by C F Welburn
He shrugged and then recalled the Weak Wayward Path Roule had provided. “Fortune, I suppose. They are quite disagreeable. Tell me, how is it you’re here all alone? Surely you’d be safer in more civilised surroundings. I find it odd your brothers would abandon you so.”
“My brothers do as they will,” she said, serving up more wine and roast meat.
“Such as driving Finster away?”
“Ah yes, poor Finster. I fear he’s still not free to return, though I do long for him.”
“Then you did not believe what they told you?”
“That he was an ashen and we could never be happy? It didn’t concern me as much as it did them.”
“Do you love him?”
“We have a… special relationship.”
“Then why not stand up for him? Seems you need some company around here. It’s grim to imagine you alone in such a place.” She giggled, a warm, musical sound.
“Why, Finster has indeed sent me a gentleman.” Balagir noticed her smooth pale skin, her breast rising and falling.
“Well, a lady such as yourself merits chivalry.” She laughed and ran her finger around the rim of her glass, making it sing. He could not avert his eyes.
“Tell me, what do you hope to gain from completing Finster’s oath?”
“Only to be on my way. I’m seeking to resolve a personal mystery. I must reach Wormford.”
“Ah, I see. And he wishes tiding of me?”
“Mhmm,” he confirmed, finishing his wine and allowing her to refill it. “He requested your ring as token of your forgiveness. Alas, it seems I shall only be relaying disappointing tidings—”
He stopped, noticing her playful expression.
“Earlier you said you were reluctant to come? I hope it has been worth your while.”
He smiled wryly. “I must admit, I’d not believed Finster to be true. I half expected some ill to await me here.”
She laughed, that alluring sound once more. “Well, he could have warned you of the wights.”
“That he could,” he said, lightheaded.
“Let us discuss Finster in the morning. That way my message will be all the fresher in your mind. Now, if you’re to spend the night, it’s only proper a hostess know well her guest.”
“I suppose it is,” he said, tasting the wine and leaning back. “But I’m afraid I will only disappoint. You already know my name, and my destination. There’s little else I can divulge. I’m suffering from loss of memory, that’s why I must reach Wormford. I need to gather my wits!”
“So sad.” She leant forward. The wine on her breath made his pulse quicken. “Alone in the world, like me.” She traced his jaw with a finger. His heart beat in his ears. “Such vitality,” she whispered, leaning so he felt her words on his neck. “I’d forgotten the warmth of life. The beating of a heart.” The feel of flesh. “The feel of flesh.” Had he known what she had been about to say? Had he imagined it?
“And Finster?” he mumbled, but Finster no longer mattered. The only thing in the world was the wine on Mailen’s breath, her fingers on his chest, the rain on the window driving him into her embrace.
“On the day he returns, I will cherish him. Until such time, I yearn for life. Loneliness is long and melancholy.” Balagir mustered another objection. Not because he wanted to, nor because he cared for Finster, but because his mind swam with the wine. Something nagged him, something he could not grasp. Mailen sensed it and pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”
He knocked his glass over as they rolled to the rug. She stopped to regard the red shards, but decided it did not matter. Nothing mattered. The fire crackled, bodies writhed, the wights crooned outside in the rain.
Balagir slept deeply in a warm bed, curled against a softly breathing body. Another oath completed, and Wormford and his destiny one step closer. If all oaths were like this, he would gladly seek them out.
His dreamless sleep was only disturbed by a cold draught. He turned to find the bed empty. A faint dawn light glowed through the eastern window. He rubbed his eyes, his head heavy from the wine. How long had he slept? It felt an awfully long time since he had seen the dawn.
“Mailen?” he called softly, but there was no answer. He closed his eyes and sank back into the pillow. He heard the floorboards creak and was tempted to keep his eyes closed and let her nestle beside him once more, but he didn’t.
She gasped when she saw he was awake. Half her face was beautiful, but that which the dawn light touched turned him cold. The skin was withered and rough, the full red lips sagged, and a long yellow tooth hung down to her chin; the eye was white and mirthless. Her true form bared, she wailed mournfully, and her soft touch became rigid. He wormed in her grip, but it was as tenacious as the roots he had seen wrapped about the chest.
“Mailen,” he pleaded. “It’s me, Balagir, remember? The gentleman?”
“You’ve seen my guise, now I must feed.” He twisted as her face descended towards his neck, barely managing to bring his arm up beneath her chin and hold her off.
“What about Finster? Your love? How will I get him your message?”
“Your death will be his message to stay away. He’ll send more.”
“Release me and I’ll help you. Remember what we shared last night!”
She emitted a terrible gurgle and lunged, her fang scraping his neck, drawing blood. With a desperate wrench, he rolled them both from the bed, her below so that air left her in a cloud of decay. In an instant he was free and descending the stairs blindly. At the hearth he found his pouch and cloak. He snatched up his boots and stumbled towards the door. She leapt at him from the steps, and they went crashing across the table where they had so tranquilly dined. She groped at his neck, and he caught her wrists. With his other hand, he plunged his dagger into her shoulder so that she shrieked and recoiled wildly. But he did not let go her hand, for upon it he saw his vengeance. For all its pragmatic appearance, Roule’s blade was sharp and cut through the finger with a neat crunch. She leapt back, clutching her hand as blood splattered the floor and tablecloth. He staggered, finding the bolt and falling out into the daylight, naked save for his belt, with his wares strewn haphazardly. She scuttled at him until her skin smoked and withdrew, hissing into the shadows.
“Don’t send him to me!” she screeched.
Balagir deigned not to answer, tripping his way up the path with one leg in his trousers and his possessions cradled in muddy, bloody disarray.
It took him most of his journey for his horror to turn to fury and then this fury to be suppressed enough to greet Finster with calm and not strike him down.
When the piper’s tune floated into earshot, he stopped to compose himself, making sure the blood on his neck was gone and that his knife and the ring were clean. He tossed the finger into a ditch, to which several birds gleefully attended.
Three men now populated Warinkel hub. Nifla had gone of course, but Ginike remained along with another man, corpulent and clad in tan leather armour.
Finster froze. He ordered himself well, but Balagir, who looked for it, saw the paling of his face, the slackening of his jaw.
“You’re back. I had lost hope. Do you have the ring?”
“I do,” he said, unfurling his hand. This time Finster’s shock was undisguised. “Wasn’t that what you’d expected?”
“Well, yes, of course, it’s just…”
“It’s just”—Ginike said, taking interest—“Finster did not expect to see you after so long.”
“Yes, that’s it,” hedged Finster. “What delayed you?”
Balagir raised a brow. “How long have I been away?”
“Seven nights,” Ginike said, enjoying both Balagir’s surprise and Finster’s cracking composure. Balagir remembered the wine, how he had predicted her words, how his boots had already been dry when he had put them before the fire. And the last night, when he had spilt his glass and woken too early. He resisted the urge to grab Finster, to demand answers, but once the ashen’s s
ubterfuge was exposed, there would be no reason for him to honour his word.
“You might have forewarned me about the wights,” he said stiffly.
“Forget the wights, what about Mailen? How did you find her?”
“Lonely. I’d hurry along if I were you, before she loses interest. I don’t think her brothers are coming back,” he added, perhaps a little too drily.
“Yes, I shall,” he said, his mind far away. “I’ll go at once.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Hm? Oh yes, your horse. I… You’ll have to give me a day.”
“I don’t have a day.”
“Here, keep this as a signal of intent.” Finster pressed a thin rod into his hand. “It’s yours until you have the horse.”
“I’ll not wait upon you.”
“Tomorrow I’ll bring two mounts. I’ll seek you upon the eastern road.”
