Contents
Witchwyrm Title
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Poem
Untitled document
1-1
1-2
1-3
1-4
PART TWO
2-1
2-2
2-3
2-4
PART THREE
3-1
3-2
3-3
3-4
3-5
PART FOUR
4-1
4-2
PART FIVE
5-1
5-2
5-3
5-4
5-5
5-6
PART SIX
6-1
6-2
6-3
6-4
6-5
PART SEVEN
7-1
7-2
PART EIGHT
8-1
8-2
PART NINE
9-1
9-2
9-3
9-4
9-5
PART TEN
10-1
10-2
10-3
10-4
10-5
PART ELEVEN
11-1
11-2
11-3
11-4
11-5
PART TWELVE
12-1
12-2
12-3
12-4
12-5
PART THIRTEEN
13-1
13-2
13-3
13-4
13-5
PART FOURTEEN
14-1
14-2
14-3
14-4
PART FIFTEEN
15-1
15-2
15-3
15-4
PART SIXTEEN
16-1
16-2
16-3
16-4
PART SEVENTEEN
17-1
17-2
17-3
17-4
Author Page
MARK OF THE WITCHWYRM
A monstrous tale of axes and alchemy by
STEVE VAN SAMSON
Copyright © 2021 by Steve Van Samson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
Digital Reader Edition
First Printing, 2021
Cover art by René Aigner
Jacket Design by Steve Van Samson
Rough House Publishing
PO Box 3232
Worcester MA 01613
www.RoughHousePublishing.com
For Madeline.
May you always find a little of yourself in Rivka.
She has your hope, your heart, and just a tiny bit of your courage.
~Love Dadeline
FOREWARD & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The book in your hands represents roughly three years worth of work, but the story goes a bit farther back than that.
For over two decades I've had the components and characters of this world swimming around my head, though I had always planned on a different member of the Belmorn lineage taking center stage. A character who I have always thought of as "my Conan". My roving adventurer who walks through a world of myth and plague. It was only in late 2017, when I began plotting everything out, that I decided to set this particular story much earlier. That the book which I originally titled "Black Ouroboros" would in fact be a prequel to those other stories... which could come later. And they will.
A big scaly thanks go to my intrepid readers: Ken, Desiree, Jordan, & especially to my brother Tim For helping me hammer out that ending. Also to Derek Rook for all of his incredible work, bottomless enthusiasm and for believing in this project (and this writer) enough to take a chance on publishing his first novel. A novel which, by the way, would be in much worse shape if not for my wonderful editor and dear friend, Trisha Wooldridge. In addition to cracking the reins whenever I got any of the horse stuff wrong, she gifted me the beautiful poem which you will find printed on the following page.
~Steve Van Samson
One Thing Unchanging
A will o'wisp trail leads not quite to home,
through uncanny valley, steaming sea foam.
Mythic multiverses tell tales restyled,
and echo-skewed stories twisted to poem.
When common knowledge redefines truth,
overlapped maps remark known paths, forsooth.
Familiar cities, alien gods...
Death and life change in the flash of a tooth.
Hungry fantasies shift solid, then fray.
Reality scarred from wytch magic's sway,
where real teeth bite flesh and tail stingers tear
holes to a realm where bones of victims lay.
Between bard call and book, tellings compiled,
Truth changes currency, value defiled.
Yet unspoiled, unchanged, steadfast and true,
is ever a father's love for their child.
By Trisha Wooldridge
1 - 1
Flakes of white drifted down and down, between leafless branches, frosting all with sleepy indifference.
So this is snow. To the man upon the long-legged horse, the exotic precipitation weaved a kind of magic. He was a stranger to these cold northern woods--a traveler from a region where the daring speared and hauled slime-slick beasts onto damp, waiting banks.
Before now snow had existed solely in tales--the sort of thing that might pass between travelers on their way from one somewhere to the next. But in this foreign place, those tales at least, were manifest. Feeling a burgeoning shiver at the base of his spine, the rider turned away from a gust of wind.
Circling his head, was a leather band with several burnished medallions. As well as a pair of long black heron feathers, the band held in place a dark headscarf. The garment was black as the hair beneath it--with long, tattered tassels that whipped in the breeze behind.
There was also a collar which lent the bearings of a rogue. It was turned up and large enough to hide a strong nose, harsh jaw, and almost omnipresent frown. Of the man's face, all that could be seen were a pair of eyes which glared with the fatigue of nineteen long weeks. They were grey, those eyes. Determined and full of storms.
Rander Belmorn was an imposing man with a prodigious weight upon his sun-beaten brow. He was descended from a proud, nomadic tribe who'd once hunted enormous elk in the shadow of the Karaggash Ridge. Almost two centuries ago, those copper-skinned people were forced to abandon their plains for a new home. Settling at last upon the banks of a massive, uncrossable river. A brackish body of water which not only bisected the continent but teemed with the sort of prey most were too afraid to hunt. Taming the gigantic horses they found there, these people carved out a new existence--not as hunters or fishermen, but something in between.
Rander Belmorn was a man of the river--what some called a blackfoot. And he was far, far from home.
SNAP!
A crisp rending of twig pulled the man's attention. He glared between trees that were taller and more dense than he had ever known possible. But beyond the snow dusted trunks, Belmorn saw nothing. No beast or villain to hinder his progress, and so he relaxed. Settling back into the rocking movement of his horse.
After a long, quiet moment, the stallion shook its head, causing the bridle to whip and jingle. Like all of its breed, t
he animal was immense. As big as any draught horse but longer of leg. Its coat was nearly black--the color of rain-kissed soil--except the legs, which looked to have been painted of pure alabaster. Where the two opposing hues met, light attacked dark in the manner of bold, horizontal stripes.
An adamandray would be an exotic sight in all lands save the Black River region where it had dropped so unceremoniously to the ground. Though he was much younger then, Belmorn could still recall the sight of that ungainly foal blinking up at him, wondering what in the world had just happened.
It has been said that, against its will, an adamandray is harder to move than the tallest oak. Yet for the past nineteen weeks, the stallion served his oldest friend well--bearing the man down roads of stone and pressed earth, past villages, cities and markets where men swallowed flaming swords or shouted their wares.
Magnus was the horse's given name, even if it was seldom used anymore.
"Sorry, Old Man." The blackfoot spoke with a dry rasp, his vocal cords not yet accustomed to the climate. "Drifted away there for a second."
Belmorn patted the horse's neck, and for a fleeting second, he considered glancing behind. South. Back over the travel and toil of nineteen weeks. All the way back home. To a small riverside village called Grael.
"I bet you're hungry."
The horse coughed up a cloud, flipping its long black mane. After coming to a stop, Belmorn swung a leg over the saddle horn and dismounted. Thumb and forefinger worked at the collar button until the flaps of leather parted. With his face now woefully exposed, a sudden shiver racked the man.
He had never worn a beard before, nor had his hair ever come so near his shoulders. Such trappings were burdens to men who pulled enormous eels and worse out of those black southern rivers. As he scratched the obscured line of his chin, Belmorn's mind yearned to wander again--to slip backwards along the road.
What would Malia think if she could see him now? Would she fancy this leaner, hairier, more hollow-eyed version of her husband? Belmorn frowned, suddenly feeling very cold.
His gaze fell to the flakes gathering on the black fur of his cloak. The bear pelt was a recent acquisition, purchased from an eight fingered merchant in Britilpor. Only a few weeks back, he had scoffed at the idea of spending good coin on anything that could not be digested. But now, as the hairs of that cloak collected more and more snow, he regretted not spending a little more on something with a hood.
The adamandray whickered impatiently, nudging the rider back into the moment. With something like a smile, Belmorn slid his hand down the animal's neck to a small satchel. A potent aroma asserted itself as he extracted three pale stalks, each terminating in a conspicuous white bulb. He had been carrying the leeks for three days and nights, ever since discovering them growing on the side of the road.
The musky bouquet caused a pang to twist in the man's gut. Gripping one of the leeks between his teeth he snapped the stalk in two. Keeping the white half for himself, he fed the greens to Magnus.
"Sorry there isn't something better." After watching the stalks disappear, he patted the animal's neck. "Don't worry, Old Man, we'll find more soon. The city can't be far now."
Belmorn chewed his final bite slowly, imagining the leek was a bit of roasted eel fillet with dill gravy. The beautiful musing caused the man's stomach to twist and complain. He couldn't help but lament finishing the last strips of dried rabbit two days earlier. It had tasted good enough, but with the meat gone, these pale stalks were among his most prized possessions. If he was wrong about being able to find more food and soon, both horse and rider were going to be in a bad way.
No--it wouldn't come to that. They just had to reach the city.
Magnus' ear twitched and rotated. Without warning, the stallion coughed up a puff of steam and a series of nervous grunts. Something was in the air. Something subtle but steadily gathering above the snow. Belmorn could feel it too and so they both stood as statues--just listening. To the man's surprise, he could hear the snow as it fell around him. But there was another sound. An under-sound.
Birds, Belmorn thought. His gaze shot to the path, and then, straight through the trees.
The sky flashed bright white and rumblings of thunder weren't far behind.
"Steady, Old Man," said Belmorn, reassuring his friend with a firm pat on the neck. "Steady. Just a little lightning, that's all. Usually it follows rain... why not this?"
Again Belmorn found himself staring between the trees to the right of his path. The echoes of thunder were gone, but he could still hear the other sound--the birds.
