Son of Cayn

by Jason McDonald

  “You must listen to me and understand,” the ghost pleaded. As the ghost spoke, images formed in everyone’s minds. Behind him, other ghosts arrived, filling the clearing with their pale light.

  “There is an ancient story we tell our children about our creation. A tale of two titan brothers—One elven, Dioth Cyela—or Havel, as you call him—and the other, human—Ka’Sehkuur, or Cayn. They fought a terrible battle in a faraway land; no one remembers why. Some say it was jealousy, but most of our storytellers say the Eternal Father punished the human, and he went mad.

  “Brother struck brother using swords fashioned from the very stars, and where their blood touched the earth, it created something or someone. Dioth Cyela cried with sadness at every swing of his sword, and tears streamed down his face, falling as rain. When they mixed with his blood and fell on a tree or plant, an elf was born.

  “Ka’Sehkuur screamed with an insane rage when he saw the goodness his brother created. He cursed and spat fire. His blood turned black as pitch, and every time it landed on a newly formed elf, they became corrupted. Thus were the eotenas and orcnéas born. It must have been a horrible sight to see . . . It was during this fight that most creatures, the abominations and the beautiful, were created.

  “Toward the end of the battle, Dioth Cyela struck Ka’Sehkuur a mighty blow, sending him crashing to the ground and pushing up tall mountains. Cut by one of the jagged peaks, black blood pooled around Ka’Sehkuur’s head. The pain helped him focus, and his eyes gained a sense of lucidity, temporarily pushing aside the madness that had gleamed there just moments earlier.

  “Focusing on Dioth Cyela, he yelled, ‘Kill me! Kill me now!’

  “‘I cannot,’ Dioth Cyela replied as he looked down at his newly-created elves. ‘I cannot kill you, my Brother.’

  “Dioth Cyela threw down his sword, creating a rift between the lands, which quickly filled with water.

  “Ka’Sehkuur slowly brought himself to a kneeling position. He watched his elven brother turn his back on him and walk away, with all his children racing after him. The battle between madness and lucidity raged inside him. Madness won, and Ka’Sehkuur hurled his sword at the departing form of his brother, killing Dioth Cyela.

  “Before he claimed the body, he glared up into the sky and shook his fist at the Eternal Father in defiance. Behind him, shrouded by shadows, their younger brother, Sutekh, reached into the steaming waters and picked up Dioth Cyela’s discarded sword. He snuck around the mountains and stabbed Ka’Sehkuur in the back.

  “Many of our stories conflict after that, but all say Ka’Sehkuur disappeared, and to this day, no one knows what became of him.

  “Some say the Eternal Lord exacted a price for the killing of Havel—he made Ka’Sehkuur anathema and cursed him with exile. Others say he sleeps, waiting for the day he will be reawakened.

  “As for Dioth Cyela, his twin sister Rialla rushed to her brother’s side and breathed life back into him. It is Dioth Cyela who watches over us today.”

  The images faded, and the three men found themselves once again in the clearing.

  “It is because of this fight there is a lake of darkness,” the ghost said. “It is a lake of such depth of color it gives off no reflection of the sky above. The lake lies in a small valley roughly the shape of a man’s head, but it’s not filled with water. It’s filled with the Blood of Ka’Sehkuur.”

  Chert, deeply disturbed by the tale, asked, “How does this relate to the soap or that creature Jasper fought?”

  Jasper thought for a moment and said, “The Blood of Cayn. Is that what created the creature? Is that what these people are poisoned with?”

  “Yes,” the sickly wood elf said in a weakened voice. “It’s also what you are poisoned with.”

  “What?” Jasper exclaimed.

  Xandor gripped the mage’s shoulder and asked, “Where did they get it? Where is this lake?”

  Wracked by another fit of coughing, the wood elf spat black mucus, trying to clear his throat. “I don’t know about the lake, but there is an old, elven village northeast of here,” the elf said. As the memory overwhelmed him, black tears streaked his face.

