Chapter 4:

- - -

Rowan tried to avoid the green arrow, but all the warning he got before it struck his head was a slight twinkle and a twang in the distance. He shut his eyes and expected pain to be right around the corner. Yet, the green arrow dissolved on impact, bursting into a green cloud that flowed into his nostrils, smelling of ginseng and chamomile. Immediately, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his brain go aflame with confusion—although the phenomenon only lasted as long as it took him to blink.

"Keep running, child! The borlask does not tire!" A deep voice rumbled from somewhere ahead—just in time to save his life.

As the voice spoke, the borlask's teeth gnashed against the seams of Rowan's jacket, tearing pieces of leather loose as gusts of fetid air tickled his neck; wet spittle splashed against his newly exposed skin, and the combined experience put a surge of urgency into his steps. His legs felt heavy at first but became lighter and faster until the last of the green vapor disappeared, and he felt remarkably less exhausted. It wasn't by a large margin, but it was just enough to help him stay alive.

"Bejorn, stall it!" A different, distinctly feminine voice called, and Rowan searched for his invisible allies like a drowning man grasping for a flotation device. A figure appeared seconds later, emerging from a bush ahead of him and pushing past in such a powerful whirlwind that the wind alone made Rowan stumble onto his butt. Before he could register anything, though, he heard a loud clash of ivory against metal.

He ignored his instincts and looked back, watching as a green, furry man in viking armor hooted and hollered as he fended off a flurry of hoof strikes and bites with a ten-foot-tall shield. Amazingly, the man was slightly bigger than what he carried, which made Rowan observe him with a startled fascination. The man's features were similar to a human's at a basic level: he had two arms, two legs, a head, and a torso. Yet, that's where the similarities ended because the man had large, oddly shaped calves, forearms, and a long flowing tail.

A sharp ornament was attached to the tail, and the man used it like a whip, striking from behind his shield. The borlask was annoyed but not severely injured, and Rowan felt like an ant as he watched them fight.

"Careful, Bejorn!" The voice hidden in the forest called as a volley of amber light cascaded from behind the trees, striking searing wounds against the borlask's flesh as its roars finally woke Rowan from his awe long enough that he got up to move.

Bejorn was tanking hits that would've broken boulders with his now magically glowing shield. Meanwhile, the borlask was growing increasingly frantic as a red mist seeped out of its hide, empowering it. Rowan tried to find safety behind a large tree as loud booms echoed through the forest. Debris flew over his head occasionally. But he was only ever exposed because he sometimes turned an eye to the battle, watching with pure fascination as Bejorn stood his ground against the equivalent of a living wrecking ball.

Still, despite the whipping and the arrows, the borlask did not retreat. It didn't even flinch and grew a deeper crimson, becoming more ferocious by the second instead.

"It's rampaging; back off!" The voice in the distance shouted, and Rowan finally saw the speaker as she neared his position.

Like Bejorn, this new arrival was also a member of that strange, alien race for which Rowan had no name. However, instead of a massive shield, she held an enormous bow, and instead of a horned helmet, she donned a mask that only revealed two violet pupils. Her fur was a dark shade of yellow, almost brown, which took on a red hue as she loaded her bow with a large, radiant arrow reminiscent of iron freshly removed from a furnace. The heat didn't seem to affect her, though, even if it did cause the air to wobble faintly.

"Firing!" She said, and Bejorn leapt away, narrowly avoiding a strike of the borlask's hooves as the arrow flashed into its side, making it squeal in agony. The beast went airborne briefly until its body collided with a tree and crashed into its bark. Then, it fell limp to the ground, and the mist surrounding its body slowly faded.

Everything ended in a flash, but Bejorn kept his shield firmly in his hands.

"Fire one more at it, Rela." He said as he panted. "Make sure it's dead."

Rela crossed the distance towards Rowan as he stood with his jaw agape and shook her head. "I've got four strikes left, and we might need them. Better you finish it with your hunting knife; that'll make figment harvesting easier anyways."

After a brief consideration, Bejorn turned and nodded, allowing Rowan to see his face for the first time. Granted, he hadn't known what to expect since his back had been towards him the entire battle, but never—not in a million years—would Rowan have expected to see the face of an aardvark on the body of something so… not an aardvark.

For a moment, he seriously questioned his reality.

During Rowan's inner turmoil, Bejorn approached the borlask with measured steps, and his shield shrunk as he did so, becoming small enough to fit comfortably on his forearm. Then, when he saw that the beast was genuinely weakened and helpless, he struck a swift blow to its head with a dagger he kept at his side, putting it out of its misery. The borlask exhaled one last time, and Bejorn visibly relaxed.

Immediately after, he began rummaging through the wound as Rowan watched with horror and fascination. Bejorn stuck his long tongue out, much like some people have the habit of doing when deeply concentrated until he eventually pulled something out. Then he smiled.

"Ah! There you are." He said.

In his hand was what looked like a small geode—the kind Rowan had once seen in a pawn shop. It looked like a rock, but sometimes there were gems to be found if cut open. Rowan wondered if it was the same as Bejorn placed it into a pouch he kept at his side. But Bejorn didn't stop there and searched for a while longer until he gathered five more. Once finished, he jumped, flipped, and landed right next to Rowan, who took a step back with wide eyes.

Seeing his reaction, Rela and Bejorn shared a pitying look. Then Bejorn offered Rowan his thick, hairy, blood-covered hand. Of course, Rowan stared at its four foreign digits—wondering why there were only four instead of five—but Bejorn took his gaze to mean something else and wiped his hand against his armor, trying to make it clean.

