"What doe's that mean?" Brandon asked, dubiously.
"Magic can hurt you, but not much else." Rok said, his voice hard. "That means that Sha'ha'Zel can still hurt you. His blades aren't normal steel. They can cut you."
Brandon sighed and said. "It can't be that simple, can it? No matter what, I'm going to face the Curse. It will always come down to that."
"Destiny's a funny thing." Rok said, smirking. The god’s tone was somewhere between sympathetic and mocking. But not in an unkind way. "Some creatures spend their entire existence seeking their own, while others can never escape it." He turned and looked at Nina and said. "What say you, little sister? Shall we play in the sunlight, dancing as the world moves on?"
Nina shook her head, her luminescent face breaking into a sad smile. She said. "I always preferred the moonlight, old friend. You know that."
Rok laughed, holding his arms wide open, as if to embrace the world. He paused, as if remembering something, then turned to look at Brandon. "You still here?"
Brandon came awake with a start, sitting up in his bed and looking at the glowing numerals on his bedside clock. It was a quarter past 5. Slipping out of bed, he placed his bare feet on the cold wood of his bedroom floor and stretched. He popped his neck and rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wake the rest of the way up. He expected to be sore, but his arms and legs were loose and limber.
Dropping to the floor, he did a quick set of 50 push-ups, switched to sit-ups, and then did two more sets of each. After the quick workout, he used the bathroom quickly before hopping in the shower. As he soaped and rinsed, he let his thoughts drift to the dream and to the gods protecting him. He felt them, their power residing within him, and it gave him a peaceful feeling. His eyes were drawn to the strange tattoo on the inside of his forearm.
He ran his fingers across it but the skin felt smooth and natural. He would have to be careful to wear long sleeved shirts to school, otherwise there might be questions about a boy his age getting ink. Then again, there were more than a few kids in his class that already had ink, so it wasn’t too big a deal.
After the shower, he wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror and stared his reflection, again noticing the new firmness around his mouth and eyes. He looked older. More mature, if that was even possible. Meeting his own stormy gaze, he brushed his teeth and tried to banish thoughts of gods and monsters.
He found Gerrick in the sword room, polishing the Phoenix with a rag. He stopped running the soft cloth along the blade's gleaming length when Brandon walked into the room. Looking at his nephew, he said. "You did well last night."
Brandon walked over to his uncle and knelt beside him. “If you say so. I had a chance to kill Kardas and I failed.” He said, not quite able to meet the older man’s gaze. He looked at the blade, instead, his eyes drawn to the flames that seemed to dance along the razor sharp edge. Gerrick made a show of polishing and sharpening the blade, but no amount of use would ever dull that magically wrought steel. Brandon spoke before his uncle could dispute his words. "There are still a lot of grohlm loose in those woods. How hard is it going to be to clear them out?"
"Without reinforcements, they wont be able to hold out long." Gerrick said. He sheathed the Phoenix and stood. Placing it back into its display case, he turned and walked out of the room. Brandon followed him. Gerrick said. "We'll hunt on the nights that we don't train. We won’t keep on a set schedule, to stop them picking out a pattern and ambushing us."
“Let them ambush us. We won’t have any trouble taking them out, not anymore.” He stopped just short of mentioning his new protector, unwilling to share any more secrets than he had to with his uncle. As long as Gerrick was still willing to keep him in the dark about his family, he would keep his own secrets to himself. “We're still going to train?" Brandon said. "Why? After all that I've been through, everything that I’ve seen, I feel like I know everything that I need to know. I can take care of myself."
Gerrick said nothing. Leading the way through the house, pausing in the kitchen to grab a leather sack from one of the cabinets, he went outside, expecting Brandon to follow. Brandon trailed behind him, swallowing his sudden anger at the older man. He’d thought he was past that kind of thing, but it still came sometimes without warning.
Stepping off the patio, Gerrick walked down to the training circle and stopped. He gestured at the candles and said. "Light them." He sat down in the center of the circle and waited as Brandon did as he was told. The sky was pale, the whispy clouds burning away as the sun peeked over the low mountains to the east. Brandon felt a little silly to be lighting the candles, but he understood the need for ritual. This was a form of prayer for Gerrick. He took his time lighting them, then sat down across from his uncle.
Gerrick looked at Brandon for a long moment without saying anything, studying the youth’s eyes. Untying the cords holding the bag closed, he emptied the contents of the bag on the ground in front of him and arranged them with his finger. When he finished, he had 5 smaller piles. He sat back and said. "You can't truly understand death until you understand life, Bran."
Brandon sighed. "Okay. You win.” He said. “Teach me about life."
Gerrick pointed at each of the small piles in front of him and said. "These five herbs are constant to every world that exists. Their appearance may change or be slightly altered, but their taste and texture will always be the same. As well as their effects." He pointed to the first pile. Thin and brown, they looked like dried pine needles. "This is Ungent. It works like morphine. A powerful narcotic and mild hallucinogen. But too much can kill." He pointed to the next pile. The leaves were white and powdery, with barbed tips. "This is Death's Breath. Drinking it in a tea will bring on the appearance of death. No pupil dilation. No detectable breath or pulse. You have to be careful with Death's Breath. Using it is a good way to be buried alive."
He picked up the next herb, though this one didn't look much like an herb. The thin tangle of wiry stuff looked like a miniature tumbleweed. Gerrick said. "This is drop weed. Hold it in your mouth without swallowing and it will feed your brain enough oxygen to keep you alive and conscious. It works underwater, as well as under ground. If you use it with Death's Breath, you can hear and see what is going on around you while you're body appears dead."
Brandon grinned and pointed at the next pile. "Is that what I think it is?"
"It is." Gerrick picked up the tri-foil leaf and brought it to his nose. He shook his head, his smile rueful. "In your grandfather's kingdom, it was called Forktongue. Drying and smoking the leaf has much the same effect as it does here. But that wasn't how it was used there. A poultice made from Forktongue aids in healing and calms the wounded. It can also be used to bind and control creatures of magic."
"How?" Brandon asked.
"The smoke." Gerrick said. "It can intoxicate most creatures." He pointed to the last herb. The last looked like a sprig of holly or mistletoe. The leaves were hard and shiny, almost greasy. "Ifrit's flower."
Brandon picked it up and brought it to his nose. He sniffed and pulled back, wrinkling his nose. "It smells like gas."
Gerrick nodded. He took the herb from Brandon and held it in his palm. Picking one of the leaves loose, he tossed it into the air and blew on it. The leaf exploded into a burst of flame as big as Brandon's head. Brandon jumped and nearly fell on his back. Gerrick lay the rest of the flower on the ground. He said. "Ifrit's flower can only be found on the battlefield. It can only grow in soil that has tasted blood and known death. It's extremely rare. Once they’ve begun consuming something, the flames will not die. Like napalm or magnesium rounds."
Brandon looked at the shiny leaves and shook his head. "And all it takes is a breath?"
Gerrick nodded. He said. "Sometimes, all you have is a breath. Only one thing can extinguish Ifrit's fire once it has touched you."
"What is that?" Brandon asked.
"Another flame." Gerrick looked at the sun, rising bright and hot, and said. "I think we're done for now.
" Working carefully, he sacked up all of the herbs and stood. He looked down at Brandon and said. "The day is yours, Brandon. You earned it in blood, last night. But be watchful. The grohlm are stupid creatures, but they understand the concept of revenge very well." He went into the house, leaving Brandon sitting in the circle.
The early morning light reflecting off of the frozen dew on the grass of Highgarden's back yard warmed Brandon’s face as he sat there, mulling over his uncle’s words. And he thought of what Rok said in his dream. About destiny. And about how some people chase after what they think they want, while others flee from what they fear. He thought of his father leaving behind everything he ever knew, only to find death waiting for him here, 20 years later.
Chapter 22
On Thanksgiving morning, Brandon woke up early, dressed in jeans and a loose tee-shirt, and went hunting. He left without seeing his uncle, slipping out the back door and disappearing into the woods. He was unarmed, except for a long knife tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He had purloined the knife from the trophy room on his way out, careful not to make a peep. He didn’t want to answer awkward questions from his uncle about where he was going and why.
The morning air was crisp and cool, the early dew dampening his hair, curling it around his ears. His hair was longer than he usually wore it, hanging over his eyes and forming a shaggy frame around his face. There was the beginnings of a scruff of beard on his chin, giving him a slightly disheveled look.
Brandon let his mind wander as he walked through the trees, leaving the winding path that lead through the woods surrounding Highgarden. He thought of Claire, with her family, so far away, and he hoped that she was staying warm and safe. He wondered if she thought of him as much as he thought of her while they were apart? It seemed like he couldn't get her out of his mind. When he wasn't worrying about dying at the hands of the Curse, he was wondering about Claire. What she was doing? How she was feeling? Did she miss him as bad as he missed her?
Was she safe?
He moved swiftly through the trees, passing beyond the boundary of the spell surrounding Highgarden, and deeper into the Briar woods. He wasn’t very far from the Kirkman mill, maybe a few miles, when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He slowed, using the thick trunk of a cypress for cover, and studied the forest. He caught the flicker of movement again and moved in its direction.
He followed for a long time, moving carefully as he trailed his prey. So focused was he on staying silent and unseen, it was a long time before the shape resolved itself into the figure of a young man. He was dressed in dark clothes. A camouflage coat. A baseball cap, pulled down low over his eyes. He moved slowly, a rifle held in his hands, drifting from tree to tree. He moved well, making his way through the trees like someone who had hunted for years. His step was light, almost soundless, and he was careful not to leave no sign of his passage. If he became lost, the boy would be hard to find.
Brandon shadowed the boy without being seen, using trees and the early morning light to stay hidden. He followed him for nearly 20 minutes, before recognizing him. It was Eric Golph, the same boy who he’d come across at school, being bullied. As they crossed through the forest, heading steadily North, Brandon began to worry that the boy would stumble onto the ruins of the gateway. So far, there had been no sign of grohlm, but Brandon knew that they were out there, hidden in the deep underbrush. In boroughs and dank holes in the earth, they slept and dreamed monstrous dreams of rending flesh and blood, raining down from the skies.
Eric talked as he walked, his voice a soft murmur. Brandon couldn't hear what he was saying, but he could see the redness of the boy's eyes and the gleam of the tears running down his cheeks.
The kid was going to get himself killed if he kept going like he was.
Brandon didn't like it, but he was going to have to talk to him. Stop him before he got too far into the woods and stumbled onto something that even Brandon couldn’t handle. Moving ahead of the boy, getting far enough ahead that he was able to find a place to wait, Brandon sat on a fallen log. He waited, listening to the sound of the boy's coming. He looked up as Eric came through a break in the trees and saw him. He stopped in the act of raising his gun and blinked at Brandon. “Merryweather?”
Brandon said. "Hello, Eric."
Eric looked around them, watching the woods as if expecting more people to show up. When nobody else appeared, he walked closer and said. “What do you want?" If he was startled or afraid to have come upon Brandon in such a manner, he didn't show it. He looked around, studying the trees around them. "How did you get out here?"
Brandon stood and looked at the other boy, meeting his angry and suspicious glare. "You need to turn around and go back the way you came."
"What are you talking about?" Eric hefted his rifle and kept walking, stepping around Brandon. "Stay out of my way, Merryweather."
Brandon followed him, saying. "You're being stupid, coming out here like this, Eric. Your dad, Chief Wyntrop, and the others all knew what they were doing and none of them made it out of these woods." It sounded harsh, but he was desperate to get the other boy turned around and headed in the other direction.
Eric stopped and looked at Brandon, his face twisting in disgust. "What do you know about anything?" His voice was hard, but Brandon could hear the crack just under the surface. He stared at Brandon and said. "You’re the reason all this is happening, Merryweather. None of this shit would of happened if you had just stayed the hell away, and you know it. How about you just leave me the hell alone?"
He kept going, moving past the small clearing and pushing through the tangled bushes. Brandon followed him, talking as he walked. "You don't know what you're doing, Eric. If you keep on like this, you'll die."
Eric stopped and turned. He sneered at Brandon and said. "You don't hear so good, do you, Merryweather? Whatever is out here killed my dad and I'm going to find it. Nothing you say or do is going to stop me."
Brandon was silent for a moment as he followed Eric through the trees. He should’ve been angry at what he had said. About how Brandon had caused all of the terrible things that had befallen Matheson. But he wasn’t angry. He half heartedly agreed with Eric, deep down inside, but that didn’t change the fact that the angry young man was going to get himself torn apart.
Instead of lashing out at the boy, he studied him, instead. The set of his jaw, the way he held his gun. He started to tell him about his parents but stopped himself. It occurred to him that Eric was just doing what Brandon had been trying to do for the last few months. He wanted revenge and Brandon understood that better than anybody. But Eric had a chance to gain some semblance of closure. All he had to do was survive long enough to kill a couple of grohlm. That was more than Brandon had been able to accomplish in the months since his parents died. The grohlm weren't even the ones that killed them. The killing that he had done, as important as it was, wasn't enough to dampen his rage at what had happened to his parents.
Eric noticed Brandon still following and stopped. He shook his head, saying. "You don't give up, do you?"
Brandon said. "I just don't like seeing stupid people die when they don't have to."
Eric said, hefting his gun. "I'm the one with a gun, Merryweather. I’ve hunted these woods my whole life, with my dad and my uncles. I know them like the back of my hand. Better than you do, anyway. How are you so sure I'm the one that's gonna die and not you?"
"Because I know what's out here." Brandon said. "And I know that guns are next to useless against them. How much good did they do your father and Chief Wyntrop?"
Eric looked away, his eyes going glassy. He tried to talk and had to stop twice before he was able to get the words out. "I don't care if I die, Merryweather. I just want to find my dad. And if that doesn’t happen, I at least want the chance to kill the thing that got him."
Brandon dropped his gaze, staring at the carpet of leaves and needles, and thought about the boy's words. When he looked up, he met Eric's red ri
mmed eyes and said. "All right, Eric. I'll help you. But you have to be prepared. If these things attack, we have to be ready to move fast."
"What the hell are they?" Eric asked, his voice a whisper.
Brandon thought a moment before answering, using the only word that really fit. "Monsters."
Sha’ha’Zel perched in the treetops, watching the foolish boys as they trekked through the woods. His cloak twitched and moved as if touched by a nonexistent wind, curling around the branches overhead and below like a living creature. He felt the magic surrounding Merryweather, coiling within him and coursing through his body, stronger than ever before. Since his disastorous trip to the old world, the powers protecting him had grown.
He was almost ready. The air thrummed with anticipation of the coming storm and Sha’ha’Zel itched all over with the need to act. To move ever forward with his mission.
Moving swiftly from treetop to treetop, he followed the boys and waited for the ambush that was surely to come. The time was coming, but he still had to make sure the boy lived long enough to see it.
The ringing of the bell overhead announced Gerrick’s presence to the two old men in the shop. Underhill narrowed his eyes and his perpetual frown deepened, but Goldman actually smiled. The fine spiderweb of lines covering his face tightened with his grin and he said. “I was wondering when we’d be seeing you, Tower Knight.”
Gerrick didn’t respond right away. Letting the door close behind him, he moved further into the shop. It was dimly lit, most of the ambient light coming from the display cases and the desk lamp sitting on the counter. He glanced at some of the artifacts in the cases and positioned on the many shelves and bookcases. For every piece of decorative kitsch, there was an actual object of power. Hidden among the knick knacks. There were no price tags that he saw, giving the place a museum quality that was refreshing in a tourist town.
Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) Page 22