  The ghost knelt beside them and said, “A village that was once beautiful and full of my people…before the Plague War.”

  Bitterness filled the ghost’s words. “The humans loved our wine. Once a season, we would send a wagon full of small casks to Pazard’zhik. During that last trip to Trakya, we traded our wine for barrels of corn meal, fruit, and other items we could only get from the south. The wagon returned to our village like normal; however, when the driver and several others picked up one of the barrels, it broke open and spilled black blood all over them.

  “The transformation took less than a minute. The driver and workers holding the barrel instantly turned into the cursed dwolmas and attacked our people. Several quickly succumbed to the dwolma and they, too, were transformed. The Elders remained behind and sacrificed themselves in order to buy time for the mages to create a circle of imprisonment around the entire village.”

  The ghost laid a pale hand on the sickly elf. Touching, but yet not touching. “Their sacrifice allowed a small group to escape. They fled to a small monastery south of Chernigov, taking the Tear of Havel with them. War tore through the countryside, and my kind were massacred. None were allowed through the Stena; many were killed at its front door.

  “As for the barrel, we never found out where it came from. Somewhere along the way, maybe even in Pazard’zhik, someone must have placed it there to destroy our village and start the Plague War.”

  Jasper scratched his chin. “I bet the soap is poisoned with this same stuff. Somehow, the Zhitomirians must have gotten their hands on the blood that sabotaged your village.”

  Xandor looked up, surprised. “You mean Marko?”

  “Yes, and his sister, Aleksandra Madasgorski-Krakova.”

  “What!? She’s supposed to be dead!”

  “She was impersonating Sachin.”

  Xandor stared at the teamsters in the cages.

  “Did Grendel know?” Chert asked.

  “Yes.”

  The dark look on Jasper’s face made Chert ask, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but I think he fell under Aleksandra’s spell. He even slept with her a couple of nights ago.”

  “No! I don’t believe it.”

  “Chert, I didn’t see it personally, but some of the other guys said they saw him enter her tent.”

  Before Chert could respond, Xandor said, “Enough. We will ask Grendel when we find him. Let’s focus on the task at hand. Elf, who captured you?”

  “A human mage, but I never heard his name or even got a good look at him.” Spasms wracked the old wood elf. His face contorted in pain as he fought the thing growing inside him. “You must kill me before I change, and you must kill my friend also.”

  Another convulsion shook the elf.

  Xandor looked at Jasper, but the mage simply shrugged. The sad look in his eyes said it all.

  Without touching him this time, Chert closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer for the elf’s soul.

  Pulling out his sword, Xandor raised it and saluted him. The ghosts pressed closer but made no move to stop him.

  “What’s your name, Elf?”

  “Adan.”

  “I wish there was something else we could do for you.”

  “Thank you.” The elf stared into Xandor’s eyes and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve led a long, good life.”

  Black mucus seeped out of the elf’s pores. Xandor ignited his blade and stabbed, piercing the elf’s heart. The ranger expected at least some resistance when his sword struck bone, but the elf’s skeletal structure had softened from the transformation process. Passing through his body, the sword bit deep into the dirt below.

  The golden flame ignited the black mucus, and everyone stepped back from the sudden heat. Flames rose from the elf’s body and smoke trailed up into the sky. The ghosts slowly
disappeared back into the woods until just the one remained.

  “You must stop this. You must stop the past before it begins again.” The ghost’s demand echoed off the Haunted Wood. Then he, too, slowly began to fade, leaving only his words behind. Stunned to silence, the three men stared into the dying flames.

  Shaking himself, Chert turned to the other elf. Chert knelt beside him and quickly confirmed his fears. The elf was changing, but there was no way of knowing how long he had or if the transformation could be reversed. Chert looked up at Xandor with a look of frustration and said, “Without knowing more, I can’t help this person.”

  “Let’s talk to the teamsters. Maybe we’ll find a clue.”

