect, should have had his honor, and yet he stood among them, almost as an equal. They were not the first spirits that he had seen, and should they fight, would not be the first he had killed. They were weak, terribly weak. A memory flashed in his mind from a time long ago when they were strong, the strongest, and yet here they were, faint echoes of themselves, eviscerated by the deaths of his people.

"You were one of the people," Falcon, the far-seeing, said.

Still, the warrior was silent.

Finally, it was Wolf who spoke, his voice low and rasping.

"He is the last. There are no others."

Wolf, who was by nature a companion, could feel the loss of the last of the warrior's kinsmen the most clearly, and it was he that recognized the warrior first.

"He is the last of the people."

Finally, it was Snake, the ever-crafty one, who spoke last and offered the solution.

"Would you cease so that your people might still be?"

It was a tempting question, a question laden with possibility and the warrior did not hesitate.

"Of course."