Balagir’s heart sank. He knew his direction now, but could no longer count on the horse. Between the wights and the succubus, Finster was not guaranteed to return; and if he did, it would be with small benevolence upon discovering his sweetheart’s mutilation.
He looked glumly at the object, waved it, but nothing happened.
“The ring?” Finster prompted, distractedly.
Balagir nodded and dropped the blue-stoned ornament into his open hand. Almost immediately, the dark smoke rose from the earth, circled him, and was absorbed by his belt. By the time he looked up, Finster was gone, having passed from the fire and out of sight.
“So, what really happened?” Ginike asked, standing, having also received some of the smoke.
For the first time his countenance was clearly visible, the extent of the angry lesions disturbing upon an otherwise comely, clean-shaven face.
“It’s as I said.”
“Ha. You know how many he’s sent?”
Balagir scowled. “Then you knew I went to my death?”
“How else was I to be free of that oath lest someone else did it? I hadn’t thought it possible.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he growled.
“You’re welcome,” Ginike said with a dashing smile at odds with his flaking face.
Balagir examined the silver wand and again failed to muster an effect.
“Here,” Ginike said, extending a hand. Balagir hesitated. “What, you think a curse contagious?” Balagir sighed and passed it to him. The mottled ashen aimed the wand at the ground, and from it shone a bright light. “Interesting. I’d never thought Finster would part with this. You have him riled beyond reason.”
“How do you wield it?”
“You can’t yet. Not before you spend that smoke, at least.”
Balagir glanced at his belt, then snatched the wand back from Ginike.
Without a thought, as if it were already the natural order of his world, he approached the piper and relinquished his plunder.
The song changed, sparks leapt skyward, and the world caught ablaze.
II
OLD BOOTS
When the fire died and the tune resumed its haunting dirge, Balagir stood and tested the wand. To his wonderment, it sparked into life, and he took pleasure in blinding Ginike, who shrank irritably into his cowl. There was that same sense of rejuvenation; that satisfying invigoration coursing through his fibres. His ordeal and the terrible night—nights—felt suddenly justified, and he was anxious to embark. Paying the piper was proving double-edged; at once perilous and intoxicating. Enduring risk to later thwart it.
“I’m curious as to what Finster will find there,” Ginike pried. When Balagir did not respond, he continued, regardlessly. “I’m sensing he will not be pleased, and your horse unforthcoming?”
He had much preferred the man when he had been less vocal.
“You may well be right,” he said, looking eastwards.
“You know, you’ve proven yourself, Balagir. Commendable, for one so low. Perhaps we could be of some use to one another.”
“Save it, Ginike. I’m not interested.”
“But you are. I can see it in you already. Feels good, doesn’t it? Well, there’s plenty to be had if one knows where to look.”
Balagir measured the rotting-faced man.
“I think I’ll decline.”
Ginike shrugged. “I’ve made mistakes. But I’m not dead and I’m not a breaker. As for you, well, how long you’ll survive out there is dubious. Not everywhere’s as pleasant as Mudfoot.”
“So you propose an oath, is that it? That I may grow stronger and wiser? Yet the way I see it, each oath is devised to deceive, and your condition hardly convinces me otherwise. I think I’ll take my chances with Wormford.”
“Your decision—” Ginike began, but he was interrupted by a snort from the large armoured ashen sat until now in a trance. His expression was a mask of contempt.
“Bloody fledglings.” His head was a continuation of his thick neck; black brows beetled belligerently over the blackest eyes.
“If you enjoy the company in the south so much, why’ve you returned, Bry?” Ginike imprudently retorted.
“Leaches, the lot of you. Crossed the channel yet, Ginike? I think not. Doubt you’ve even seen Cogtown. Beware these ashen, newcomer. They like easy prey, and seldom have the guts to forge their own fate.” Balagir looked from the powerful ashen to the narcissistic, putrid Ginike and was inclined to believe him. Finster had been the same. Scavenging Warinkel and its uninitiated. He remembered his amulet and considered it may have been planted. He presently dismissed the notion purely because he would be directionless without it.
“What’s in the south?” he asked at length. This man, if well-travelled, seemed his first opportunity to glean something of the wider world.
“War,” he said. “Or the brewing of it. The Valelands tremble, peace is on a knife edge.”
“Between whom?”
Bry batted the air in exasperation. “Ozgar and Eskareth, of course. Bah! Inhabiting this uncouth realm is no excuse for ignorance. There’s more to Ythinar than fetid bogs and horlock detritus.”
This was all news to Balagir, of course. Not only that there was a war, but that there was even a south. His tiny world lit by one lonely fire was suddenly expanding to include not just the names of surrounding villages, but what appeared to be another continent. He felt more lost than ever, and began to realise he could not rule out more oaths before he was done.
He was about to investigate when suddenly a white shape shambled into the circle, doleful and whimpering.
He recognised the pitiful form of Erd. His hollow gaze was bent upon the fire to which he moved, jerkily, as though he were drawn by an invisible thread he was too weak to fight.
Without a word he stepped into the fire, and his paleness shone with a blinding incandescence. He was silent for longer than any mortal could bear, but at last released a sharp hiss that increased in intensity as his skin crackled. He shrank until he was no more than a part of the fire itself. The flame grew fierce, and the tune altered to something that redefined melody; minor and portentous, enough to make the woeful weep.
After an uncomfortable stillness in which the pipe regulated, Balagir mustered his words.
“Is nobody going to comment?”
“A breaker’s fate,” Ginike said with a shudder.
“Breaker, coward, traitor. Call it what you will,” said the large ashen distastefully. “Good riddance.”
Recovered, though far from at ease, Balagir returned his attention to Bry.
“The south must be a goodly journey afoot. This war may already have started.”
“It hadn’t yesterday.”
When Balagir’s befuddlement was plain, the armoured ashen replied with scathing sarcasm.
“I take long strides.”
Ginike’s smirk widened in his flaking face.
Weary of such company, Balagir adjusted his pouch and promptly set off east without wasting another word on the bitter and conniving pair.
The
easterly road was akin to that of the west and north, save that after a league the trees thinned, and bulking, bald hills rose on his left. Evening was approaching, and he had no idea how far the next town was. Despite his haste, little in the way of hospitality offered itself, and the few lone travellers he passed upon the road merely tipped their hats or ignored him as if he were no more than a ghost.
As the sun sank, wolven voices raised with the stars, and his hand never strayed far from his dagger. Several times a rustle from the undergrowth had him shine the star-wand into small, yellow eyes that blinked and slunk away.
The light, when he saw it, was so welcome he cast aside caution and ran ahead. Instead of the tavern he had hoped to find, it was a rather ramshackle farmhouse with a scattering of stone outbuildings. The farmer, upon his knocking, looked him up and down, neither pleased nor surprised. Clearly he was no stranger to the wants of wayfarers. Silhouetted in the doorframe, his features remained obscured.
“Five keplas for a night in the barn,” he said before Balagir could even open his mouth. His hopes sank as his eyes drifted from the warm fire over the farmer’s shoulder to the dark barn with the creaking door across the yard. Still, luxury was something easily foregone if the door was stout and the nocturnal noises remained on the far side of it. He nodded, handed over the coin, and followed the farmer towards the barn.
The farmer gave his name as Gristle, and for such a portly man moved with surprising swiftness. Balagir spared a glance for the glass and bent nails spread before the doors, content at the security measure of keeping beasts at bay.
On first inspection the lodgings did not appear terrible. The floor was strewn with straw, and in the corner several bales were stacked, providing him a veritable pallet for his weary head. Then his eyes strayed upwards and his breath caught. The ceiling was gossamer enshrouded, and in the corner a shape as large as a dog hung suspended. His standards were not high, but this was a travesty he did not relish spending the night with. He told the farmer such, who became outraged at his suggestion of burning it.
