The Forgotten Field Novel - Chapter 73, 74
## Chapter 73
His earliest memory always began in the same place. A vast plain that turned golden under the setting sun. The wind roared through it. Forcing its way through the swaying sea of grass, an incredibly deep blue sky poured over him.
Varkas walked forward, swept along by a fierce surge of exultation as he wandered aimlessly along the boundary where the gold met the blue. At some point, he lost track of where he was heading. He simply ran, breathless, through the wind. He was free. He could go anywhere. He could do anything. The beautiful world before him whispered it to him.
His heart beat to the point of bursting. The heat of the blood rushing through his veins, the cool sting of the dry air filling his lungs… every sensation told him he was alive. He savored the ecstasy of existence.
But the radiant moment did not last.
Thick grey walls closed in from all directions. A space so cramped that he could neither lie down nor sit up. Trapped in that coffin-like chamber, he scratched at the walls until his fingernails split. His futile resistance did not take long to crumble.
Through a narrow slit in the stone, the fanatic’s eye peeked in from time to time. The priest would never release him until every trace of “evil” inside him had been extinguished. In that suffocating abyss of despair, he killed off his senses one by one. First, he cast off pain. Then he numbed taste and smell. With time, even hunger disappeared, and the urge to sleep faded as well. He could no longer be called a living being. Only a hollow shell remained after the contents had completely evaporated.
Only then did the door of the tomb open.
He raised vacant eyes toward the figure silhouetted against the light. Instead of the cold face of steel and the burning, feverish gaze he expected, he saw a pale, delicate face, dismayed by surprise. A woman with dark hair and clear eyes reached her hand out to him. Her slender fingers touched the cracked skin of his cheek… but he felt nothing more than the faintest pressure.
Perhaps that hand could have been his salvation. It pulled him from the tomb. A frigid sunlight flooded his pupils. A strangely washed-out landscape filled his vision. Soon he realized that everything he saw was tinged with grey. A world without color, without smell, withered. As if the entire world could crumble into ashes at any moment. Or perhaps it was he himself who had already turned to ash.
He slowly opened his eyelids.
For a moment he could not recognize where he was. Only after several seconds did he see the shadowed ceiling of the military tent above him. He lifted his arm. Not the slender hand of a child, but the muscular, hardened hand of an adult man. Running his fingers along it —as if to confirm something— he heard a beast-like cry coming from somewhere outside.
Varkas rose mechanically from the bed. At that very instant, a soldier burst into the tent like a whirlwind.
—Sir Sheorkan! A giant wolf has appeared!
Immediately he lowered his legs from the bed, grabbed the halberd leaning to one side, and went out. The waiting attendants rushed to fasten a light breastplate over his torso, but he brushed away the hands that distracted him as he scanned the chaotic camp.
The pale light of dawn dimly illuminated the rows of orderly tents and the soldiers running frantically between them. It didn’t take him long to spot it: a huge black beast nearly eight cravets long (about 240 cm). The creature also noticed his presence. With a fierce growl, the giant wolf lowered its body and lunged.
He slid his left foot half a step forward and placed the halberd at a diagonal angle. The heavy axe blade at the tip tilted toward the ground. The moment the black shadow filled his vision, he gripped the shaft tightly and swung it in a wide diagonal arc. The crescent-shaped blade pierced the wolf’s tough hide, slicing through the dense muscle and thick bone in a single cut.
Blood spurted like a fountain from the severed neck. He wiped a splash from his cheek with his sleeve and turned his head to scan the perimeter. Among the pine trees that rose like a fence, several ash-colored beasts were scattering with quick, nervous movements. Realizing they were retreating, Varkas looked down at the heavy corpse lying on the ground.
…It seems this was the alpha.
Wolves surrender instantly when their leader is struck down. He drove the tip of the halberd into the ground and headed toward a collapsed tent to assess the damage. Under the broken poles and piles of sand-colored canvas lay another fur-covered beast, its heart pierced through.
As he bent down to inspect the corpse, a light, nonchalant voice spoke behind him.
—A rather extravagant welcome for your first day back home.
He turned and saw a warrior wearing only a loose coat thrown over his bare torso. A fighter from the Barakan tribe. He rested his poleaxe on the ground and nodded toward the forest.
—Should I have the men track them down?
