Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse)

by James Maxey

  At last, she made it to the river and crawled out onto a long sandy bank. Now that she was out from under the trees, the night was awash with moonlight. She wondered what to do now. Should she swim? Could she, given that she was wearing armor?

  She looked down river and spotted the hulking remains of the Knight’s Castle. She wondered if the canoes were still there. Her body was now longer than a canoe, but perhaps if she lashed two together with poles, she could create a craft that might support her weight. She slithered toward the dark ruins. If nothing else, she could take shelter and wait out the night before deciding her next move.

  She reached the fortress wall and leaned back to look at its upper edge, eighty feet above. She wondered if she could find a path to the top now that she had only starlight to guide her. As she thought about reaching the top of the wall, her body slithered forward with a mind of its own. Her torso slammed into the stone. She barely managed to push herself back as she was forced higher up the rock. In seconds, her body was moving vertically along the wall, as her belly scales grasped imperfections in the rock face. Before she could really focus on how she was moving, her head popped over the top of the wall. There was a small tree here, growing from a crack in the stone. She grabbed it with both hands, steadying herself as her body continued to snake upwards.

  Realizing she was now fully atop the wall, she let go, and slithered to the center of a ten-foot-wide pathway that ran the length of the ruins.

  “That was interesting,” she said, swaying back out over the edge, looking down at the ground far below her. Interesting and unnerving. Was she actually in control? Or did her serpent tail genuinely have a mind of its own, listening to her thoughts, but acting independently? Was there a second intelligence inside her?

  “Stop scaring yourself, Sorrow,” she whispered.

  She turned, and was scared by someone else. Standing directly behind her, covered in tattered and muddy bandages, his wild mane of hair tangled with twigs and vines, was the man they’d found in the grave. His eyes were narrow slits as he lunged toward her.

  She swayed back, avoiding his arms, but discovered that it hadn’t been his intention to tackle her. Instead, as he leapt past her, he grabbed both of the iron swords affixed to her belt and tore them free. He rolled as he landed, and sprung back to his feet, before whirling around and placing the tip of one blade atop the glass scale directly over her heart.

  In a thunderous voice, he barked, “Art thou a devil?”

  “No.” Sorrow’s hand flashed to the blade. She calmly bent the iron tip into a u-shape. “I’m a pissed-off witch who’s going to teach you some manners.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SLATE

  THE SHAGGY WARRIOR responded as Sorrow knew he would, driving his unbent iron blade into her serpent coils. Given her command over metal, he might just have well attacked her with a wad of damp clay. It folded like an accordion against her scales.

  The warrior spent no time dwelling on the loss of his weapon. He spread his arms and unleashed a savage growl, driving forward on his powerful legs to tackle her. His arms wrapped tightly around her body in roughly the area where her feet would once have been. He squeezed her in a bear hug that caused jangling pain to dance along her extensive spine. She fell backward, writhing uncontrollably as she felt two of her new ribs snap.

  Though she was too rattled to think clearly, her tail possessed its own battle tactics. Her body looped into great coils around the man, crushing him as he crushed her. Unfortunately, she failed to catch his legs. To her great surprise he managed to rise, lifting her easily despite her new mass. To her greater surprise, he charged toward the edge of the wall.

  They plummeted toward the earth below. She barely had time to think before she slammed into the wet sand at the base of the fortress. Her body slackened as the impact stunned her. The warrior hadn’t even been winded by the fall. Her crushing coils had the unanticipated effect of cushioning him.

  He kicked himself free of her limp form as he clawed up the length of her body.

  “Foul devil!” he growled as he straddled her human torso. “Thou shall trouble the human world no more!”

  He raised both his fists together over his head and swung them with a loud grunt, delivering a strike to the faceplate of her helmet as powerful as if he’d been swinging a sledgehammer. Spots danced before her eyes as she clawed at the bandages covering his chest with her bare fingers. She knew she could save herself if she unleashed Rott’s powers, but, try as she might, she couldn’t summon the dark energy. If she released the entropic force again, the dragon might swallow all that remained of her humanity. Perhaps she would die because of this fear, but at least she would die with her own face.

  While Rott’s powers couldn’t save her, her dragon half came to the rescue anyway, as the tip of her tail whipped up and slapped the warrior in the side of his neck as he was preparing a second blow. The force knocked him sideways. With her vision blurred, she couldn’t see where he’d gone, but it was enough that his weight no longer pinned her down. Her tail lifted her into the air until she stood at her ordinary human height. She clenched her fists as she craned her neck, trying to see where the man had fallen.

  Her head jerked to the left as a sudden motion caught her eye. The warrior leapt toward her, swinging a branch as long and thick as his arm. She tried to raise her hands, but was too slow. The club slammed into the lower edge of her helmet and her world exploded into showers of bright sparks. She was vaguely aware of her helmet flying from her head as she fell backward into the muck.

  The glowing sprites before her grew in intensity, becoming a uniform white light that blotted out the jungle. All she could hear was a loud whistle, rising in shrillness, building as a great wave of pressure in her skull. When the sound stopped, the world went dark.