"Crows," he muttered. "They sound mad. Frenzied."
There was something about the cawing racket that seemed important. But what? The man's mind tried to produce an answer, but it felt frozen and slow. Then, just as a new pang of hunger pulsed in his gut, Belmorn remembered something.
"Crows," he said with sudden understanding. "Crows scavenge."
Hanging from one side of the saddle were a series of sturdy iron rings--all square, all mounted to a long leather strap. Stepping into the first of these, Belmorn leapt back into his saddle. Shifting his legs almost imperceptibly, the blackfoot clicked his tongue, which spurred the beast into a gallop. In a veritable blur, the trees of the forest rushed past. The tall, branchless things were not especially tightly packed. Moving between them on the back of most horses would be considered idiotic at best, but Magnus was far from most horses.
As the pair bounded headlong past brush, over fallen trunk, the cawing din grew louder--closer. Sensing this, Belmorn slowed to a trot. There was definitely something up ahead, just through the trees. And whatever was happening was happening there. From such a close proximity, it felt as if the chorus of birds were scraping the inside of his skull.
Another flash lit the heavens. It was brighter than before and a peel of thunder was directly behind. The lighting was getting closer, but what did that mean for a snow storm? Belmorn didn't know, and he didn't care. Nothing mattered beyond the prospect of having something in his stomach besides onions and day-old bile.
Fluidly, the blackfoot slid from the saddle to the ground. Then, keeping his eyes on the clearing, he led the adamandray over to a tree--looping the reins around its trunk.
At this, Magnus gave an angry snort.
"I'm just going to have a look. This..." He pulled the reins taught so the horse could see. "This knot is not my best work, okay? You understand?"
The horse chuffed, regarding the clearing with one bulging eye.
"Listen... I don't know what's in there. If things go bad... you'll hear--you'll know." Belmorn gave a small tug so the horse could see the looseness of the knot. "If that happens, don't come after me. Okay? Just break this and go."
The horse stamped a rear hoof on the forest floor and received a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The Blackfoot's hand slid then to the first of a pair of axes mounted on his saddle. Gripping the handles, he pulled them free--turning them in his palms until the blades faced the ground.
"Oh stop worrying. Remember... Rinh is with us."
Belmorn turned toward the squawking cacophony. Stealth would be a wasted effort, he knew. As he stalked toward the noise, his fingers tightened around the two axe handles. Like the man who held them, the axes were Graelian--each supporting a massive, wedge shaped head. These tapered down to a keen, crescent edge which spoke more of scythes than axes. The weight of the weapons felt good in his hands. Powerful. And more, they felt a lot like home.
The sensation hit him so hard, he could almost smell the riverland of his birth. And the raging waters--dark, brackish and full of fury.
1 - 2
Back pressed against a trunk, Belmorn peered around and into the cacophony. Birds--they were everywhere. There had to be a hundred or more--big, black and all riled into a frenzy. The biggest crows he had ever seen. At least twice the size of their black river cousins.
The man stared into the cawing legion that seemed more like a great swarm of insects than birds. H
e tried to grasp some sense of what he was witnessing, but the racket pressed into his ears, making it hard to think.
Suddenly and all at once, the cloud of crows swelled, parted. It all happened fast, but not too fast for the blackfoot's eyes to see and understand with terrible certainty. That inside that swirling storm of feather and claw was a man.
Belmorn retreated a step. The pair of Graelian axes suddenly felt very good in his hands.
The crows' victim wore a hooded cloak of darkest blue--a shade just past proper midnight. Some of the birds circled above like half-sized vultures; the rest were on the attack, reaching out with sharp talons and thick, powerful beaks, screaming their ugly, sour notes.
Amidst the racket, Belmorn could hear the swipes of the hooded man's stick slicing through the air. Bizarrely, the hand that wasn't brandishing the feeble weapon was held straight out--perfectly parallel to the ground. For some reason, the man had been tethered where he stood. Around one of his arms were loops of a thick, greenish rope which ran in a taut line to a tree.
Belmorn stared agape at the scene before him. And the longer he did so, the more certain he became that rope was rather a braid of slithery vines. That the hooded man was not tied to the old tree. That in fact, he was ensnared by it.
"Is this the best you've got?!" The hooded man roared above the noise. Then his stick connected, mid-arc, with one of the crows. The strike sent the bird careening through the air. After hitting the ground head first, its wings flapped feebly while hand-sized talons raked the ground.
"Ha!" The hooded man's voice roared with satisfaction. "That's what you get! Every last one of you!"
In answer, the feathered maelstrom seemed to darken. The flapping, cawing mass moved as if possessed of a single mind. More school than flock, it regrouped then fell once more upon the tethered man, who managed to cinch up his hood at the last possible second.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 1