  * * * * *

  Gregori’s Trap (October 25)

  Xandor slammed Dragahn up against a cage, his hands gripping the caravan chief by the collar. Pyotr and the other teamsters stood nearby, blocked by Jasper and Chert.

  “Where are the wagons going?”

  Dragahn didn’t resist. He held up his hands and said, “They’re taking them to King Kraagor at Chernigov.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A nasty orc chieftain who took over a few years ago.”

  Relaxing his grip, Xandor asked, “Why?”

  “His orcs control the White River.”

  “What do you mean control?”

  “Well, his orc patrols pretty much stop anything from moving up or down the river.”

  “Why hasn’t Mitchurinsk rooted him out?”

  Draghan shrugged. “They probably tried.”

  “How did you get into Chernigov?”

  “We didn’t. We met with his orcs at an old, abandoned town and unloaded there. We never had to go into the city.”

  “Who arranged for the pickup?”

  “Sachin made all the arrangements. It was always touch and go, but they mostly left us alone.”

  “Do you think the crates from the previous trips are still there?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Any idea where they went?”

  “Yeah. Down river.”

  Xandor stepped away, thinking it over.

  “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what they were doing with the soap. And what we were carrying seemed innocent enough. How could I know it was poisoned?”

  Pointing at the blackened smear on the ground where the elf had died, Xandor glared at Dragahn and said, “You see that? If what they said is true, you have just started a new war.”

  Jasper laid a hand on Xandor’s shoulder. The ranger fixed a fierce gaze on the mage before stomping off with clenched fists and putting distance between himself and the caravan chief.

  As he walked away, Xandor heard Pyotr tell Dragahn, “I told you so.”

  * * *

  Chert reexamined Lucky, who rested near a tree. The youth seemed to be recovering. Next, he had the teamsters form a line so he could check their wounds. As Chert went from person to person, Pyotr stood over his shoulder offering assistance.

  Pondering what the elder elf had told them, Jasper sat with his staff across his lap and stared at the ground. The elf’s words repeated in his head. Was he poisoned with the Blood of Cayn? He didn’t feel any different. He looked at the teamsters. Were they infected, too?

  The other people in the cages were still unconscious, so Dragahn had his men bring them out carefully and lay them side by side. While Xandor took the time to go through the tattered remains of their clothes, Chert and Pyotr examined them for physical ailments. Placing a hand on the last child’s forehead, Pyotr commented, “They all have high fevers.”

  Looking up, Chert replied, “Yeah, I noticed. Whatever’s been done to them must be causing a serious infection.”

  The dwarf knelt and tugged gently on a small tuft of the boy’s hair. It came out easily at the root. He shook his head as he examined all the little ulcers and blisters.

  “He’s bleeding real blood, not black slime. Whatever’s in their system is killing them from the inside out, similar to the elf, but it’s affecting them differently,” Chert observed.

  “Can you do anything for him?” Pyotr asked.

  In answer, Chert closed his eyes and placed his hand on the boy’s arm; pale blue light appeared and seeped into his skin. The youth’s face creased in pain and a groan escaped his cracked lips. When Chert looked up, he wore a grim expression.

  * * *

  “I think everyone here is sick with the same ailment. The same disease described in our last message from Marcus,” Xandor said.

  Jasper stared at the ranger in alarm. “What?”

  “Marcus’ message stated some of the upper-class citizens were becoming extremely ill. He described a few of the symptoms, but he couldn’t trace the cause to anything specific. The healers were helpless against it.”

  “Looks like I won’t be much help, either,” Chert said as he walked up to Xandor.

  “It must be the soap or whatever’s inside it,” Jasper said.

  “The Blood of Cayn? Do you think the elves were telling the truth?” Chert asked.

  “Yes,” Xandor said. “I do.”

  “Where did they all come from and how did they get here?” Jasper asked, getting to his feet. He looked around, his face clouded with concern.

  “My guess is they’re cottars from Trakya,” Xandor answered. “But I don’t know how they got here.”

  Chert and Jasper went from person to person, double-checking them for anything out of the ordinary.

