by Sever Bronny
Augum held his breath, hoping whatever it was had not seen him. Snowflakes gently fell, the Summerwine trickled, but all he heard was the thump of his own heart. He watched the shape so long that he began to wonder if he was losing his mind and there was nothing there.
All of a sudden it sprinted for him, crashing through the branches. And then he understood why the thin tracks—the thing was a skeletal corpse! The clacking was its jaws snapping together, and the trailings were pieces of rotten skin and threads of burial cloth.
He fumbled for Burden’s Edge but the cadaver was too quick. It slammed into him, burying him in a plume of snow, and began to hammer his chest like a rabid blacksmith. He gasped as if drowning, unprepared for its speed and strength.
He used the last of his breath to shout, “SHYNEO!” and grabbed the squishy ribcage, but it was immune to his shocking touch. There was only one chance—Centarro, but in order to cast it he would need to get this thing off him. He tried to take a breath but only gulped snow. He tried to punch but it was like punching branches. The last thing he could think of was to buck it off, but its position directly over him, in this snow which hampered sidelong movement, gave him no leverage.
What vision remained began to quickly tunnel as the vibrations of each strike rattled his innards like a drum. There was a sickening crack in his ribcage.
This was it. He was going to die.
A final surge of desperation gripped him like fever. He flailed and screamed, as rabid as the thing itself, pushing it back just long enough to raise his head above the snow and grab a quick breath of air, before being pounded back into the suffocating winter ocean.
The black tunnel resumed its inward caving. And then Augum felt something he had not felt in a long while—the slowing of time. The space around him warped as if elastic, while he felt a familiar energy surge to every point of his body, seeking exit, like a wolf testing a fence for holes. Gasping his last breath, he recalled being carried away by a storm so long ago. Felt the sensation of tumbling amongst the clouds, far above the Tallows …
His hair stiffened and he tasted a peculiar tang on his tongue. Suddenly a monstrous bolt of lightning connected him to the sky, blasting through the living cadaver. For a brief instant, he was able to witness its bones vaporize before the walls of his vision collapsed.
***
Augum awoke shivering, covered in a layer of snow, a sharp pain in his chest. He sat up, blearily wiping his face. The snow had melted around him in the shape of a large basin. Pieces of bone and rot lay everywhere and there was the distinct smell of burnt flesh. A tunnel punctured the evergreen canopy directly above, as if a fireball had rammed its way through. He gaped at the singed pine needle edges as the memory of what transpired slowly returned.
Nana had warned him about using it, but that was the third time wild arcanery had saved his life.
The pain in his chest intensified as he opened his wolf-hide coat, revealing a bloody stain on his robe. Wincing, he closed it up and stood, the act jarring his ribs sharply. Something had to be broken.
He fixed his gaze on a large bone stuck in the snow. Where had this thing come from? Had his father raised it using necromancy? Or did it crawl out of the ground on its own, like in those nightmare stories they tell children to scare them into behaving.
Studying the sky revealed the sun was to the far west. He must have been out for a while. Lucky there weren’t more of those things.
The Summerwine trickled distantly as snow continued to fall, the flakes tumbling lazily. He drew his hood and scavenged for his Leyan apple, taking cold bites with shivering hands. It reminded him that friends waited by a warm fire.
He needed to get back as soon as possible. The longer he stayed out here, the more dangerous it became. He reeked with the scent of blood, and who knew what else might come calling. He had failed his quest for food but at least he was alive, if injured.
“Horsemeat it is,” he muttered, throwing the finished core aside. He adjusted Burden’s Edge and picked up the bow and quiver, wincing from the sharp grating in his chest. The bow was intact but four arrows had broken in the melee, leaving him with only one. He slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder and began the laborious retreat back to the cabin. Every step sent a stab through his chest, forcing him to hobble at a worm’s pace.
