The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  “We rest tonight,” Melek replied. “I’ve seen no tracks this far from the road miles east of us. No one follows us. And that Blight-spawn felt no need to follow us after her friends freed her.”

  Kirian nodded, then sighed contentedly and finished his bowl of soup.

  “We are almost there.”

  “You’ve been saying that all afternoon.”

  “Have I?”

  Melek groaned and spurred the dappled red away from Kirian. Strange, Kirian thought, we’ve still not named them. The two companions had scoured the open woodland spreading outward from the lower ridges of the Veinrivens. Bald Cyprus and shortleaf pine abounded throughout the copse, littering the ground with needles, leaving little undergrowth or even sacc. Pileated woodpeckers, nearly a foot tall with red and white heads, swooped overhead to thunder the trees with their hunt for food. Smaller birds—none that Kirian could name—offered color to the contrasting dull browns and vibrant greens. The abundant river oats had thinned out the deeper they traveled into the woodland. Something about the acidity of the evergreens, Melek had muttered. Kirian let the comment slide, despite his own curiosity.

  Even as wide open as the trees grew, neither Melek nor Kirian had any luck finding Arstle’s shack. After a midday meal of cured venison and stewed root, they scoured the woodland. They broke apart, winding through the area far enough apart to still see each other through the shadows of the canopy. Kirian pulled up his mount to a stop when he turned back to see Melek staring toward the mountains. Melek had closed his eyes, raising his face slightly toward the sky. Loken’s once-smiling face flashed through Melek’s mind at a familiar smell. His shoulders rose and lowered with inhalations and exhalations, deeply enough held that Kirian scanned their surroundings while Melek focused.

  “I smell smoke,” Melek murmured, his focus still inward upon the memories. “That way and faint. I almost missed it over the draft.” Melek pointed north and kicked his mount forward without waiting for a response from Kirian.

  “Damned Arstle,” Kirian muttered. “Nothing can be easy with you, can it?”

  Melek showed no inclination of slowing, and Kirian spurred the brown forward, feeling the mount’s hooves dig into the soft, untouched soil. Within twenty loping paces, Kirian had caught up to exchange glances with Melek. Fragments of white smoke curled upward around several wide-trunked pines. The pines blocked the source of the smoke and the riders slowed to a walk.

  “Arstle had fun building a place out here, living in it for a few years, then tearing it down to restart miles away. He always said it kept his mind fresh, and he never wanted a possession to own him.”

  “You’re telling me, now, you don’t know where his house may be?” Melek’s indignation flushed Kirian’s cheeks.

  “Oh, I did see the remains of one his places a few miles back, but I thought we’d have seen a new one by now. I didn’t think to mention it earlier.” Kirian grinned wide, letting his straight white teeth flash in the light. Melek’s grimace wiped the grin away before he turned back to the smoke. Melek reached for a dagger and unsheathed it, pointing it ahead, then motioning for silence. Kirian nodded and kneed the brown back to a walk.

  Within five steps Kirian gasped as the view of the small wooden shack came into view. Only one wall remained standing. The other walls lay in piles under what remained of the blackened thatch roof. Melek let out a low whistle—much like a tiny spruce hatch—and Kirian tore his eyes from the wreck. The large man had traveled twice as far away from Kirian and had stopped. He mouthed the word, “Bodies.” Kirian scrunched his brow. Bodies? Great. Just what we need.

  They both kneed their mounts forward to match the pace of a turtle. Fifteen paces apart, they flanked around the smoking ruins, each man scanning, seriousness etched around their eyes. Kirian could not see all the lifeless forms due to their own collapses into the dirt on Melek’s side. He counted six, though, all in various states of decay, depending on the severity of the death. He frowned at the permeating stench of decaying flesh, dried excrement, and urine mixed in with the wood smoke. Kirian felt a tight knot build in his stomach.

  “This type of death only comes from one source I know of.”