  SHE WOKE WITH the worst headache of her life, a significant milestone for someone who voluntarily hammered nails into her own skull. Her eyes snapped open, then immediately clamped shut in the intensity of the light before her. Her nose wrinkled as she breathed in smoke. She turned her head, coughing. She opened her eyes once more and found she was sprawled on a dark, sandy beach. The left side of her body was considerably warmer than her right side. From the sound of crackling nearby, she deduced she was near a fire.

  Who’d built it? Why? Where was she?

  She turned toward the fire, squinting against the glare, feeling nauseated by the sensation of her brain sloshing around. She could barely make out a dark, vaguely human shape beyond the flames.

  Suddenly, she remembered what had happened. Her body whipped into the air, balanced atop her tail. She felt certain she would vomit, but managed to suppress the urge long enough to demand “Who are you?” of the shaggy-haired warrior who sat on the opposite side of the fire.

  The man slowly shook his head, and said, in a soft voice, “I don’t know.”

  “Excuse me,” she said as she spun away. She could no longer hold in the contents of her stomach. Green bile erupted as she collapsed to the ground, supporting herself on her hands. She continued to throw up much longer than she would have thought humanly possible. Of course, she wasn’t human anymore. She had no way of knowing how large her stomach was now. The quantity of fluid that spilled from her seemed enough to fill a bathtub.

  In the aftermath, she slithered into the river. She was still wearing her armor, though she had no idea where her helmet had wound up. She plunged her face beneath the surface. The water was chilled by snowmelt. Under ordinary circumstances, the cold would have been unbearable and she would have exited the water with utmost haste. Now, she left her head and shoulders immersed, allowing the icy river to numb her throbbing skull. She noted that, just as her stomach seemed larger than it had once been, her lungs had apparently also been altered. Several minutes passed with her head beneath the surface, yet she felt no great urgency to rise for air.

  Finally, the frigid waters froze the sloshing contents of her skull into something less soupy. She r
ose from the river and sucked in air in a long gasp. She wiped her face with her hands, then slowly turned back toward the fire.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” she asked.

  “Thou art the woman who tended my wounds. I did not recognize thee at first.”

  “You remember fighting the dragon? You remember me stitching you up?”

  “Aye. And nothing before.”

  “Nothing?”

  He shook his head.

  “You must have some memories,” she said. “You remember how to fight, obviously. You seem to have a grasp of traditional theology judging by all the devil talk. You must have learned this somewhere.”

  “Aye. I must.”

  “But you don’t remember who you were before you climbed...” She let her voice trail off. She decided not to tell him she’d found him in a grave. “I mean, before you attacked the dragon?”

  He scratched his shaggy mane. “My first memory is the bone dragon rattling above me. I acted to save thee from the beast. Are we... are we not companions?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. You just sort of, um, showed up. I don’t know anything at all about who you were before you jumped in to save my life.”

  Or did she? The ghost pygmy said he’d come to witness the birth of the Destroyer. He’d not been impressed with her. Maybe he’d been looking at the wrong person.

  She asked, “Does the name Stark Tower mean anything to you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Avaris?”

  He furrowed his brow. “She is... a queen?”

  “Yes. Queen of what?”

  He looked lost as he sadly shook his head.

  “Do you know what a weaver is?”

  “Aye,” he said. “A witch. Thou art one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He tapped his fingers against his scalp.

  “Right. The nails. You know what I am.”

  “A woman. Not a devil.”

  “Not everyone thinks kindly of weavers,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I’ve no cause to hate thee.”

  “Right. But if you know what a weaver is, you had to learn it somewhere. Forget about remembering yesterday or last week. What about your childhood? Who was your father?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Your mother? Do you have any siblings?”

  He shook his head.

  “No siblings? Or you don’t remember.”

  “I’ve no memories of anything before fighting the dragon.”

  “You knew how to build a fire. How did you learn?”

  He looked toward her leather satchel. “I found a flint and steel within. I know how to use them, but don’t remember where I learned.”

  “You can’t be a completely blank slate.”

  He shrugged, looking apologetic.

  She crossed her arms, tapping her glass-covered biceps with her fingernails as her mind raced. Maybe this man was brain-damaged, but, as a fighter, he put any golem she’d ever built to shame. Infidel and Menagerie hadn’t been interested in joining her mission, but this hairy brute didn’t seem like he had anything better to do with his time.

  But what if his memories returned? What if this was Stark Tower, the Witchbreaker, somehow returned from the dead? Shouldn’t she end his miserable life here and now, in payment for his crimes? If he was Tower, and his memories returned, he’d almost certainly attempt to kill her.

  On the other hand, what if he wasn’t Tower? The letter had a symbol that blended together the glyphs for war, tool, and man. Was the man before her some sort of living weapon?

  She squinted as she looked at him. Though some auras burned more faintly than others, she was certain that the man before her had no inner-light whatsoever. She’d met such people before. The Skelling ice-maidens had been abused to the point that their spirits were extinguished, though their bodies stubbornly carried on. Could lost memories produce a similar effect?

