by Rosie Scott
The scythe was a masterfully crafted weapon. Despite its large curved blade, it didn't feel unbalanced as I held it in one hand. Due to the shape of the blade, regular swings and thrusts were impossible to make, and its shorter handle would require me to get close and personal with any foes. I understood how confusing the weapon would be for someone to learn if they'd wielded something simpler like a sword, but in this case, my general ignorance of weapons felt like an advantage. I could train with the scythe over time to learn its vulnerabilities and strengths and adjust accordingly. Already I'd gravitated toward berserker combat, using circumstances and even my own body to gain the advantage in battle; I'd used a spear on one foe after a split-second decision and dabbled in melee with another by kicking to stagger and break bones. If such things came naturally to me, I doubted I would have issue using the scythe. Already, ideas popped into my excited mind.
“How would I carry this?” I questioned, putting the scythe back on the cart to alleviate their suspicions.
“Don't know,” the one who claimed to forge it replied. “Ya would have to get a weapon's belt specially made, I'd reckon.”
“You said you made this for someone,” I said. “Why is it here?”
“He couldn't get the hang of it,” the dwarf replied. He nodded at my arms and added, “You'll have to build more muscle to use it effectively.”
I glanced down at my arm and was quite pleased with the muscle I'd built thus far from constant travel and carrying supplies. “You should have seen me last season,” I commented. I nodded toward the injured dwarf. “Do you agree to the trade or not?”
“Aye,” he agreed, coming over to me with his sling. “If ya heal it, the scythe is yers.”
“Sit down,” I requested, pointing to the ground beside an old firepit. “I need you still and stable.”
As the other dwarf helped his friend follow my order, I tried to keep my nerves at bay. This would be my first time attempting to heal someone else and a broken bone. The Seran University taught those in the healer's division that sometimes both magic and surgery were required to heal certain injuries; while magic could merge bone and tissue, it could not pull shattered pieces together or align bones before mending them. Fleeing the university when I had ensured my anatomical knowledge was also limited. I didn't know how to fully diagnose someone.
In this situation, the dwarf was already diagnosed and his bone in a stable position due to its sling. I repeated that in my head over and over in reassurance as I sat down across from him, trying not to let my expression betray my nerves. The dwarf watched me with concern as I scooted closer to him and reached into his sling to hover my hand over his flesh.
Sik la trama. Life magic escaped my fingers and traveled through his skin and muscle until it found his injury, before zipping back to my hand in the form of heat, alerting me to the location of the break without having to cut him open. I readjusted my hand over the break and switched spells.
Givara le life. This energy followed the footsteps of the last, only this time, it found breaks and tears and convinced them to rebuild. I kept the arm as still as possible as I allowed the magic to work.
“It tingles,” the dwarf blurted, alarmed.
“That means it's working,” I replied, not moving my eyes from his flesh.
“Yer a little young to be a healer, ain't ya?” he asked next, as if just noticing.
“He's an elf,” the other said. “Elves look young for centuries.”
I glanced up. “I am no elf. I'm human.” I couldn't know how aware these men were of the Icilic, but I didn't want them finding out about my secret origins.
“Ah, forgive me,” the dwarf replied. “Ya got them perfect facial features that reminded me of elves. Thought ya were Celdic. Can't see yer ears under all that hair. What are ya doin' out here alone?”
“My business is my own.”
The dwarves exchanged glances, but they said nothing else. When the life energy stopped escaping my fingers I sat back, for the wound was healed.
The dwarf pulled off his sling and stretched his arm out, slowly flexing his fingers. “Ya healed it, but I'm still sore.”
“Healing tears and breaks cannot always ease the swelling or trauma they cause,” I replied, standing up. “I offered to heal your bone, as I have. I cannot ease the swelling. I'd suggest finding an alchemist who can give you an anti-inflammatory or letting it rest until it calms. Any more questions?”
The two men slowly stood up and shook their heads.
“Then I'm taking the scythe,” I informed them, grabbing the weapon out of the cart.
“May ya have better luck with it,” one called after me. “And...kid?”
I stopped at the rock formation blocking the alcove from the road and glanced back. The dwarf motioned to his friend's mended arm and said, “Thank ya for this. But if anyone asks—”
I turned back toward the road and replied, “It never happened.”
Twelve
59th of High Star, 411
The road to Brognel was far longer than I'd anticipated, though less treacherous. The dwarves kept the path clear for travelers, and they built enormous stone and gold bridges between mountain gaps. A magnificent view accompanied me while walking over these overpasses, for the enveloping mountains boasted of snowy, windy peaks that melted into the gray rock, sporadic greenery, and pools of sunlight at their bases. It was like experiencing the beauty of two seasons at once. The dwarves were phenomenal architects and proud of it; their bridges conquered the gaps at such an elevation and breadth I would have otherwise believed impossible. A glimpse beneath the bridges before crossing them revealed sturdy piers leading to wide foundations stretching out of the descending mountainsides far below. I found it hard to imagine the work and time necessary to build even one overpass, but there were several on this simple path.
This route was less steep than the one to Whispermere, but its length allowed it to gain height over time. They built the path on the edges of the mountains and only occasionally provided rope, wood, or stone barriers to block one from toppling over to their death. Once the road reached the peaks, it stayed fairly level.
This close to Brognel, it was impossible to be alone. Groups of dwarven miners leaving the town to travel to various mines along the path were commonplace, and while multiple camping sites sprang up alongside the trail, someone always occupied them. I tried to find smaller spots in which to sleep, but sometimes none existed, forcing me to sleep near groups of total strangers.
On one such a night, I settled on an overhang of rock. The only thing keeping me from tumbling over was an iron and wire barrier installed along its outer edge. Snow dust swept along the flat rock before sparkling in swirls into the abyss. The small moon of Eran hung in the sky over the northern mountains in a bright circle of white light, casting its soft curious glow over the campsite. I kept myself as covered as possible; not only did the severe chill surpass the limits of my Icilic tolerance, but the moonlight gave my skin a slight glow that could arouse suspicion as to my racial identity.
Seventeen dwarven miners gathered around a campfire on the same overhang drinking, telling dirty jokes, and causing a ruckus. I'd stayed unnoticed in my little corner of the site as I quietly ate from my packs of dried fish and kept my hood tugged over my head.
My arms ached profusely; I had to carry my scythe by hand, and I consistently practiced swinging it over my travels. Such an exercise couldn't compete with the strains of a real battle, of course, but little by little, my body strengthened. The curves of developing toned muscle were most noticeable in my upper arms, but even my hands seemed larger, and I wasn't sure how that was possible. Developing a bond with the scythe, understanding its capabilities, and becoming strong enough to wield it effectively were a good start. I'd learn the rest in battle.
As I nibbled from a slice of sun-dried river fish, I listened to the jovial conversation happening near the campfire.
“Nah, Aengus is an ass,” one dwarf blurted,
firelight shimmering off the ale that spilled over his beard.
“Never said he wasn't, ya daft bastard,” another retorted, her eyes glassy with booze. “I just said I liked workin' for 'im, is all.”
“'Cause he's one of a few who has stubble longer than yers?” the man replied, to which a few of them chortled.
“Nah, 'cause his cock's longer than he is tall,” the woman retorted. The dwarf beside her snorted and lifted a mug to toast.
“He's a dwarf,” another pointed out. “That ain't that impressive.”
“Do ya have a three-footer in them drawers?” the woman inquired. When the man said nothing and only drank, she badgered, “Pull it out then, aye? Let's see it, Mr. Itty-Bitty!”
“He don't need to pull it out,” the next dwarf over said. “Everybody here knows what it looks like. There's a reason he got the nickname Itchy Britches.”
The group roared with laughter. While it preoccupied them, I pulled out my water flask and stuck its opening under a nearby rock, where snow melted from the heat of the campfire and dripped slowly.
“Kid,” one dwarf blurted, proving the move hadn't been subtle enough. I pretended not to hear, holding the flask still as it collected water. “Kid.”
“Whatcha yappin' at?” another asked. Seconds later, she went on, “Ah, hell, I ain't even seen him there. Ya tryin' to hide in the night in that corner, kid?”
“Maybe he's deaf,” one suggested.
“Or hidin' somethin'.”
“Kid,” the first dwarf blurted again.
I turned to glare at the group. “What?”
“Gods damn,” he snorted. “Hit a nerve.”
“I haven't bothered you,” I replied evenly. “Leave me be.”
“Yer sittin' in our camp,” he retorted.
“You're sitting in mine,” I said. “I was already here when you built the fire.”
“Gotta admit,” one woman said, “I like his sass. What's yer story, kid?”
“Not one I'm willing to tell.”
“Do ya know anything about the sun?” another asked me, before a few of them burst into laughter.
“As much as you know about silence,” I retorted.
Instead of being offended, the dwarf chortled. “Sharp mind, that. Come drink with us.”
“And dull my sharp mind?” I questioned, to which he laughed again. “Thank you for the offer, but I need my sleep.”
Though I laid down and turned away from the others, their rowdiness kept me awake for a while yet. Eventually, I must have dozed off, for when I awoke, the low light of the dying campfire and the surrounding silence confused me.
Did I fall asleep? I blinked heavily, but my eyes soon fluttered closed again. What's it matter?
Somewhere far off in the distance or my subconscious, a ghostly hiss forced my eyes back open. I stared through the nearby barrier with fatigued eyes. Nothing but dark shadows filling in the valley between this mountain and the next greeted me. I readjusted and went to hug my satchel closer to my chest to guard it just to realize it was gone.
I quickly rolled over to stare into camp. The once bright campfire was losing its fight for life, existing as little more than tiny flames and wisps of smoke rising from smoldering embers. Sixteen dwarves were passed out drunk under blankets, and the last sat right beside me with my satchel in his lap. Two grubby hands held the warrant with my face on it. While the dwarf was tipsy, he seemed to understand what he read, for his eyes flicked from the sketch to me. As soon as he realized I'd woken, he stiffened. My hand lurched forward to yank the warrant out of his grasp.
“Nec...” the dwarf trailed off, staring at me with horror as he began to tremble. “Necromancer.”
I tugged my satchel out of his lap and shoved the warrant inside. “You should have left me be,” I warned. My mind scrambled for ideas. Brognel was close. I desperately needed armor and supplies. As annoying as this group was the night before, I didn't want to kill them just to keep a secret. I could try reasoning with them, but I doubted that would go over well. While many feared and loathed necromancers, dwarves hated them the most. The dwarves loved their elaborate funeral rituals, numerous religions, and building sprawling underground libraries of sarcophagi called the Halls of the Dead. Thus, my requests for a peaceful resolution to this unfortunate incident were unlikely to be heard.
“I will forgive this intrusion of privacy if you forget what you saw,” I told him, coming to a stand and grabbing my scythe. The tip of its blade scraped along the rock with a shing.
The dwarf's eyes widened as he struggled to stand while inebriated. He threw his gaze back to his friends and screamed, “Necromancer!”
A rush of warmth flowed through my extremities as my heart followed adrenaline's advice to race. As the dwarf kept hollering, his drunk and fatigued friends woke up with glazed stares and scrambled to fight. While the dwarves weren't a magical race, they were hardy melee fighters. These miners had no armor, but neither did I. I'd built up strength, but I faced severe doubts about my abilities against so many at once even if I had magical shields.
“What are ya sayin'?” one blurted irritably, grabbing a hatchet from a pile of her things.
I glared at the thief and said hoarsely, “I'm warning you!”
The others glanced between me and their friend. I gripped my scythe and wavered on my feet with apprehension.
The thief pointed at me and repeated, “He's a necromancer! There's a death warrant in his satchel!”