  Melek could only nod. His tanned and bearded face had whitened, the dagger held loose atop his thigh. His eyes fixed upon one unlucky person—whether it was a man or woman could not be determined without taking off the body’s trousers. The top half of the body had no flesh, just the bones, as if a fiery blaze had burned it all away in a blink. Fire-blasted remnants of the bones had not held together when the mess hit the ground and the white pieces lay strewn about. The waist had been cauterized by the blast, but that had not stopped the maggots from starting their work. The other five corpses had not suffered the same fate, but decapitations and dismembered limbs lay haphazardly. One’s head had caught fire when it landed near the shack. A burnt husk of flesh and skull remained, its jaw distended wide. One of the women had most of her torso ripped away, jagged flesh covered in undulating masses of maggots.

  “None wear the black and gray,” Melek said, breaking the silence, after letting out a long-held breath.

  “And thank the Originators for that,” Kirian replied, sliding off the mount’s back. “Despite the wreckage, this is definitely one of Arstle’s places.”

  “How do you know?” Melek asked, uncertainty lining his words.

  Kirian raised his hand and pointed at the still-standing wall. Melek followed the line and sighed.

  “Of course,” Melek offered. On the rough-hewn, sun-grayed cedar walls, a portion of a rune had been burned straight into the surface of the wall’s corner. Only half of the rune stood out. The other half had fallen in with the other wall’s collapse.

  “The afterimage,” Kirian prompted Melek. His pursed lips and the confusion upon his brow melted away. “You don’t know much about Alteration.” Melek nodded after a breath to confirm Kirian’s statement.

  “I can only speak for myself, but Malkari was the only Scriber I ever really dealt with. He wasn’t one to speak too much about his profession. I grew up out in the wild, scouting. Besides that, Malkari did mostly healing and certainly nothing ever this powerful. That I saw, anyway.” Melek motioned toward the half-burned body. He flicked his eyes back to the rune. “Do you know what it means?”

  Kirian shook his head. “Not completely. Whomever wrote it—let’s assume Arstle—probably didn’t mean to leave it, considering the place must have been on fire before he fled northeast.”

  “Good,” Melek replied, “you’re paying attention again.” Melek smiled at Kirian’s chagrined glance.

  They both turned around and scanned the ground. One set of boot tracks had torn away enough of the topsoil to give them a perfect path to follow. Melek stepped toward the tracks. He sheathed the dagger before kneeling onto the soil. Kirian scanned the area, not sure what Melek intended. The huge man’s bared arms bulged as he gripped his knees while staring at the tracks. His head moved from side to side, slow but never stopping. Within ten breaths Melek reached down and scooped up a palmful of soil. He raised it to underneath his nose to sniff the blackish-brown soil.

  When Melek flicked his tongue to the soil, Kirian asked, “If you need another snack, I’m sure we can find something a bit more appetizing.”

  Melek let the soil fall from his palm, then stood. He faced Kirian and replied, “We’re lucky.”

  “How so?” Kirian asked. “Our mentor’s shack is burned to the ground after what looks like a short, yet violent end to these trespassers. And no sign of him except for the tracks.”

  Melek sighed with an eyebrow raised, patience imprinted on his face. Kirian motioned for him to continue. “We’re lucky because we know he is still alive, but wounded.” Melek resumed at Kirian’s confusion. “The rain that put out that fire,” Melek said while pointing at the shack, “didn’t remove all the blood dropped from his wound.”

  “Wounded?” Kirian asked. Surprise tinged the word. He glanced down at t
he soil. “Good eye, or tongue.” Before turning back to the ruins, he said, “I don’t think I thought the old man could ever be wounded.” Kirian watched each step to take his time to pick through the jagged pieces of lumber. His boots snapped pieces of blackened furniture, roof trusses, and fallen walls.

  “What are you doing?” Melek asked, his voice loud enough to be heard over the noise.

  “I’m hoping our luck will hold out.”

  Kirian focused, ignoring whatever Melek had said next. Kirian sifted through the debris long enough for sweat to drip down his nose as he squatted next to the lone-standing wall. Irritated, he wiped the drips away before picking up a few burnt pieces of lumber. The remains of a cot had been smashed by the falling timbers, but not enough to hide a small case. It stuck out half-buried under the ashes of the cot’s fabric and wood. Kirian grasped for the case with both hands on either of the singed sides. He grunted as he pulled using his legs, until the case pulled free of a snag. Kirian yelled out as he fell backward still holding the case.