—We cannot divide our forces right now. First, take care of the damage and reinforce the perimeter.
—There’s barely any damage. They only took one pack horse —the man replied lazily while rubbing the back of his neck—. A young idiot who just had his coming-of-age ceremony got a little hurt, but fortunately there are no casualties.
Varkas straightened up. The sun had already risen completely, casting light upon every corner of the cluttered camp. He inspected the scene calmly to calculate the actual extent of the damage, then looked back at the man.
—Clear the camp. We move before more beasts smell the blood.
—As you command.
The warrior walked away at a slow pace, and Varkas headed toward the center of the camp. His eyes passed over the soldiers struggling to calm the terrified horses and the servants removing the broken tents. He walked past them toward the water skins placed beside the command tent.
A reflection as pale as a ghost floated upon the surface of the rainwater collected the previous day. He stared at it for a moment, then scooped up water with his hand and washed the blood from his face. The lukewarm water irritated his skin with slight, stinging sensations. He wiped it off roughly and sniffed his hand.
The metallic smell of blood had faded, replaced by a faint scent of rainwater. He could not decide which aroma he preferred.
Smell was the first sense that returned to him. Even now, however, he could not connect the stimulus with emotion. He could distinguish the type and intensity, but not whether he liked or disliked a scent. He had only learned —through observation— what others found pleasant or unpleasant. And what he had learned was that the smell of blood was particularly repulsive to people.
He stripped off the stained armor, tossed it aside, and checked the shirt he wore underneath. Fortunately, no blood had seeped through. But there could still be other unpleasant odors that he could not detect. He turned toward his tent to change his clothes.
It was then that he noticed a woman who was a quarter-dwarf hopping anxiously in the same spot in front of the central tent. Varkas walked straight toward her without hesitation.
—What’s wrong?
His own voice sounded unnaturally harsh, even to his ears. The woman startled, frightened.
—M-My lady… she has been missing for a little while now…
A deafening buzzing filled his ears.
—
## Chapter 74
He tilted his head slightly.
His damaged senses sometimes failed.
He waited for the buzzing in his ears to fade, then passed right by the woman and entered the tent.
Someone had burned herbs again during the night; the dark space was permeated with a bitter, smoky aroma. But mixed with it was another smell, one that reminded him of fruit on the verge of rotting, sharp and strangely sweet.
It was the aroma that had begun to cling to her skin at some point.
A strange aroma.
He held his breath for a moment, then inhaled slowly.
And he called her in a low voice.
—Talia.
There was no answer.
But he could feel her presence.
He stepped deeper into the cluttered space, his eyes moving quickly between scattered bowls, bottles, and cups.
Then he stopped: piled next to the disheveled bedding was a heap of clothes.
He crouched in front of the large chest placed against one side of the tent.
When he lifted the lid carefully, he saw a small figure curled up in a tight fetal position.
His body reacted again, unnaturally, as if a horse had kicked him in the solar plexus.
Suppressing the confusion within him, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
The woman who had been burying her head against her knees slowly raised her face.
Beneath her soaked eyelashes, a pair of pure blue eyes appeared, uncontaminated by any impurity.
Tears spilled across her fair skin like water forming droplets on the body of some creature from the deep sea.
He cradled her wet cheeks, brushing his fingers against the slightly reddened tip of her chin, and then gently tilted back her lowered head.
Something had scraped her: fine, faint scratches were drawn on her pale nape. As he examined them closely, a breathy whisper leaked from between her blood-tinted lips.
—Did you… kill all the monsters?
He looked back into her eyes.
Those dark, submerged irises trembled precariously.
He remembered the first time he had looked into those eyes.
The day he regained the ability to see colors…
this had been the first hue he saw in his life.
A sensation of tightness squeezed the inside of his throat.
He inhaled deeply and lifted her rigid body into his arms.
Soft, docile arms wrapped around his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
A faint whimpering soaked into his taut skin.
—I thought… they would take me away again.
Varkas squeezed her tighter against himself.
Never again.
The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but they flowed back down his throat.
Since the incident, he had constantly swallowed his words in front of her.
Layer upon layer, the things he swallowed accumulated in his entrails like sediment.
A heavy discomfort, like a stone, pressed inside him. He frowned slightly and gently stroked her trembling back.
Her rigid body gradually relaxed, clinging more softly to him.
As she raised her head from his shoulder, he saw her exhausted, half-open eyes.
He brushed his thumb over her straight golden eyelashes, adjusted her weight slipping in his arms, and scanned the room.
A coat hung from a tent pole.
He took it, placed it over her body, and went out.
As he walked quickly through the camp, several mounted warriors dismantling tents looked at him with curious eyes. He pulled the collar of the coat to completely cover her head.
Since she barely stood five cravets tall (about 150 cm), the men had thrown hungry, stray-dog glances at her.
And she, though frightened, sometimes presented herself before them defenseless, as if she didn’t care if they tore her to pieces.
He drew her closer to his chest, lengthened his stride, and shook off the offensive glances.
Inside his own tent, he laid her down on the bed.
In the span of a few months, her body had become noticeably thinner.
A sigh accumulated in his throat.
The irritating part was that her fragility only caused her beauty to take a more dangerous turn.
His gaze slid down her slender neck, her thin shoulders, her pronounced collarbones… until he caught a movement at the entrance of the tent.
The young servant who had followed him peeked stealthily inside toward her.
The half-dead nerves inside Varkas bristled sharply.
He dismissed the servants and closed the entrance firmly.
That was not a wise decision; the tent was now completely filled with the cloying sweetness of her aroma.
A strange thirst burned his throat. He swallowed dryly.
Running a hand roughly through his still-damp bangs, he turned back toward her—
her pale cheeks, still marked by the tracks of dried tears, filled his vision.
Years ago, her terrified words echoed in his mind:
—H-He said that’s what happens. That once you are addicted… y-you can’t stop looking for it…
He bit gently on the soft flesh of the inside of his cheek.
A faint taste of blood spread over his tongue.
Touching his temple with two fingers, he grabbed his coat from the corner and went out.
The metallic stench of blood poured into his lungs.
He inhaled deeply, as if trying to cleanse the sticky sweetness lingering in his throat.
Shortly after, the Barakan approached, now fully armed.
—The preparations are almost ready. Once we clear out your tent, we can depart immediately. Shall we dismantle it now?
—In an hour.
After a brief pause, Varkas replied in a low voice:
—We will leave after she has had some time to recover.
A slightly amused smile brushed the man’s lips.
—As you command.
He turned around to convey the orders to the others.
Varkas sat on a water barrel, gazing past the densely grouped trees toward the vast plain of Norden, barely visible in the distance.
A gust of dry wind brushed his cheek.
A familiar aroma floated faintly in the air.
Where had he smelled it before?
While he searched through blurry memories, the howling of a wolf echoed from afar.
He turned his head.
The mournful cry spread from the edge of the forest.
Her weakened body could not withstand the long journey; soon she fell into a lingering fever.
Talia stared blankly at the shaking ceiling of the carriage, panting for air as she moved restlessly.
Even though the carriage moved at barely a walking pace, even the slight jolts were a torture.
She held her head as if it were about to split in two.
At that moment, a loud horn sounded from the outside.
Perhaps they had finally reached their destination.
She sat up and peeked outside.
Through her vision blurred by the fever, she saw the wide view of an immense plain.
Startled by the unfamiliar panorama, her eyes opened wide.
A grassland of a deep bluish-green stretched infinitely toward the sky.
An enveloping gust rolled over the lush field.
She opened the window and let the fresh air soothe her burning face.
—That over there is Calmor.
Startled by the sudden voice, she turned—
a man was riding very close to the carriage. He drew even closer and smiled warmly.
—My name is Tyron. We met before, do you remember?
She pressed her lips together and watched him with suspicion.
His smile faltered slightly.
After a brief inquiring look, he continued gently.
—You look very ill, my lady.
—……
—We will reach Castle Laedgo soon. Do you see the wall over there?
He pointed forward.
Talia followed his gesture.
On the horizon rose a greyish wall, like something molded from ash and sand.
She leaned out the window to see it more clearly.
Castle Laedgo seemed to have been built by stacking huge stone slabs.
Thick, unadorned walls tightly wrapped the base of the hill, and above them rose fortress towers and bastions made entirely of rigid, unbroken lines.
Instinctively, she touched her neck.
Perhaps because the place where she would soon live seemed unbearably desolate…
a chill slowly crept up her spine.
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