“The kid is a necromancer?” another asked in bewilderment. “Warrant from who?”
“Sirius Sera,” the thief blurted. “Says he's a murderer of sixteen men.”
“Soldiers,” I corrected him, my tone tight with stress but my stare unceasing. “I bested sixteen Seran soldiers in one battle. There are seventeen of you and not one of you is as well-prepared as they were. If you go up against me, you will die. Forget about what you learned and I will let you go.”
“He's sayin' he'll let us go,” one dwarf mused with a huff, his gaze turning hostile as he leaned down to grab a sword. “Like one kid has a chance against us. Look around, necromancer. Ain't no bodies around for ya to fuck with.”
I set my jaw, grasped my scythe tighter, and replied, “Not yet.”
Kaaarrriiisss!
Our spat quieted as a chilling hiss deceptively kissed our ears. I recognized it as the same noise that woke me earlier even though I'd since thought it came from my imagination. We were so high up on the mountain while surrounded by rock and valleys that it was impossible to tell where it came from. Nonetheless, a few dwarves stared up into the skies and shuffled around in fear.
“What the hell kind of—”
“What did ya summon, necromancer?” one woman screeched, as another hiss echoed through the skies.
“I summoned nothing,” I retorted, switching my gaze between the dwarves and the skies. Panic stretched its sharp fingers around my heart.
“Stoke the fire!” a dwarf screamed, pointing desperately at the dying campfire. As his friend did just that, he continued, “Flame can destroy them!”
One woman backed away from the fire with an ax gripped in one hand, bewildered. As the flames roused once more, they cast our immediate surroundings in a bright orange glow. The dwarf's fear contorted her face in the new light. Just behind her, a shrunken husk of a body hanging from two corpse-colored leathery wings swooped in from the overhead darkness.
As the others panicked at the new arrival, the woman blurted, “Flame can destroy what?”
Two gray hands with abnormally long fingers and claws grasped around the woman's throat from behind. With the harsh whirling of flapping wings, the unknown creature carried the dwarf off into the shadows.
Clink!
Metal clanged off stone as the woman's ax fell and rattled until it stilled. Hoarse but restrained cries echoed through the darkness as the woman struggled to breathe against the creature's grip. All of us remaining on the path struggled to track her movements
in the skies using only her screams as a locator. The sound ceased, and the night became eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the normally subdued echo of drizzling cried out like an alarm from the road, where blood collected in an expanding puddle after falling from the stars like rain.
The shattering of multiple bones called our attention to the rock face on the opposite side of the path, where the dwarf's corpse was thrown like trash. Though the woman had been stout and hardy like any dwarf, her body was now shriveled, relieved of all its juices. Newly loose clothes gaped, revealing glimpses of withered nudity. It wrinkled formerly taut and smooth skin over knobs of bone and deflated muscles. Two deep puncture wounds oozed blood on the far right side of her shrunken face: one just below her jawline, and the other through her ear where a fang had punctured her eardrum.
WHOOSH.
The flap of wings preceded the creature's descent. It landed in the road facing us without a care, standing ten feet tall even though it appeared humanoid. Emaciated legs led to feet with long toes and sharp nails. It didn't have genitalia, only an eerie absence of it in the groin. Above dangling arms were two frayed and folded leathery wings, the forearms reaching even higher than its head before arcing down to the tips near its legs. Solid black eyes sunk deep in a skull above only a mound where a nose should have been. Its mouth was far too wide for its face. Blood streamed down lengthy fangs to the shriveled, crusty gray flesh of its chin.
For a moment, no one said a word. The creature's hollow but perceptive black eyes peered at us with equal parts calculation and hunger before it shrieked. The high-pitched wail pierced through the chill of the night and raced over mountainsides like the warning bells of conflict. The creature lifted its face to the skies and trembled intensely as if it were amidst a seizure. In mere seconds, its crusty and dehydrated flesh filled out with new life. I noted the new moisture of its skin and the dwarven husk nearby and quickly understood.