  He landed on his back, case on his chest. Melek’s cries of alarm brought laughter to Kirian’s lips. “I’m fine,” Kirian offered. “We are lucky. Arstle must be in deep trouble to have left this.” The laughs faded as the words’ implications fell upon Kirian.

  Night had fallen hours ago, yet Kirian could not sleep. After piling the corpses on the ruined shack and burning the remains, Kirian and Melek had followed the tracks until sunset shrouded the woods.

  “No rain tonight. We’ll pick the tracks up tomorrow.” Melek had not said much after that. Only whispering to the horses while readying them for a night’s stay next to their makeshift campsite.

  The meager campfire gave Kirian faint light to read the leather-bound journal in his lap. It matched another he had already skimmed through. He had sat cross-legged for at least an hour, based on the position of the crescent moon. A twinge of pain in his lower back brought a groan of pain to his lips. Through squinted eyes, Kirian turned a page with one hand and knuckled his back with the other. To Kirian’s eyes, Arstle’s fine handwritten words ran together over the page, prompting him to shut the book. Kirian laid the journal within the case—wooden, stained with some dark liquid, and old—which had been untouched by the fire. Kirian had frowned when he first opened it, the wood seemingly as untouched as the two journals within.

  Kirian closed the case’s lid. He heard more than felt the case seal itself shut as if the air had been pulled from the opening. He stood and saw Melek tread inside the firelight.

  “Find anything useful?” Melek asked, palms forward and eyes focused on the fire.

  “Useful? Mostly, yes, but I’ve only just skimmed. There’s days’ worth of reading there.”

  Melek nodded, as if expecting no less, then looked up. “You’d better get some rest. I plan on leaving as Sol rises. I’ll wake you in four hours.”

  Kirian sat and laid his bedroll against the case. He stared upward for a few breaths before sleep closed his eyes.

  A dull ache penetrated his eyes like an un-healing sore. Still, Kirian continued staring atop his mount at the journal’s open pages. He had hoped to glean something worthwhile over the past three hours. Melek followed the tracks, mumbling to himself something about there being no more blood in with the boot tracks. Kirian thought vaguely that would be a good thing, but he could not pull himself up from the journal to offer a reply. Just a few pages from the end, Kirian had realized from the writings that Arstle had known an attack would be coming soon. Arstle had peppered the pages since the beginning with words about ‘dark ones,’ and the first dates stemmed nearly fifteen years ago. Right after the war had ended when the peace accord between the warring provinces had been signed in Tolsont—war started, as Arstle wrote, by these dark ones.

  The final pages offered little of substance other than Arstle mentioning he was leaving the shack. He planned to travel north to find an old student who may be able to offer help. The passage had a final date of nearly two weeks ago and then stopped. Kirian closed the journal and held it while rubbing his eyes. When he opened them again, he blinked. They had reached the road leading north and he hadn’t even noticed.

  “Must have been good reading,” Melek offered when he caught sight of Kirian stowing the journal into the case on his lap.

  “Arstle’s knowledge is profound. These two gatherings of his words offer a brief respite into his mind. He mentions many other tomes he’s written, but nothing of where they might be located.” Kirian sighed and continued as he looked around, “But, those tomes will satisfy other curiosities of mine. Where are we? We’ve traveled quite a way north, it seems.”

  “About an hour north of North Sacclon. We skirted around it for fear of attracting attention. Besides, the tracks bypassed it completely.”

  “I’m glad someone was paying attention,” Kirian replied. He pushed his focus ahead, letting Arstle’s words slide in and out of consciousness.

  The morning brought little else to keep their attention. Only one lone well-dressed traveler on foot passed by offering little but a nod of recognition. The stranger’s confused glance at their lack of saddles lasted only until he caught sight of Melek staring down. Melek’s gripped the red’s mane, his arms bulging, and Kirian chuckled while the man picked his pace up to a trot until he fell out of sight.

  The sharp hills bordering to the west offered a sharp relief to the vast plains and wide river to the east. Sol’s light reflected off the Vespow, forcing the companions to squint. Kirian’s head pounded as noon approached, either from the slight breakfast or Sol’s continuous glare. He did not care which it was when he called for a break. Melek nodded without hesitation ten spans ahead. After dismounting, they ate a simple lunch of red berries Melek had found and mixed them with salted squirrel. They drank from a bubbling spring feeding into the river and refilled their waterskins. The mounts followed and drank until Kirian thought their stomachs would hold no more.