  A more fantastic possibility was that she was in the presence of an elaborate flesh golem. She’d discovered with Stagger that the remnant souls that animated golems could retain aspects of their former personalities. Short of tearing open this man’s chest and seeing if it held a golden cage instead of a heart, she was unsure how to test her theory. When cut, he’d bled. Would this be true of a flesh golem?

  She uncrossed her arms. “Did you find the food in my pack? Have you eaten already?”

  “I found the food,” he said. “But I’m no thief.”

  “It’s good that you know that about yourself.”

  “I was greatly tempted,” he said. “I was delirious when I first woke. I felt... I felt a pull that drew me to this place. I didn’t think of food, or clothing. Thou must think me quite the savage, wandering through the jungle nude, little more than a beast.”

  “You’ve more manners than a beast,” she said, slithering over to the pack. She dug out a package bound with string and tossed it to him. “Here’s some jerky.”

  “Aren’t thou also hungry?”

  She shook her head. She felt hollowed out inside, but could still taste snake bile on her tongue. “It might take a while to recover my appetite.”

  She watched as he untied the string and her heart froze as he laid the open package on his lap, lowered his head, and clasped his hands together. He closed his eyes and sat a moment in silence.

  “Are you... praying?” she asked.

  He looked confused. “I don’t know. I just... if I’m praying, I can’t remember who I’m praying to. But the motions... felt natural.”

  She looked up at the ruins beside them. “Like coming here felt natural?”

  He shrugged. “I... was delirious. I was dreaming as I walked. I imagined a fortress, resplendent with banners. I found only these ruins.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together. This was certainly tilting the scales toward him being Lord Tower.

  “Are you a knight?”

  He tilted his head, looking slightly surprised by her question. He nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said. “Aye. I believe I am.”

  She resisted the temptation to curse. Just because he was a knight didn’t mean he was the Witchbreaker. A knight who couldn’t remember the god he served might be a valuable commodity.

  “If you’re a knight, I happen to be a damsel in distress,” she said. She felt cheap describing herself in this fashion, but she knew it was the truth. “As you may have noticed, I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She waved her hand along the length of her body.

  “Once I saw your scalp, I assumed you were a bone weaver. They often alter their forms.”

  She wondered how he knew this, but decided not to press the issue. “I didn’t voluntarily choose this form,” she said. “I’m dealing with a little bit of a curse right now.” Neither statement was completely true, but neither was completely false. “I’m hoping to find Avaris, Queen of the Weavers, so she can help restore my human form. Will you aid me in this quest?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I cannot deny a damsel in distress. I pledge my strength and my sword to thee, my lady.”

  She smiled, almost despite herself. “Thank you.” She extended her open hand to him for a handshake. “All this serious talk without a proper introduction. My name is Sorrow.”

  He surprised her by taking her outstretched hand in his and kissing the back of her fingers. Ordinarily, she would have been repulsed by a gesture with such romantic undertones. But his face seemed so innocent, she couldn’t find it in herself to be offended.

  “I fear I’m at a loss,” he said, as he released her hand. “I don’t know what you shall call me.”

  “Slate,” she said, looking into his dark gray eyes. “In honor of your eyes.”

  Though, in truth, it was because, if his mind was a blank slate, it would be her hand that filled that empty void with knowledge, shaping him into the ally she needed him to be.

  IT WAS WELL past sunset the following evening before Sorrow slithered once more into Commonground. Slate
was at her side, dressed in glass armor similar to her own. She’d returned with him to the Witches Graveyard, telling him she needed to gather the raw materials to outfit him. In truth, she’d wondered if the sight of the grave where he’d been buried might stir further memories. The hunt for memories had proven unsuccessful, but she’d cut up the fabric of her tent to fashion undergarments for Slate, molded glass to fit his form, and equipped him with a fresh sword. He looked quite formidable in his black armor.

  When she’d last walked these docks, no one had given her a second glance. Now all eyes were upon her and her muscular companion. But unlike a town in more civilized parts of the world, no one seemed afraid or repulsed by their appearance. They were being sized up as competition. They were rough customers in a city of rough customers.

  They arrived at length at the floating saloon known as the Black Swan. She’d spent several weeks here not long ago, designing and building a body for the eponymous owner. The Black Swan was the unofficial queen of Commonground, a woman so wealthy she could purchase the loyalty of anyone she wished. She also had a reputation as a powerful sorceress, a reputation only enhanced by the fact that she continued to oversee her business concerns after death as an animated skeleton. It had been rumored that the Black Swan was a weaver, but Sorrow had held the woman’s skull in her hands and saw no signs that it had ever been punctured by nails. Despite the rather intimate connection she’d had with the Black Swan while fitting her skeleton into a new iron shell, she’d been unable to learn the true nature of the woman’s abilities.

  Sorrow pushed open the doors of the saloon and slithered into the room. Few people even looked up from their cards as she entered. She wrinkled her nose at the cigar smoke combined with the strong perfumes of the painted women who accompanied the men at the tables.