He was halfway back to the cabin when he came across a set of prints he did recognize—that of a mirko. Mirkos were smaller and slower than deer, but they liked meat, so they could be dangerous to hunt, especially when they were hungry. When it came to mirkos, many a man thought himself the hunter only to find himself the hunted—and it was usually too late by then. Sir Westwood warned him he should never shoot one without being ready to cut it down with his sword, in case he missed. They were notoriously mean-spirited creatures too, sometimes following a man for days, tormenting him, before finally taking him when he tired and fell asleep. Luckily, they were solitary hunters, not pack animals like wolves. Augum studied the tracks and concluded the mirko was likely still near enough to warrant an attempt. The pain in his chest protested, and the cold was only deepening. He knew he could get lost if the clouds remained this thick, or worse, run into a skeleton again, in which case he’d be done for—yet the others desperately needed food, especially Sydo and Mya. He had to try.
He unslung his bow and painstakingly placed his only arrow to the sinew string, hands so numb the task took a dangerously long time to accomplish. The light dwindled as he tracked the mirko on a northeasterly path.
There was a rustle to his left and he froze, bow held in front. Something was slowly slinking his way. Still your mind, he told himself. He focused on his breathing, waiting for the right moment, as a dark shape prowled nearer in his peripheral vision. The bow shook along with his shivering body. He slowly drew the string back as far as it would go, wincing from the grinding pain in his chest. For a moment, he contemplated trying to cast Centarro, but should the spell fail …
There was a sharp snuffling and a scraping sprint. Augum whipped around, spotting dark brown fur and a grizzled snout. He grit his teeth and let his only arrow fly. It speared the mirko through its front quarter. The animal yelped and stumbled, giving him just enough time to draw Burden’s Edge. He sliced off its head in one clean swoop.
Sir Westwood would be proud, he thought, watching as the mirko head stained the snow with blood. There was no time to celebrate the kill, however, as the light was fading fast. He buried the head in snow, wiped his blade, slung the carcass over his shoulders, and retraced his steps.
Luckily, the forest allowed him to stumble back to the cabin unscathed.
Bridget opened the door as he dropped the carcass to the planks. “Thank all that is good! It’s dark out and we were so worried—”
The excitement of everything that had happened suddenly wore off, leaving only exhaustion and a grating sharp pain that sent him down to one knee.
“You’re injured!” Leera said, rushing to his side.
He was so tired he just collapsed into her arms. All the fight had gone out of him.
“Got a … big ‘un …” he managed to mumble, coughing and wincing. “Need to … get inside … smell of blood …”
“But what happened—”
“I’ll tell you … inside …” He glanced back at the dark forest one last time, half expecting to hear a clacking sound.
Leera and Bridget dragged him in, followed by the mirko carcass. Leera immediately set to removing his coat, gasping when she saw the giant bloodstain on his robe. He only grimaced, head lolling against her shoulder. He felt woozy and tired. All he wanted to do was curl up by the fire and sleep.
The girls removed his coat and his robe, leaving him in his undergarments. But he was too exhausted and in too much pain to be embarrassed.
Mya, forehead glistening, placed a hand to his chest and felt around, a serious look on her face.
“Ow!” he said as she prodded a sharp bone. As painful as it was, he trembled und
er her soft touch.
“His ribs are broken. They will heal on their own over a half a month’s time, unless we find an arcane healer first. He has been exposed to the cold too long. Make sure he gets plenty of water, rest, and warmth.”
“We will,” Leera said. She washed his bloody hands while Bridget bandaged him up with clean cloth and wrapped him in a blanket.
“Now don’t you dare try to get up and help,” Bridget said, tucking him in near the fire. “The mirko is in good hands. You did your part, now let us do ours.”
He tried to smile, hiding a wince.
Leera attended to the carcass, draining its blood, skinning it (“The hide will be perfect to barter with!”), and then butchering it (“Ugh—disgusting …”), before placing some cuts of meat on the fire. Bridget, meanwhile, made a pot of herbal tea and attended to the stricken foursome.
Neither Thomas nor the prince had woken upon Augum’s return. When Augum glanced at his great-grandfather, his heart dropped. The man looked every bit over a hundred years, skin pale and shriveled as if it had been under water for days.
“We chatted with your great-grandfather a bit, m’lord,” Mya whispered, suppressing a cough while raising her head.
Augum didn’t bother asking her to stop calling him that.
“He spoke of you and Mrs. Stone, of his daughter, and even of your father.”
“My father?”
Mya glanced to Bridget and Leera, who had suddenly gone quiet. “He said … that he missed everyone, and he … he asked us to make supper for the family as he was sure they were all returning for the new year’s feast.”
He covered his shaking hands so they weren’t visible. “Anything else?”
“He rambled a bit and … he said … he said he was sorry he could not help us more. Then he asked to be buried in the old way—in fire. He also asked … he asked for us to remember that he was Leyan, and to remember that he died a mortal death.”
He nodded slowly as Mya’s head returned to the pillow. For a time nobody spoke. Leera attended to the hearth and the mirko meat as Bridget cared for Mya and Sydo, putting damp cloths to their foreheads.
Augum’s teeth eventually stopped chattering enough for him to whisper about the encounter with the skeleton and how he slew it with some sort of desperate lightning bolt.
“ ‘Sticks in the snow,’ ” Thomas mumbled.
Augum sat up a little. “What’s that, Great-grandfather?”
Thomas’ voice was barely audible. “ ‘Sticks in the sand … sticks in the snow … reveal a man … dead long ago …’ ”
“I remember,” Mya said, eyes unfocused. “My mother once told it to me. She said it’s a rhyme that goes back to Occulus’ era.”
“Augum, I worry about this wild arcanery business,” Bridget said, handing him a cup of tea.
“It’s saved my life three times now.”
“He didn’t have a choice, Bridge,” Leera said.
“I know, I just … I don’t want him to use it if he doesn’t have to.”
“I won’t,” he said.
They debated on where the walker came from, what the trapper might do once he returned to find one of them injured and others ill, and wondered why he hadn’t returned yet.
Leera fed some logs into the fire from the stack then hung the mirko hide outside. Meanwhile, Bridget brought another pot of water to boil and made licorice root, elderflower and mint tea. She then gently woke Sydo up and offered it to him. He was so weak he needed her help to drink. She whispered soothing words, but he only scowled.
Bridget plopped down between Augum and Leera, trying to unknot her hair. “I think we’ve been spoiled by that Leyan bath. Not looking too pretty anymore, are we, Lee?”
Leera flipped over a sizzling cut of mirko and ran a finger through her already greasy and matted hair. “Well, at least we didn’t get the other royal Leyan treatment.” She tapped her temple.
Augum chuckled and grimaced. “Don’t … make … me laugh.”As soon as the meat was ready, Leera portioned it out, a big juicy slice for everyone, largest for Augum. Bridget helped Sydo take small bites while Leera cut up Mya’s steak with Blackbite.
Augum shook his great-grandfather until he roused, helped him grip a bowl of meat.
Perhaps it was the fact Augum had hunted it himself, or perhaps because he was very hungry, but when he bit into that fire-roasted mirko meat, he thought it the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. Even Thomas cracked an ancient but weary smile as he slowly ate.
Leera broke out in a wide grin. “I think Mr. Stone just tasted food for the first time since becoming Leyan.”
Thomas gave her a blank look. Leera made a show of smiling and pointing at the food, and Mr. Stone nodded and gave a toothy smile, head trembling uncontrollably, reminding Augum of that twisted Leyan elder, Magua.
They quietly savored every morsel. When they finished, everyone relaxed by the fire. Thomas snoozed for a time before suddenly moaning, eyes fluttering open.
“Mr. Stone—would—you—like—some—tea?” Bridget asked loudly. “Oh, he’s going deaf,” she added upon spotting the expression on Augum’s face.
Thomas Stone, looking every bit one hundred years old, feebly rose, throwing off his blanket. He peered right at Augum, eyes now milk white, and reached out a withered hand.
“I’m here, Great-grandfather, I’m right here,” Augum said, realizing the poor man was going blind too. He grasped his hand and gave it a pat. It was cold and coarse to the touch.
