Something wriggled and moved across his face. And across his hands and chest and belly. Legs too, and feet. He soon realized it wasn’t a bug or snake or critter of any sort that squirmed beneath him. No, the ground itself was moving.
The two malformed ladies cackled in delight as thick, knotted roots emerged from the soil. They climbed toward the sky like the tendrils of an eldritch monster reaching, stretching. Slowly, they wound themselves around ankles and arms, knees and waists. One by one, they trapped the mercenaries in a prison of unbreakable bark.
“Elaya!” Adom cried. “Elaya, get the hell out of here!”
She was already running, but a lively root tripped her up. She swung her sword at it. It clunked against the root, took a tiny sliver of fibrous green flesh from it. She was trapped.
“Lavery, no!”
That voice was Baern’s, and it was a pleading voice drenched in desperation. Lavery made it a point to always listen to the old man; he seemed to know everything about the world and how it worked. But on this occasion, Baern’s appeal came too late.
Lavery wanted to leave. He so badly wanted to leave this revolting, dreadful place. And in the blink of an eye—at least that’s what it felt like—he did leave.
Sort of.
“Wot in the great bowels of hell,” said a hoarse-voiced man. “Who’re ya? Where’d ya come from? Those bloody witches send you? I’ll burn ’em! Hear me? I’ll burn ’em!”
Lavery blinked. He surveyed his surroundings silently. It was still nighttime, and he was still in a forest. He could hear distant, muddled voices; they sounded like Elaya’s and Adom’s… but the Eyes of Aleer were nowhere to be found. Also, a bearded man with a freckly face held camp in a tiny clearing. Seven torches circled his tent. He picked one up and pushed it toward Lavery.
“I want a name, now!”
“I’m Lavery Opsillian,” Lavery said. “Please don’t hurt me. I… I don’t know where I am.”
The man crept forward. He shoved the torch forward, casting a hot orb of light on Lavery. “Huh. Guess you are a little’un, aren’t ya? Ya here alone?”
Lavery nodded.
“Where’d you come from? This ain’t a place to be travelin’ alone. Ain’t much of a place to be travelin’ period, actually.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know how I got here. I was in the woods—these woods, I think—with the Eyes of Aleer, and—”
“The eyes of what now?”
“They’re mercenaries,” Lavery explained. “They kidnapped me. But they don’t seem like bad people besides that. I hope they’re still alive. There was a man hanging from a tree, and they freed him. Then these”—he had to stop and catch his breath—“these two things, I think they were women but they looked unnatural, came from nowhere. And all of a sudden the ground was moving and roots were coming out and attacking us.”
The man grabbed at his beard. “Son, what year is it?”
That seemed like an odd question to Lavery, but he answered it anyway. “The year 1012 of the Malivian Calendar.”
“Holy mother of—I got myself a Wraith Walker here! Never saw one in action before.”
“I’m not a Wraith Walker.”
“Ya,” the man said, “you are. Unless yer a time-travelin’ demon o’ some sort. You’re from the year 1012, but guess what, son? You’re in the year 315 of the Malivian Calendar.”
Lavery tried but could not quite unravel the tangled web of thoughts in his mind. If he was… if this was… then that meant…
“Is your party o’ folks not carryin’ torches?”
Lavery shook his head.
“Dumb bastards. Listen here, the four witches of—wait, did you say there were two?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it.”
“Huh. There’s supposed to be four. Anyway, take this.” He offered his torch to Lavery. “Light burns ’em. They’ll run away, shriekin’ and crowin’. And don’t ever go back into this forest ’less you got a torch in yer hand or daylight above.”
Lavery took the wooden stave of the torch. “I… um. I’m not sure how to get back.”
“No one never told you that you was a Wraith Walker, did they? Well, far as I know, you strange folk take yourself here and there by sheer will. You think about it, then yer gone. Best hurry, though—they say if you stay in the past or future too long, you get stuck there.”
Lavery wasn’t convinced about this Wraith Walker business. But what other explanation could there be? He didn’t have time to concern himself with what this meant just yet. He needed to save his… they weren’t his friends, were they? They had kidnapped him, after all. Still, he was fond of them and most certainly did not want to see them die.
He imagined himself beside Elaya and Baern, pushing a ball of flame at the supposed witches. He pictured the roots receding, swallowed by the soil again.
And he was gone.
The bearded man shook his head and retreated back to his camp. Another story that no one would ever believe.
“Lav…ery?” Baern said. “Oh, dear.”
“This’ll make them go away,” Lavery said, triumphantly lifting the torch above his head. “Watch.”
As if the butterflies of fear did not flap around in his belly, Lavery charged ahead, jumping over lively roots and dancing around fissures in the earth. One could mistake his bravado and courage for confidence, but he wasn’t confident. A very real voice in his head told him this might not work, that the witches would cackle at him and boil him in a cauldron. But everyone was counting on him. He couldn’t let them down.
A gusty breeze carried whimpers and groans from the mouths of Elaya and Tig and Adom and all the other mercenaries. Roots and tendrils and vines pinned them to the ground, snaking up their thighs, winding around and around their waists. Soon they’d be more plant than person.
Lavery wouldn’t let that happen. He ran faster and harder. His calves burned and he felt the searing heat of exhaustion in his lungs. He ignored the pain, kept running. Kept charging.
When the witches saw him, they slapped each other to get one another’s attention. Their eyes turned big and watery. With awkward footing and an absence of grace, they spun around. And they tried to flee, but crooked feet and busted toes do not make for quick retreats.
Lavery was on them. Ten feet away, torchlight leading the way. The witches howled in unison, like a couple wolves who’d been stuck with a thorn in their paws. They arched their backs, flailed their arms.
Five feet away now and their cries… oh, they were loud and pitiful. The boils on the backs of their necks swelled into fat fist-sized lumps. Then they burst, spewing watery puss out in all directions. Boils continued bursting down their spines and arms, leaving behind enormous pockets of concave skin.
One of the witches managed to escape deep into the woods, but the other crumpled in a heap of blistering, boiling flesh. Her cries had turned to gurgles, the last burbles of life leaving her lungs.
Lavery vomited. Then he smelled it—a necrotic rancidness. And he vomited again. There was a third upchuck in there, but nothing really came out except some spit bubbles; that’s what happens you empty everything in your stomach the first two times.
He wiped his mouth and averted his eyes. He had no ambitions of seeing whatever the witch had turned into. The magic she’d inflicted had apparently died with her: the Eyes of Aleer were all on their feet, brushing themselves off. They seemed in good health, all things considered.
Some of the mercenaries popped in with questions, the hows, whats and whys.
Lavery didn’t answer them. He felt exhausted—spent beyond belief. The higher you go up, the farther you come down. It’s an elation unlike any other standing amongst the summits of mountains and the frothiness of clouds, but it doesn’t last. It never lasts.
He handed the torch off to Elaya, then putted back to a horse. Any horse. He didn’t want to be here any longer.
Baern was waiting for him. He opened his mouth for perhaps a few congratulatory
words, but he never got the chance to say them.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lavery said, eyes creased. “You knew. You knew!”
“Lavery, I…” Baern couldn’t finish his sentence. Or rather, he didn’t know how to finish it.
Lavery felt puddles in his eyes. His face was hot and itchy. He wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now. He’d get on a horse, he’d stare straight into the back of a mercenary, and he’d not talk until the urge struck him.
He needed to think. He was a Wraith Walker now. Or… well, he always had been.
What did that mean? Maybe that was a question for another time. He felt quite tired now—so exhausted that he thought he might sleep for days.
Elaya had heard of the Witches of Sanctum Woods before. But it was one of those legends born from the unknown, a weak attempt to explain the dismembered bodies and missing limbs and pulverized bones within the forest.
But she was a believer now. She had only Lavery to thank for not counting herself among those dismembered bodies and missing limbs and pulverized bones, but the boy wouldn’t talk to anyone. Not even Baern. The old man had told her he was upset at not being told he was a Wraith Walker. Frankly, he had a right to be angry, Elaya thought. You go your whole life thinking you’re one thing, only to find out you’re another—that messes with you.
