by Rob J. Hayes
“Good few years. Ten maybe.”
“'Bout that then, I reckon, Joan,” Betrim answered.
“In all those ten years I ever hunted you?”
Betrim spat. “Don't reckon so. If ya had I reckon I might'a been caught a whiles back.”
Joan nodded. “One of us would have ended up dead an' no mistake. So why ain't you trusting me? I gave my word none of me or mine would try for ya.”
“Eh?”
“I hear ya standing every watch. Makes my boys a little nervous that ya ain't willing ta let 'em watch ya back whiles ya sleep. Now I understand if ya wanna have one of yours on every watch but...”
“Ya got it wrong, Joan,” Thorn interrupted him. “Ain't that. It's the bloody wraiths. I can hear 'em out there in the fog.”
Joan looked around. Not that there was anything to see. Fog was so thick five feet was something approaching a blessing and while walking if you lost track of the man in front of you there was a good chance you'd never find them again. There was nothing to see above them; just a blanket of shifting grey and below the ground was damp soil, sometimes mud but always brown. There was a marsh somewhere in the Fade, Betrim had been told, but at the moment they weren't in it. Occasionally they'd come across a corpse tree, stark white against the grey and reaching towards the sky. No leaves ever grew on corpse trees, no fruit ever spouted. They grew from the bodies of the dead, or so it was said, and the tree was as barren as the corpse below it.
“Been in the Fade four times myself,” Joan was saying. “One of those times I was alone an' trying ta chase a particularly slippery murderer by the name of Coball, one of the black skins from the far south and partial ta eating his victims. Filed his teeth ta points.” Joan paused as if remembering and then shook his head. “Been here four times an' never once have I seen a wraith. Ain't nothing here but fog an' Fogwatch... an' more fog.”
“Ya ever seen a dragon?” Betrim asked.
“No.”
“Me either. Got it on pretty good authority they do exist though.”
Joan sighed. “You need ta sleep, Thorn. Got at least two days before we make it ta Fogwatch, if we make it at all. Ben's pretty damned good at getting us where we need ta go but... no guarantees in this place.”
Betrim knew Joan was right. Lack of sleep could do funny things to a man. Make him see things, hear things that weren't there. Make him slow when he needed to be fast. Make him fall when he needed to stay on his feet.
Betrim nodded. “I'll try.”
He did manage to sleep that night. Huddled close to Anders who was in turn huddled close to a wine skin. Henry watched over them both on that watch and Betrim had to admit there weren't many folk left alive he trusted more than her, possibly even none.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Betrim stood over the body wearing the coat of an Arbiter. He pulled his axe free and rolled the body over to get a good chop in on the neck; sever the head, the best way to be sure. It wasn't Kessick.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A hand grabbed hold of Betrim's shoulder. Pulled him to his feet and span him around. A fist exploded into Betrim's jaw.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Kessick spoke, saying something Betrim couldn't hear. He watched the handsome face; the dark oak hair, the piercing Green eyes. The Black Thorn charged. Kessick caught his wrist, pulled the axe free and pushed Betrim to the floor.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Betrim drew a dagger into his right hand and his left whipped a throwing knife at Kessick. The knife stuck in the Arbiter's leg but it made no difference. Kessick caught Betrim's wrist in one hand and his throat in the other.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Kessick plucked the dagger from the Black Thorn's hand and stabbed him four times in the chest. Betrim toppled backwards and hit the ground heavy.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Kessick was standing over the Black Thorn. He was speaking again, one tooth glinting in the moonlight. Then he reached down and Betrim saw fingers closing around his left eye.
Thump. Thump. Scream.
Betrim sat bolt upright. He was drenched in sweat and shaking from head to toes. His right hand had managed to find his axe and his left went straight to his eye, to his eye-patch. It took him a moment to realise something was wrong. He wasn't the only one awake. Everyone was up, everyone was silent, tense, and everyone looked scared.
“You alright, boss?” Anders asked in a whisper.
Betrim shook his head. He could still remember the dream, still remember the thumping, but the scream wasn't there, it hadn’t happened in his dream, it wasn't his voice. Then the sobbing started.
It was a terrifying thing to hear. Long, pain-filled wails echoing all around them. A single cry as if from a woman's lips so sad it brought tears to Betrim's eye. He quickly wiped the water on his hand and looked for the source. He couldn't find it; the noise just seemed to drift out at them from the fog
Another wail started just as the first one died down; this one seemed to come from the other side of the small group. A cry of pure terror, fear and pleading and hopelessness all rolled into one.
“What the fuck is it?” asked one of Joan's bounty hunters. Betrim seemed to remember he had named himself Davet Wolfsbane.
“Where's it comin' from?” Henry asked, her eyes wide and her jaw clenched.
The wail died down and everything went silent save the occasional scuffing of boots on the ground. Betrim stared off into the dark fog, into the swirling, shifting void. He was slick with sweat, could feel it beading and dripping down his face. Still there was nothing, no sound and no sight of whatever was out in the fog. Betrim almost believed it was over.
A high-pitched hissing noise drifted out of the fog and it took a moment for Betrim to realise it sounded like a woman saying pleeeeease. It was so quiet and so urgent that Betrim had the sudden urge to wander off into the fog to search for the voice, search for the woman who needed his help. Something bumped into his left arm and Betrim jumped, pointing his axe in the general direction. It was Joan, come to stand next to the Black Thorn. Betrim reckoned he'd never seen Heavy-Hand Joan look scared before, he certainly had now.
“What do we do, Thorn?” Joan asked.
“Eh?”
Another wailing sob started up and Thorn saw something. A faint blue light, a dark shadow drifting by in the fog. He felt his eye start to well up again and sniffed.
Heeeeeeeeeeelllllllllppp, the hissing voice drifted out of the fog. Betrim spun around towards the source of the voice. He caught a glimpse of a shape again and then it was gone.
“You know what ta do with the dead right?” Joan asked.
Thorn tried to swallow down the lump that had developed in his throat.
“We have ta run,” said one of the other bounty hunters, a lad called himself Sly. “We gotta get the fuck out o' here!”
Six-Cities Ben cuffed Sly on the back of the head. “Shut up.”
Another wail, another drifting shape in the dark fog. Fog in the day was one thing, fog at night was an entirely different matter. The world seemed to simply end just a few feet in front of Betrim’s face. Another hiss, this one seeming to say coooooooold and then Betrim felt it, the fog turned icy, his breath misting in front of him.
“Ain't never dealt with wraiths,” he said, his voice cracking a little. Betrim coughed and spoke again, his voice more level this time. “Best way ta deal with the dead is ta chop the heads off. That an' fire.”
“Fire?” Six-Cities Ben asked.
Betrim nodded. “Aye.” He remembered that much. The two best ways to stop someone coming back from the dead. Wasn't so sure about sending them back to the dead once they were up and walking again but it seemed what worked for one probably held true for the other.
“Get a fire lit an' get some torches. Now,” Joan ordered his crew of hunters.
Henry pressed up against Betrim, he could feel her shaking but was glad of the closeness. Anders stepped up on Thorn's other sid
e. “Boss?” The drunk sounded scared and rightly so. Weren't a man alive wouldn't be scared in this situation, he reckoned. “Any chance I can borrow that charm around ya neck?”
Betrim couldn't help himself, a strangled laugh burst from his lips though there was little humour in it. He plucked the charm from around his neck and handed it to Anders. “Be wantin' that back once we're done with these bastards.”
Thorn saw movement out of the corner of his eye and his head snapped around. A face drifted out of the darkness, grey and wrinkled and wretched. Its mouth was open and moaning, its teeth were broken or missing. Straw-like dead hair fell down around its skull framing the pallid flesh of its face. It didn't seem to have a body but a faint blue light glowed in the fog behind it. It was almost within reaching distance. A hand, shrivelled and pale appeared below it and reached out towards the group.
Ben was the closest to the wraith. He tried to back away and tripped over his own feet, landing on the cold, damp ground and scrambling backwards. A shoulder appeared out of the fog and then an emaciated torso. Betrim couldn't tell if the face was coming out of the fog or if it was the fog, twisting into grotesque shapes.
“Thorn,” Joan shouted and shoved a torch towards him. The bounty hunter had his back to the wraith, perhaps hadn't seen it yet. Betrim dropped his axe, grabbed the torched and shoved Anders out the way.
Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaasssseeee. The wraith hissed at them.
Against every shred of better judgement he had the Black Thorn stepped towards the thing in the mist, waving the flaming stick in its direction. It let out a crying sob and floated back into the fog, disappearing entirely. Six-Cities Ben looked up at Thorn with wild eyes and mouthed something that could have been a thanks but no sound escaped his lips.
Someone was cursing, screaming. One of Joan's bounty hunters. Thorn turned just in time to see Sly's terrified face disappear off into the fog, dragged away by ghostly hands. Heavy-Hand Joan roared, picked up a torch in each of his heavy hands and charged after Sly, the light of the torches fading quickly as he moved away. No one followed him.
“There's another one!” Henry screamed.
Betrim span and leapt towards the wraith, swinging the flaming torch at its face and screaming in wordless fury and terror. The dead thing shrank back from the fire, wailing and hissing as it went.
Henry stepped up beside Betrim, a torch in her right hand and a dagger in her left. “You hit it? Looked like you hit it.”
“I... uh... dunno. Think it passed right through,” he said in a wild voice.
Betrim and Henry stepped back towards the group together. They all had torches now, formed a circle around the little fire; a ring of flame to ward off the wailing dead.
“Joan!” Six-Cities Ben shouted into the fog, trying to be heard over the wailing and the sobbing and the hissing. “JOAN!”
Another face drifted towards them from the darkness and Davet and Anders swung fire at it, forced it back from where it had come.
“JOAN!”
Betrim spotted a soft yellow light to his left and a moment later a dark figure stumbled backwards towards the group. Joan had lost one of his torches and he was swinging the other one before him as if trying to swat flies. He tripped and landed on his arse, a hand reaching out of the darkness just behind. It took hold of his foot and started dragging the bounty hunter back into the formless grey nothing. The Black Thorn and Henry rushed forwards, waving torches at the hand and the face behind it. Anders moved up after them and started dragging Joan towards the fire.
“He's cold,” Anders shouted. Betrim glanced back to see Joan was shivering, his skin pale as the frozen water folk called snow. His eyes were wide and unseeing and his teeth clattered against each other.
“Get him close to the fire,” Ben ordered Anders. “Get some blankets on him.”
Anders laboured alone; everyone else was busy at the borders of the small group, watching for more attacks. The wailing continued.
“Is he injured?” Betrim asked, not looking behind him.
“Um, don't think so, boss. Just really fucking cold.”
“Get him warm then!” Betrim ordered. Anders threw every blanket he could find on the big man and then lay his own body next to him to share his own warmth.
Betrim wasn't sure how long they stood there in a circle with their backs to the fire. All night maybe. At some point the darkness lessened and the fog became more grey than black. At some point the wailing and sobbing stopped. The wraiths had gone for now but Betrim would put all the bits he didn't have on them being back the next night.
Eventually Joan heaved himself to his feet. He had three blankets draped over his shoulders, was shaking like an old man and had dark bags under his eyes.
“We need ta get moving,” he said in a sombre voice. “Make as much distance as we can while it's light. Move quick as we can an' get ta Fogwatch.”
“Best we keep a fire at night, I reckon. Double the watch,” Betrim said.
Ben snorted out a humourless laugh. “Don't reckon any of us be sleeping again out here.”
“What about Sly?” asked another of Joan's bounty hunters, a middle-aged fellow named Bert.
Joan just shook his head.
Anders
An old man with a long spear and rusty iron armour sat at the entrance to Fogwatch. He looked up from chewing at his thumbnail just long enough to chuckle at the harrowed looks on the newcomers’ faces.
Anders stared one way then the other, maybe it was the lack of sleep or the pounding in his head from sobering up but the fog seemed to lessen here, he could easily see thirty feet in each direction except back into the Fade, a blanket wall of shifting grey shrouded what lay beyond the town limits.
“No walls,” Henry whispered in a raw voice. Last night she had taken to screaming at the wraiths as they attacked, hurling insults and curses that would have made even the most hardened pirate blush. It hadn’t scared the dead things off but it had emboldened the crew a little at least.
“Hey old man,” Thorn said. “You on guard here?”
The old man with the rusty armour slowly looked up from his thumb, glanced first to his left, then to his right. “Huh. S'pose I am.”
“We been harried by wraiths all the way here. They're followin' us,” Thorn said.
The old man chuckled. “Aye. They like ta do that ta tourists.” He went back to chewing at his thumbnail, dismissing the group gathered in front of him.
Anders saw Thorn go red with anger. “They took one of our group.”
The old man tore off a strip of nail and winced before spitting it onto the damp earth. “Ah. Cure for that just over there,” he pointed towards what Anders assumed was the centre of town. “Weeping Widow we call it. Good a place ta get yaself drunk as any, I reckon an’ pretty much the only place in Fogwatch.”
Now Anders could see Thorn was getting frustrated. “Maybe ya ain't hearin' me, old man. They chased us here, followed us. They'll be here tonight. Every fuckin’ night.”
Again the old man chuckled. “An' what do ya want me ta do about it? Wave my spear at em?” He gave his spear a lazy shake. “Go on. Off with ya. Making my damned job more of a chore than it bloody needs ta be.”
Thorn growled but started off towards the town and all the others fell in line. Anders heard the old man curse under his breath and say something about tourists before he hurried after Thorn.
“Uh, boss. About the...” Anders started.
“Later, Anders. We gotta warn someone 'bout the wraiths first. Gotta be someone in charge of this hell-hole.”
“Right you are. I suppose I'll just...” he gave the skin he kept hung around his shoulders a quick shake. There was a slight sloshing noise from within but it was little more than a mouthful. Anders sighed. Sobering up was always the worst part about getting drunk.
Heavy-Hand Joan appeared next to Thorn, followed, as always, by Six-Cities Ben. He seemed to have fully recovered from his own brush with the wraiths though he didn't talk ab
out what he had seen out in the mist. “Ya got a plan, Thorn?” Joan asked.
“Aye. Reckon so. Warn the dumb fuck who runs this place that the wraiths are comin' then get the hell out o' here 'fore they arrive. Port Mercy lies a ways ta the south. From there we catch a boat ta Chade. Not a short trip but not near so long as the walk it would take.”
“Never thought I'd see the day the Black Thorn suggested getting on a boat,” Joan laughed.
“Had occasion ta be on a few of late. Sarth an' back. Ain't so bad long as ya ignore the fact everythin' in the blue wants ta eat ya an’ the weather is generally busy tryin’ to accommodate that desire.”
“Joan,” said Bert. The old fellow had dark bags under his bloodshot eyes, he hadn't been faring too well with the lack of sleep though truth was none of them were currently fairing too well. “Me, Davet an' Kip. We was wonderin' how long we're stayin' here for.”
Heavy-Hand Joan sniffed and looked at Thorn before responding. “It's late in the afternoon. Don't reckon we'll be leaving ta sit out there in the dark, had enough of that. Safer in doors for now. No mist, no wraiths. Tomorrow maybe.”
“We're gonna go find this Weeping Widow. Have a drink ta Sly. We owe him that much.”
Joan nodded and put one of his heavy hands on Bert's shoulder. “Aye. We'll be along as soon as we've finished our business.”
Before they left Ben fished out a couple of silver coins from a purse and pressed them into Bert's hand. “Drink to the fallen,” said Ben.
“We'll be joining them soon,” Bert, Davet and Kip finished in unison.
“Boss...” Anders started.
“Not now, Anders,” Thorn said.
Anders sighed as he watched Bert and the others walk off in the direction the old man at the town limits had indicated. It struck him that Fogwatch was a bit of a desolate little town. There weren't many folk around, out and about. Plenty of buildings, most wooden and rotting, many looked as though they were slowly being rebuilt with stone, but the people were scarce. Anders supposed they may be staying indoors, scared of the fog or of the wraiths or of the newcomers. He saw very few guards; strange enough for a town in the wilds to have no walls, even stranger for one to have no guards. Fogwatch, Anders decided, was one of the strangest places he had ever been and that included the floating city of Soromo.