“Great-grandson …” Thomas began in a hoarse whisper, pausing between words to take wheezing breaths. “The last Lord of Death … had three kinds of undead servants … the first …” he raised a withered finger, “is the common kind … men called them … walkers … old dead returned … fast … vicious … could be … destroyed by fire … Dreadnought steel … and strong arcanery.” He paused to take a few labored breaths. “The second kind … are wraiths … they are the dead recently raised … can be a bit like … they once were … but not human … sometimes they are grotesquely distorted … and can be as large as … a giant. And the third are … revenants … these you must fear … for they have been raised … using the most powerful … and ancient … arcanery.”
Augum nodded, swallowing hard, amazed this man was still trying to teach them something. He thought of his ancestor, Atrius Arinthian, and wondered which of the three undead servants he had become.
Thomas suddenly took hold of Augum’s shoulder and pulled him close. “One day … you will face … your father … do not … despair … train hard … it will be a mirror … of your fears … it has been this way … for eons … the blood of kin … can …” but he began choking.
“Great-grandfather! Leera, Bridge—something’s wrong—!”
The veins on Thomas’s face bulged. “Tell … Anna … I … love … her …” and with that, his eyes closed and he slumped into Augum’s arms.
“Great-grandfather?” He shook him, appalled by the fact his weight was down to that of a child’s. “Great-grandfather!” but it was no use. He was gone.
Mya’s head fell into her hands, her shoulders heaving. Bridget and Leera quietly wrapped their arms around Augum and his great-grandfather. The prince only watched through a fevered haze.
It was a long time before the girls let go, squeezing Augum’s shoulder, leaving him alone.
“I promise I’ll tell her, Great-grandpa,” Augum whispered, still cradling him, “I promise I’ll tell her …”
***
The funeral pyre burned bright against the canopy of pines, setting them aglow in a flickering light. For a time the night was pushed away. Mya and Sydo had stayed inside, too sick to do anything, while Augum, Bridget and Leera cleared a spot for the fire and gathered branches and logs from the trapper’s shed, eventually building a small platform for Thomas to rest on.
The girls wanted Augum to stay inside but he absolutely insisted on helping, gritting his teeth and fighting through the
grating pain. The pile complete, they had carried Thomas out and tenderly placed him on it, folding his hands across his chest. They stood in silence for as long as they dared in the frigid night, before Augum retrieved a flaming stick from inside the cabin. The trio held it together, lighting the platform’s corners.
Augum watched the flames dance higher and higher. He did not care at all if the fire attracted anyone, he was too pre-occupied wondering why his great-grandfather hadn’t remained in Ley and just told them what would happen to him should he leave. The more he thought about it, the more it just didn’t make sense. He needlessly threw his life away.
They bore the cold and stood watching until the fire devolved into glowing embers. Then they snuffed it out with snow, scattering the ashes amongst the trees. Augum couldn’t think of anywhere more appropriate than a forest for his great-grandfather to rest in, other than Ley.
“Goodbye, Great-grandpa,” he whispered, gently pouring the last of his ashes around the trunk of a large pine.
The task complete, they padded back indoors, sitting in silence for a long time. Augum watched the flames, trying to come to grips with feeling abandoned, first by his mother and father, then by his great-grandmother, and now by his great-grandfather. Must be a family tradition. But they left for good reasons, didn’t they? Not his father …
He glanced to the empty spot on the bearskin rug Thomas once occupied. This time, there would be no memorial ceremony. He ran his hand across it before laying down in it, feeling the warmth of the fire.
Sleep came quickly that night.
A Dangerous Trek
Augum woke to Bridget shaking him awake. “The prince is worse—” she said in a panicked voice. “He won’t wake up and his forehead is boiling.”
He sat up and peered at Sydo, who lay on his side in a nest of blankets. Mya held a damp cloth to his forehead with one hand, fidgeting with her servant gown with the other. Leera, meanwhile, was trying to start the fire again. They had forgotten to set a fire watch, and the trapper hadn’t returned yet. It was cold in the cabin, fogging their breath. Augum plucked stray fibers from the blankets, the bear rug, and his robe. After gathering a handful, he handed them to Leera. “Try this.” Sir Westwood had taught him that trick.