  Standing in the middle of the clearing, Xandor asked loudly, “Jasper, what do you make of this?”

  Looking up from examining one of the humans, the mage found Xandor staring into the woods. “Looks like a bunch of trees to me,” he replied.

  Ignoring him, Xandor kept staring at the woods. Jasper gave up and walked over to the ranger. Mimicking his moves, the mage tried to see what Xandor was seeing. At last, he saw a slight distortion in the air in front of them. Whispering a few words in the arcane tongue, he put out his hand and felt the surface of some kind of solid structure.

  “It’s magical,” Jasper said, ignoring the disparaging look his friend gave him.

  The portly mage felt along the surface, trying to get a feel for the dimensions, and discovered a recessed entry. Running his hands down the door, he found the latch and grasped it. Concentrating on the door, the mage closed his eyes and whispered, “opsometha ephanerōthē.”

  At first, nothing happened, then alien images filled his head with vivid clarity: a blood-covered temple in a swamp, glass towers, a bluish-purple gem-dagger hidden in a stone alcove, and metallic birds that screamed as they flew through the sky. Bringing his hands to his ears, he tried to block out the noise. It was all so incredible—so real—that he had trouble controlling the visions and finding what he was looking for.

  His knees buckled, and sweat streamed down his forehead before he finally sorted through the images and found the clearing. In his vision, he saw a man wearing dark red robes walk to the magical construct, grasp the doorknob, and murmur “patefaciam.” The door opened, and the man walked inside.

  Before Jasper could release the spell, he shared the man’s visions: a giant human sleeping on a tremendous stone slab as frenzied figures performed a vile ritual to awaken him. The giant stirred, and with it, an unquenchable hunger and presence of raw madness emerged. The feeling of madness grew, and Jasper knew he had to break free. Dimly, he heard a sleepy voice ask inside his head, “Who are you?”

  It shook to him to the core, and panic almost overwhelmed him. Focusing his will, he pictured the grassy clearing, the trees of the haunted wood, and the cages. He made everything feel as real as he could, anchoring himself without giving away his friends.

  * * *

  “Snap out of it!” Xandor yelled, shaking the mage and slapping him across the face.

  Jasper lay on the ground, staring blindly up at the sky. The ranger kept shaking him, with no response. Pyotr and Dragahn joined Xandor and helped try to revive him. />
  A few minutes later, Jasper finally blinked and took a deep breath.

  “What happened?” Xandor asked.

  Wide-eyed and obviously frightened by something, the mage gibbered, “We’ve got to get out of here. It knows where we are.”

  The ranger grabbed the mage by the shoulders and shook him hard. “You aren’t making sense. What are you talking about?”

  Jasper blinked, and the fear slowly subsided. He stared Xandor in the eyes and said in a shaky voice, “There’s something out there—something powerful. And it knows we’re here.”

  “Who knows we’re here?”

  Jasper stared up at the sky and said, “Cayn.”

  “Snap out of it. Tell me what that thing is.”

  Calming slightly, Jasper answered, “An invisible portal. I think.”

  “To where?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re the mage.”

  Sorting the wild images floating in his head, Jasper said, “I don’t know where it goes. But the man who poisoned these people went inside.”

  “Can we follow him? Did you find out how to do that?”

  “Yeah. Help me up.”

  Xandor reached down and gave the mage a hand. “You alright?”

  “Yeah, just a little rattled.” Composing himself, Jasper faced the door. “Get ready.”

  Xandor had both his flaming blades ready, with Dragahn and Pyotr standing behind him.

  Giving everyone a quick nod, Jasper said, “patefaciam.”

  The outlines of a door appeared in front of them. It opened slowly, revealing a cool, dark interior. A faint odor of death wafted through the doorway as Xandor waved his blades, crossing the threshold. Not seeing anyone, Xandor sheathed his blades and took out his bone tube, shook it, and pointed it at the small space. Red light partially illuminated the single room, revealing a dark floor devoid of dust or debris. Jasper stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust.