"Twenty-eight years?" Tharkrist was smiling now, which was doubly unsettling thanks to his canine features. "How interesting. How very, very interesting."
Mirek felt his hackles rise. "Why do you ask?"
"And you are the only one who ever sees this Dark Tree?"
"I said—"
"And these murders didn't occur before your time, am I right?"
"—why do you ask!" Mirek was standing now, breath coming in ragged gasps. He knew all too clearly why Tharkrist asked. He just wanted the sorcerer to say it. He just wanted to know that his paranoia hadn't gotten the better of him, that his fears weren't just a product of his imagination.
Tharkrist indulged him. "People have been arriving in the Second World dead for twenty-eight years." He gave Mirek a moment of silence to let that sink in, and then said in an offhand manner, "What do you know of the First World?"
Mirek was still digesting this and flipped his hand dismissively. "Oh, just what anyone knows. That it's where our souls originated, as some sort of fruit on the Birthing Tr—" He froze. Even the air in his lungs was stuck, unwilling to finish the word because doing so would finish the thought.
Tharkrist's long white teeth were bared in a knowing smile. "I'm sorry? Were you going to say the Birthing Tree?"
Mirek sat down heavily on the ground. "No. It can't be. You think that the Birthing Tree is..." It was too preposterous to think, much less say.
"No. At least not the whole thing, but..." He shrugged. "I'd say the evidence strongly suggests that part of it is here. A twig of it, or perhaps a shadow of a twig."
Mirek covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Lord have mercy on my poor wretched soul and take me from this world."
"Oh, I doubt very much he'll be doing that any time soon. It sounds like you have a job to do first." And with that, Tharkrist barked a laugh.
* * *
Sorn crouched in the shadow of the Temple of the Lord, arm muscles tense as he held his sword in front of him. He wiped sweat from his brow, and only when he looked at his hand did he realize that the sweat was actually blood.
Turning to the ice-encrusted stone wall of the Temple, he gave his thanks to the Lord that it wasn't his blood. No, it was the blood of the wicked. The thought that he wore such a trophy ran a thrill up his spine.
The world had gone insane. Pockets of violence had erupted all over the city with no seeming pattern. One moment a Tokkarintsman had been perusing clay jars in the market, haggling with the shopkeep over their prices. The next moment, the man had broken the shopkeep's arm and bitten a hole in his neck. A dozen—or many more, Sorn didn't know—such incidents were sprinkled throughout the city, causing a panic wherever they happened.
Luckily, he had been present for some of them and was able to quell such evil.
He crept to the street corner, careful not to arouse too much suspicion. The people here were calm, though there seemed to be an undercurrent of fear thrumming through them. They hadn't seen anything yet, but they knew something was going on, something evil.
If they saw Sorn step into the sunlit square covered in blood, they would start running and screaming. It didn't matter that it wasn't the blood of the innocent; people were generally fools, and couldn't sense such things as intuitively as Sorn could.
He silently cursed himself for his lapse in judgment. This whole errand had been a waste of time, even if it did provide a few opportunities to lay waste to injustice. The captain had been dead when Sorn arrived, his limbs ripped—not chopped—ripped from his body and were nowhere to be found. The captain's jaw had been snapped open and his tongue eaten right out of his mouth. While the captain had been no stalwart defender of justice, he had been a man of the watch, which was as close as most men got to serving the good. He was, all things considered, an innocent.
Sorn didn't believe in coincidence. No, if one looked hard enough, if one gathered enough confessions from the weak, he could find a pattern.
Sorn was adept at finding patterns in the minds of the crooked.
This whole catastrophe had the stink of sorcery about it.
And he knew only one sorcerer who would delight in seeing another man's limbs taken from him.
Again, Sorn cursed his folly, leaving that murderer in the cellar with Tharkrist. No doubt Mirek had furthered the sorcerer's corruption with his own. Nothing like this had ever happened until those two were together.
Odd, random murders always seemed to coincide with Mirek's odd moods. Sorn had never trusted him, though at the time he hadn't been sure what Mirek's connection to the killings was. At least that's what he told himself; Sorn knew it was his compassion, his weakness, that prevented him from pursuing justice with that vile scum sooner than this.
Yet that was nothing compared to this grand oversight. Leaving them together was the worst mistake Sorn had ever made in all his lives. The grip on the hilt of his sword tightened and saliva flooded his mouth as he imagined all the ways he could correct his mistake.
A single scream, sharp and piercing, pealed from the depths of the crowd on the street. People spun, eyes wide with terror, and then began running in every direction. That one scream was like a spark that set off a wildfire of screaming, burning through them as if they were tinder.
At least Sorn didn't have to worry about upsetting them now.
One corner of his mouth cocked up in a half-smile, he trotted forward, sword at the ready.
Justice was here.
* * *
Tharkrist was not a small man, and lifting up onto Mirek's back had been nothing short of a chore. "At least," Tharkrist said, waggling the stumps of his limbs "I have a little less weight for you to deal with." Mirek didn't think that funny at all.
He was somewhat amazed at how quickly he had come to trust the sorcerer, as trust was something that didn't come easily—or at all, most times—to Mirek. He didn't think it was Tharkrist's pitiful state; indeed, the sorcerer didn't seem all that pitiful when Mirek considered his command of magic. Was it the guilelessness of his voice? The honesty reflected in his eyes? Mirek just wasn't sure.
Perhaps it was something simpler. Perhaps they were kindred spirits, bound together by circumstance.
Although Mirek wondered where such trust came from, he didn't question whether or not it was warranted. He trusted Tharkrist, and that was that. It was an odd sensation, one that wasn't altogether unpleasant. It was because of his trust of the sorcerer that he decided they would escape together, or not at all.
It turned out their cell was actually a cellar, holding racks of wine casks for the inn. Some of the tapped and emptied casks had been filled with things that made Mirek want to vomit. He couldn't understand what kind of monster, even someone like Sorn, could do that to people.
Sorn had smeared dripping, black gobs of pitch on the support beams and posts throughout the cellar, so that if Tharkrist tried to use his power to escape, it would ensure a quick and fiery death for him. Tharkrist's eyes gleamed hungrily in the light of his tiny flame as he said what he wanted to do to this place now that Mirek would help him escape.
"Not until we know what sort of man the innkeeper is. Perhaps he is just as trapped by Sorn as we are."
Tharkrist bared his teeth and snarled in a low voice, "Any man who allows his clansmen to be murdered without trying to stop it is an enemy of Berahmain and all the God is fighting for. Killing him would only be justice."
"No. The watch needs to see this place, to see what kind of men these are. We would be doing these men a favor by destroying the evidence of their crimes. Our best chance at justice lies with escaping this place unseen and bringing the watch in force."
A growl rumbled in Tharkrist's throat where it rested against Mirek's shoulder. Feeling it unsettled him.
"All right," Tharkrist said, "I accept, unless our lives are at stake. Justice can only prevail if we are alive to tell about it."
Mirek nodded, shifting Tharkrist's weight higher up on his back as they passed row upon row of wine
casks. The place almost seemed a maze. Mirek wondered if Sorn had shifted things around down here to confuse any potential escapees. A ridiculous scheme, but Sorn was mad enough to think it would make a difference to someone who was determined to get out of here.
Mirek was determined. He would not be discouraged by a few dead ends.
They arrived at an iron door. No light filtered through the gaps.
"I sense the breath of old fire here," said Tharkrist. "I think the door has been welded shut somehow from the other side."
Of course. Sorn was insane, not stupid. "Can you undo it?"
"Set me down."
Mirek was only too happy to comply. He rested Tharkrist against the wall perpendicular to the door. Tharkrist nodded his thanks and the flame went out, plunging them into darkness.
"Is that necess—"
"Shh. Let me work."
At first there was only silence. Now that his other senses provided him with nothing, Mirek's sense of smell sharpened. The smell of death and old blood, though muted by the cold, made him gag.
Thankfully, it was quickly overcome by the smell of burning and sulfur.
A popping sound rang out, and a thin, dull orange line of light pierced the darkness from one side of the door frame. That line dimmed, and a second line sprang to life at the top edge of the door frame. Mirek was amazed to see Tharkrist's firebinding at work.
A thumping of boots upstairs. A loud voice. "What the Tree is going on?!"
"The innkeeper's coming," Tharkrist said. Mirek couldn't see him, but he sounded weary. "Can you take care of him?"
Mirek swallowed, wishing he had had the foresight to carry some other weapon besides his sword, which now lay discarded in the graveyard outside. After the day's previous misadventures, every joint and muscle in his body ached. Sitting on the cold stone floor in the cellar and carrying Tharkrist on his back hadn't helped matters any. "Yes," he said, and almost believed it.
The second line dimmed, and the final edge of the door began to glow with a warm, orange light.
Heavy feet began to thump down some steps beyond the door.
Mirek felt his body tense. If he survived this day, he would go away somewhere, to a place where no one knew him, to a place where no one would want him dead.
A man had to dream, didn't he?
The orange light suddenly flared, spilling sparks and flame out of the door frame.
"Shit! Help me up!" Mirek positioned himself so that Tharkrist could pull himself onto his back. "Sorn planned ahead. He stuffed pitch in the doorframe, in case I—"
Screams. A massive weight crashed into the door, blasting it off its hinges. The large, man-shaped form of the innkeeper staggered into the room. The man's face, arms, and chests were covered in liquid flames, dancing across his burning skin to the rhythm of his cries.
"Go!" Tharkrist barked. "Go now!"
Lines of pitch erupted in flame as the burning innkeeper stumbled blindly, desperately trying to rub the flames off his skin, doing as much damage to his flesh as the flames did. Only a moment passed before the posts and beams were afire, bathing the room in wild orange light and filling the air with forceful heat.
Their only exit was blocked by a huge, thrashing man on fire.
"Can't you do anything about the flames?"
"No! Just go!" The tone of his voice was enough for Mirek to determine that Tharkrist was drained, teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Steeling himself, he gripped Tharkrist's legs tighter around his waist, crouched low and sprinted for the burning innkeeper. At the last moment, he lifted his knee and brought his foot down quickly, crushing the man's instep.
Howling maniacally, the innkeeper stumbled off to their side and collapsed to the ground, rolling about, clutching his broken leg, and sobbing uncontrollably.
Mirek didn't spare the man a second glance. He sprinted towards the door. The panic flowing through his veins tapped a reservoir of hidden strength. He almost didn't feel the aches in his body or the weight of the sorcerer on his back. All he could feel was an all-consuming urge to escape.
He took the stairs two at a time. The stairwell led straight to the common room. It was empty. He made for the door.
A whoosh filled his ears, and then an eerie silence as he was a mere two steps from the door. Heat and light exploded behind him, and it was as if a hand scooped him up, lifting his feet from the floor, and launched him at the door.
He closed his eyes and threw his arms up before his face. Wood crashed into him, then he was flying, then the ground smashed into his back. Heat and light and screaming pain and he didn't know what the Tree else was happening.
Mirek came to finally, not knowing how long he was unconscious, and opened his eyes. He was on the street, which was strangely empty. The afternoon sun shone down on him cheerily. He looked over. The inn was a roiling ball of flame.
Maybe it hadn't been wine in those casks after all.
He suddenly realized that he no longer felt Tharkrist's weight on his back. He pressed himself onto a bruised and bleeding elbow, and caught sight of the sorcerer not far away.
Face down on the cobbles. Not moving.
"Tharkrist," he groaned. "Tharkrist!"
No response.
Mirek struggled to his feet and scrambled over. He rolled Tharkrist over. The sorcerer's eyes were closed, his breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.
Still alive, at least.
"Hold on," Mirek said, eyes casting about for something—anything—to help him move him to safety. Berahmain only knew that Mirek wouldn't be able to carry him on his back anymore. "Just..." Stay alive. Please.
A wheelbarrow lay tipped on its side. Its contents, a pile of frost-rimed firewood, were sprawled out across the open door to someone's home. Mirek didn't pause long to consider the oddness of the scene. He only thanked the Lord as he righted his prize and rolled it over to where Tharkrist lay. The barrow was large enough for a man, but it wouldn't be comfortable. He doubted Tharkrist was in any position to mind right now.
With some grunting and exertion, he loaded up his charge.
Tharkrist opened his eyes.
Mirek sighed in relief. His vision suddenly blurred—most likely from the heat, he told himself. He wiped at his eyes anyway. "You're awake."
Tharkrist's black eyes fixed on him as he affected a weak smile, then his gaze drifted off to some point behind Mirek. He mumbled something.
Frowning, Mirek leaned in. "What did you say?"
"Behind you."
Mirek spun.
* * *
Sorn's blade quivered as it scraped rib bones, plunging ever deeper into flesh. He imagined he could feel the final beat of the heart softly jolt along the length of his steel, and then nothing. With an excited smile, he pressed his boot next to the sword wound and kicked the wicked creature free.
He had no idea so many evil people lived in his city. Perhaps the sorcerer was actually doing Sorn a favor by exposing them, bringing their true nature to light so that Sorn can rid the Fourth World of their foul presence.
He was quite beginning to enjoy himself.
It didn't matter that the cruel, violent beast at his feet was a child of an apparent age of no more than fourteen years. Sorn was raised into the world as a ten-year-old. He well knew the darkness that lurked in the hearts of other children.
He didn't bother to wipe down the blade. Its curved surfaces were saturated with blood. Sorn knew his sword liked the taste of it, so he left it there. Today, his sword feasted.
An explosion roared to life two streets away. He lifted his gaze to see a black cloud of smoke belch into the sky, lit with red and orange veins of flickering fire.
The inn.
Far from disappointed as he knew he should have felt, Sorn only felt his excitement grow. This was an interesting new development. He wondered what it meant.
Baring his teeth ever wider in a feral grin, he ran towards the fire, his skin crawling with expectant curiosity.
* * *
<
br /> The blood smeared across the sporebound's blue face was dark, almost purple in the light of the burning inn. Dead, glazed eyes stared out of that face. The cheek muscles on one side were slack; on the other side, tightened into a chilling, mirthless smile. It was as if the creature's mind was at war with itself, unable to consistently command the body to purposeful action.
For which Mirek was grateful. The sporebound man was massive, nearly twice as thick as the innkeeper. Little of that girth was comprised of softer tissue. One foot lumbered forward; the other dragged, nearly tripping the giant of a man. His shoulder jerked back suddenly, making a loud popping noise, as if something dislocated. His fingers danced uncontrollably, as if imagining a million different ways to cause harm.
Mirek backed up, cursing when his heel hit the barrow. The man—no, creature, now—advanced slowly, but Mirek knew that could change in a flash. Only twenty feet separated them. If Mirek made the wrong move, it would be over in a heartbeat.
Frantically his eyes searched for a weapon, for anything that would even the odds. He remembered the firewood... but they would be slick with ice, short, and difficult to grip besides. Not much of an advantage, and he would have to abandon his friend in order to get it.
Friend. It was as if Mirek only now understood the word, after living in this world for so many years, alone, not truly caring for anybody, not cared for by anybody. No, he would not leave Tharkrist alone to die. Not for anything.
Then he remembered the sword. If he could distract the sporebound, draw him towards the graveyard...
"Tharkrist, play dead." He glanced over his shoulder. Tharkrist wasn't moving at all. He tried not to let that worry him. "Good. Just like that." Slowly, Mirek began edging toward the graveyard.
The creature watched him listlessly. Its fingers suddenly twitched into fists, both legs locked into a tensed stance.
"Yes," Mirek muttered, "follow me. Come on." Without tearing his eyes from his opponent, he took another step.
The sporebound took a step, faltered, fell to its knees with a pain-wracked expression. Something burst from its massive chest in a spray of blood.
Glistening steel.
With a gurgling last gasp, the creature fell forward, revealing a figure behind.
Whereas the sporebound's eyes seemed vacant and dead, this man's seemed alive and vibrant with madness.
Dark Tree: A Tale of the Fourth World Page 3