But Elaya couldn’t afford to throw a pity party for Lavery. She needed a clear mind for the task at hand, which involved persuading the miscreants at Grim to allow the Eyes of Aleer to stay for a while. She had a solid plan, if she could put it into motion. The idea was this.
She’d send a second letter to Valios, instructing the Council that if they agreed to her terms, they would inform her via a raven—or crow, whatever fowl they preferred—within three days. Then they were to send a small caravan accompanied by a maximum of six guards. The exchange of money for Lavery would take place at the edge of the Sanctum Woods.
Of course, Elaya was no dummy. She knew there was a likelihood of the Council sending half the Valiosian army in an effort to take Lavery by force and eliminate the Eyes. So she’d scout the area from afar, perhaps with Tig or Adom. If Valios did not abide by the terms, she’d send them Lavery’s severed finger to show just how serious she was.
All right, not his finger. She couldn’t muster the heinousness required, but procuring a severed finger wasn’t difficult. Not in Grim anyhow.
But first, she needed to negotiate the Eyes’ stay. That would be more difficult than she let on. The Conductor of Grim, as the title went, changed frequently depending on which guild held power, the severity of infighting, and how bright the moon was. That last one wasn’t true, but the ever-revolving seat of power within Grim sure made it seem so.
It’d been nine days since Olyssi Gravendeer had foolishly attempted to cut down Elaya and her mercenaries. Or maybe the foolishness could be pointed at Elaya. Time would tell. Grim presented itself on the afternoon of the ninth day like a beacon of depravity in a world of corruption and immorality. It was not, in any sense of the word, cheerful. It did not induce pleasant sensations that tingle up your spine and make you breathe a sigh of relief and say, Finally, I’ve arrived.
Before becoming a refuge for degenerates, Grim had once been a thriving village. All that was left now were crumbling walls of buildings whose rotting foundations and collapsed roofs stood as a dire warning that trespassers were not welcome here.
Sitting upon a retaining wall were a few thieves. Or maybe murderers. Possibly something worse; there was no real way of telling. Elaya nodded as she approached. She didn’t expect a reaction and she didn’t get one.
“Who’s running this place now?” she asked them.
One of the men twirled a piece of straw around in his mouth. Dirt streaked down his face, interrupted by bits of cleanliness from where sweat had washed away the mud.
“Who the hell’re you?” he asked.
“I didn’t know Grim employed gatekeepers,” Elaya remarked.
“Oh, fuck off. You wanna ask us a question, we got every right to ask you one.”
Elaya didn’t mind the question, but she knew how things worked here. You acted the part of an obedient pushover and the criminals here would take you for all you were worth. “We’re the Eyes of Aleer. Satisfied?”
One of the men snorted. “Never heard of ya.”
“I didn’t suspect you would. Tell me who’s got the power here.”
“Jocklun,” said the man chewing on straw. He stood up, got down from the retaining wall. “And you ain’t seein’ him till he gives his approval. Keep ’em here,” he whispered to the others still sitting on the wall. Then to Elaya, “Cross your fingers, eh?”
Strange, Elaya thought. This wasn’t how Grim operated. It was a freewheeling, come as you please, do you as like but don’t piss off the Conductor sort of affair. Of course, each Conductor was different. Perhaps this Jocklun—whoever he was—was all about the prim and proper way of life.
The straw-chewing, dirty-faced man who went to retrieve the Conductor had vanished behind the hillside. Down below lay an entrance to a cave where the bulk of Grim’s shadowy dealings and recruitment took place. There you’d find amateur assassins willing to work for cheap, or professional ones who’d always get the job done but not without a handsome payment. You’d find tables full of weapons, all of them stolen from pillaged caravans. There were chests of leather boots, cuirasses, and thick cloaks. Way in the back, away from all the hubbub, sat a woman with a puckered face. She sold fingers and toes for cheap, goods aimed at the market of kidnappers and ransomers.
After waiting for several minutes, Elaya saw Jocklun’s crony crest the hill. Behind him and beside him came a small army of sorts. It wasn’t your traditional army outfitted in grandiose regalia, marching in rhythmic motion. It was an army of crude men and women whose faces were bruised and noses crooked, whose teeth were often missing and gums the color of rot.
Elaya had long ago, in her days as a Daughter, developed a useful skill in quickly identifying danger. This situation felt like a dangerous one. Something wasn’t right, a fact that Adom bemoaned with a whisper in her ear.
“The Eyes of Aleer!” said a man enthusiastically. He was clean-shaven, had a headful of long black hair that fell past his shoulders. He wore gloves with the fingertips cut off. “I heard of your lot recently, and—oh, what am I doing? Let me start over. Pleasantries and all that. My name is Jocklun, and I’m the best damn Conductor Grim has ever seen. Who are you, my lady?”
Elaya didn’t answer. Her stomach was in knots.
“Has your tongue been cut off?” Jocklun asked. “Ah, no worries. No worries.” He stopped several feet before Elaya. With an eccentric snap of his head, he looked left and right, then rubbed his hands together. “I don’t need to know your name. It’s not important. If it was important, I’d get it. Jocklun always gets what he wants. And, um, see—what I want right now is the sweet sound of gold coins clanging off each other. Oh, such a sweet, sweet melody, don’t you think? I’ve been promised a whole lot of gold by, uh—well, I think you might know her. Olyssi Gravendeer… you know her, right? I mean, you must. You stabbed her, after all.”
Elaya’s head felt heavy and her face hot. Coming here was a mistake.
“A raven brought me word two days ago,” Jocklun explained. “She thought you might be coming here. And look, it’s not personal. Yeah, not personal. It’s just… it’s business, right? Business is business and sometimes it just… well, it doesn’t work in your favor. You’ll play along, though, won’t you? I get paid whether I bring you in breathing or not, but, uh… see, thing is, I get more if you’re alive. So… what’s it gonna be?”
Crossbows were raised behind Jocklun. Maybe fifteen of them, possibly twenty. They wouldn’t all hit their targets. Maybe some of the Eyes could get away, but then what? Where would they go?
Elaya looked at her mercenaries, into eyes that reflected back confusion, fear… anger. They trusted her implicitly and what had it g
otten them? A date with an executioner.
“Lay your weapons down,” she said, her voice cracked and weak.
To her surprise, everyone followed her orders. Belts were unbuckled and thrown aside. Daggers and stilettos were withdrawn from their concealed sheaths under pant legs and dropped into the crunchy grass below.
Maybe, Elaya thought, they figured fleeing meant certain death. Staying alive, even if imprisonment and the guillotine were inevitable, meant there was a chance, however slim, of finagling their way out of this.
Believe, she told herself. Belief was the one true friend she had always had. And no matter how dark the world around her became, she never stopped believing. One day—possibly very soon—that wouldn’t work anymore. Everyone goes away sooner or later, no matter how much faith you invest in the gods or luck or yourself. The Reaper comes for everyone, in the end. Elaya could only hope to delay him yet again.
“All right,” Jocklun said. “Get them all down.” He clapped his gloved hands together. “I do hope you won’t mind riding in the back of a wagon. It’ll be bumpy and a little, uh, uncomfortable. But, hey! Better than sitting in a dungeon, right? I mean, that’s where you’re going ultimately. Or maybe not, huh? Maybe, uh—well, she didn’t tell me, so I can’t say for certain, but maybe Olyssi Gravendeer will pardon you? Who knows? People have a change of heart sometimes. I really doubt that she will, but hope’s a good thing to have! All right, where are the horses? Faster we get to Haeglin, faster I get my payment.”
Believe, Elaya told herself again.
Chapter Thirteen
Maren peeled back the whelp’s lips, revealing a set of razors for teeth. He’d done this several times, as if the dragon’s mouth held within it answers to his questions. But no, just some bad breath from rotting tissue.
The fact that dragons had returned didn’t bother him. It’s never the appearance of evil or a menacing beast that gets to you. It’s the why. As far as Maren was concerned, two answers branched off from that question: the dragons had come back to claim Avestas as their own, or—and far more frightening—someone, somewhere, had fielded them as their own personal army.
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