  The mounts grazed on the tall grasses while Melek and Kirian waited atop a rotting log. Minutes of quiet passed, the sound of grasshoppers and the gentle flow of the Vespow breaking the companions’ focus. Kirian glanced at Melek, his eyelids heavy. Melek said, “Take a nap. I’ll tend the horses. That reading must have been tiresome.”

  Kirian could only nod before stretching out on the grassy soil to use a flat rock as a pillow. Soft footfalls moving away lulled Kirian to sleep within seconds.

  Kirian’s eyes shot open. A gentle tapping to his ribs had become a forceful prodding.

  “I’m up, I’m up,” Kirian groaned. “No need to be so rough,” he finished, rubbing his side.

  “You’d best get up. We’ve got company.”

  Kirian’s eyes widened while he stood. Melek pointed north. A figure twenty feet away simply stared, unmoving.

  Melek turned back to Kirian, who held a hand over his eyes, shadowing the lowermost portion of his face from the noonday Sol. A breath later, Melek stepped closer.

  “Who is it, Kirian?”

  “I think I see who I’ve been looking for. Or, at least one of the people.”

  “You jest.”

  Kirian patted the man’s arm and dust puffed off. The sun had dried the road enough to enhance the sweetness of the fallen excrement from the few passing horses.

  Following Kirian’s example, Melek placed a hand up and focused on the man. Gray-haired. Clean-shaven. Sharp jaw. Two shortswords. Melek harrumphed, surprise plain.

  “To think,” Melek began. “Until now, I thought you made up this Quint fellow.”

  Kirian chuckled, dry and sonorous. “You think after all this time I would have led you astray? After what happened in Olst, we had to stick together.”

  Melek dropped his hand. As Kirian looked back down the road, he slapped Kirian on the back. Melek focused on Kirian. “Of course—” Melek broke off anything else he had to say at Kirian’s curse. Resignation and irritation lined his words.

  “I don’t think he is pleased to see me.”


  “What do you—” Melek began again. “Damn,” he finished, shock planting his feet. This Quint Stoutheart fellow had covered the entire distance in the time he had turned his head. “You did tell me he is fast.”

  Quint’s face held anger enhanced solely by his age. Melek gritted his teeth, as he remembered his own grandfather’s face when he had done something foolish. Quint’s face would have made Melek’s grandfather hide.

  Another breath passed. Quint brushed past Melek, their shoulders touching, to reach Kirian. The older man clutched Kirian’s arms. Quint spun his captive toward a log, a string of berating singing reaching Melek’s ears.

  “How dare you send me after them with no warning of what I may encounter!”

  The words reached Melek’s ears from feet away. Melek’s feet became unglued, and he rushed to catch up to the men. As Melek opened his mouth to shout, Quint held his empty hand toward Melek. A simple warning. The other hand held Kirian in the air by his throat. Kirian’s worn boots dangled a full foot above the hard ground.

  “So, are you going to talk?” Quint whispered, his voice a knife being drawn. Melek held his breath, helpless while he weighed the power of this older man.

  A heartbeat later, Kirian smiled. Quint sighed, then dropped Kirian. Whilst the man lay in a heap, sucking in air, Quint faced Melek. “So, who are you, big man?”

  Melek gazed down at Quint. He scratched his beard with one hand and stroked the hilt of his greatsword with the other. The attempt to discern if he should pursue an attack or leave Kirian to the consequences of his past actions offered no reasonable choices. The gray-haired man’s face, at first filled with anger, now held shadows of impatience. Sighing, Melek settled on the only other choice he could muster after hearing Kirian still gasping, as if he had just run five miles.

  “My name is Melek Lothar.” The larger man released the grip on the massive sword. Quint’s tenseness seeped away at the movement.

  “I gather you are from the south, considering your accent and dress,” Quint replied, motioning toward Melek’s bared arms, leather britches, and vest. Melek nodded, and Quint continued, “I’m not sure why’d you choose to travel with him so far north, but I’d be sparing in the amount of trust you hand over.”