He looked as embarrassed as was possible for a talking aardvark, but he offered it again.

"Sorry about that, kid." He said. "We mean you no harm. Were you separated from your parents? We can help you find them."

Rowan frowned, feeling a familiar sense of unease. The words didn't register at first, but when understanding dawned upon him, he suddenly found an angry bundle of strength in his chest despite his exhaustion.

"...Kid?" He said as he picked at a leaf stuck to his messy head.

And then things got loud.

- - -

It took some time, but Rowan eventually calmed down and was pleasantly surprised to find that his saviors were both likable individuals. Their impression of him probably wasn't the best after he'd told them off; however, they both seemed understanding of his emotional state. Rowan only wished he could convince Bejorn that he was a regular member of the human collective—not some strange outlier.

"So you're saying that your entire species—humans?—is as compact as you? Even the adults?"

Rowan thought Bejorn would've prodded him with a stick if given a chance. "For the last time, yes. I'm a little below average, but only by a few inches. What about you? Are all—

"Bips."

"—Of course, right. Bips. Are all bips as tall as you are?"

Rowan knew it was strange that the first conversation he shared with his saviors was about his height and age, but somehow being forced to explain had turned all his fear into fiery indignation. In his defense, he would've handled things better under any other circumstances. Being angry felt better than cowering about his future prospects, however—at least for a while.

Now he was over it, though.

Bejorn shook his head as they walked, following the trail of blood Rowan had pointed them towards. They had asked to return to the sight of his abduction, promising to answer any questions if he led the way. Although, over the last few minutes, Bejorn hadn't given Rowan any opportunity to ask what he wanted to. So, he started looking for a chance to angle his concerns into the conversation.

"Not quite. We're actually pretty small for our race." Bejorn continued. "Most bips are a foot or two taller than us, but for the most part, our people are considered pretty tiny compared to everything else out there."

Rowan frowned at the thought that there were still much larger things around. "And there's a lot of you?" He said.

Bejorn nodded. "A whole village in this forest, at least."

"And you all speak English?"

"Yeah."

"How do you all speak English if you don't know what humans are?"

Bejorn's mouth rounded. "Ah, I see your confusion. Language barriers exist outside the tapestry but not within it. You may think we're speaking the common tongue, but all words are delivered with their intended meaning here. That's something our ancestors learned when they were migrated centuries ago. It's something I'm sure your people will soon realize too."

Rowan's heart beat faster, and he licked his dry lips expectantly. "My people? Does that mean you know how I can find them?"

Bejorn shook his head, bearing a sad smile. "Imagine that every world is a piece of fabric."

"…Not sure where you're going with that, but OK."

"Well, when you don't need fabric, you bundle it up and store it. Right?"

Rowan was beginning to sweat as he struggled to keep up with the long strides of the two bips and grew frustrated. "Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, every so often, these lands need new fabric. No one really knows why; some say there's a great force that adds to the tapestry. But, whatever the case, when fabric is added, it has to be taken from somewhere, and that's where the unused fabric comes in. To put it simply, worlds are unused fabric, but when added to the tapestry, they become unfolded, cut if needed, and sewn into one or various places. In our case, only our village was moved, and... it was difficult to acclimate."

There was a knot growing in Rowan's chest. "So, you're saying my world was unused fabric until recently?"

"Exactly. Pieces of your world may be nearby or entirely elsewhere, but we have no way to know."

Before the two could say more, Rela interrupted.

"Listen, it's a miracle you're alive. When the boundaries of the tapestry shift to make room for more fabric, there's always a brief interval where the Source Lands's seams touch places far apart, and unsavory creatures cross through. If this blood trail takes us to what I think we'll find—a chaos-born—then you should thank your lucky stars." Rela shuddered.

"After all, there are some fates worse than death, believe me. Still, you were lucky to be covered in its blood and to have followed the trail. Fresh blood from a chaos-born is a powerful deterrent, and it must've been fairly fresh if the only thing brave enough to attack you was a borlask."

Rowan grew quiet, then began to speak.

"I was going to wait for a rescue crew: policemen, firefighters, ambulances—anything. But I didn't know if the body would attract predators, so I left. I thought if I followed the blood, it would lead me back home, but—"

"The trail ended."

"—Exactly. It just stopped clean in the middle of this big bush, and that's when I ran into the borlask. It was rummaging for berries, so I thought it wasn't too dangerous, but I was wrong."

"Mmm," Rela said. "Borlasks don't normally go out of their way to hunt prey, but the chaos-born have poisoned and ruined many natural resources as of late, leaving many a borlask terribly hungry and frightening to face. It was unfortunate that you encountered it but better that you didn't stay. Chaos-born will not fight among each other, but they actively seek out and cannibalize corpses. It's not pretty."

"Only a few creatures can eat them without getting sick, so don't get any funny ideas," Bejorn added. "But the meat of a borlask is good, safe stuff."

He patted a large hide sack slung over his shoulder. Each of them had collected a few fat chunks of flesh before leaving, and while Rowan had been disgusted at the time, now he only felt a gnawing hunger as he looked at it.

He figured it would taste like pork.

"Even with the movement of the tapestry, I'm afraid your case is special though, my friend..." Rela said, and Rowan turned to find her gaze watching him softly. So softly, in fact, that it produced a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Why?" He said.

"I'll explain later, but not now. The body is near, and we must keep a lookout."

Rela was right. They had covered a distance of an hour in what Rowan felt must have been closer to 45 minutes, ending up in the small clearing surrounded by trees where it had all begun. Soon they encountered the body, but when Rela and Bejorn saw it, they hissed in tandem.

"Sources below… that's a sharded abductor."