Belmorn couldn't have said what was going to happen next, but he knew he could not in good conscience remain idle. His grip tightened on the axe in his right hand. His throwing arm. The crow on the ground, still dazed, never saw it coming.
THUKK!
The effect was as explosive as it was instantaneous. No sooner had the axe struck the ground, then the panicked crows scattered in all directions. By fives and tens, the birds came to roost. Lining high branches, a safe distance away, the scowling things muttered softly amongst themselves.
Chaos momentarily abated, Belmorn looked about like a fox searching the grass for wolves. He could see that only two of the birds remained, though not by choice.
At this distance, Belmorn could see the greenish ropes were actually thorn-covered vines. Strands of the initial braid had apparently released the hooded man's arm and now gripped the two remaining crows. One of the birds pecked its way free and flew off to join the retreated flock. The other did nothing but flap its wings and scream the way only crows can. The pathetic sight brought to Belmorn's mind images of a child's kite in a hard wind.
Snow-covered leaves crunched as the blackfoot approached. His gaze remained fixed on the hooded victim. And for many long moments, the two strangers stood in silence, neither wanting to be the first to look away.
Without a word, Belmorn scooped up the crow he had killed and pulled his axe from the ground.
The hooded man was leaning backwards at an angle so severe, it would have been impossible without the tether. It seemed clear that a constant struggle was going on. That the man was actively fighting to keep his current footing. It was almost as if the vine were trying to reel him in.
Belmorn looked once more at the massive knot wrapped around the old tree and had an unsettling thought. That the way the bark was bulging out over the vines, it looked very much like the tree were being slowly strangled. He shuddered. He didn't like this. Not one damn bit.
The still tethered crow continued to squawk and gyrate in the air--caught like a fish on an ever shortening line. The end of the vine had already crept up the bird's body and looped around its neck.
Then, with a final squawk, the crow dropped--hitting the ground with a pathetic squeak. The living lasso continued to coil around its prey--mummifying the bird in thick coils of its own length. By the time the body reached the tree, there was no crow--only a thorny green pod. This was pulled up the trunk about three feet, where it was then secured by more creeping tendrils.
"Rinh." Belmorn was the first to speak. His voice was low, full of revulsion.. "What sort of tree is this?" He stopped there but meant to say more. Unfortunately, words seemed to be breaking on his tongue.
"That?" the hooded man grunted "That's a pine. Forget the tree. It's these damn vines you have to watch out for!" Losing a step, he slid a little closer to the knotted trunk. "Ever hear of a vampire rose?"
Belmorn shook his head. Now he could see the vines were reaching most of the way up the man's arm, barely inches away from his neck.
"It's a creeper vine. Predatory. Latches onto a tree and sends out these damned ropes under the leaves and snow. Anything touches one, it reacts like a flytrap," the man grunted as he was pulled forward a step. "And if you'd like a firsthand demonstration of how it feeds, by all means, continue to stand there and do nothing."
Belmorn's eyes flashed.
SNAP!
With one quick strike, the axe blade passed through the vine, sending the hooded man tumbling back on his ass.
Having lost their quarry, the vines began to shrivel back toward the old pine. Gripping the axe handle tighter, Belmorn fought off a shiver. He couldn't help but imagine the sort of scars such a hideous embrace would leave behind. Lowering his eyes to the ground, he chose his next step with care.
On the ground, the stranger's hood had fallen to reveal a pale, weathered face. The man wore a pointed beard and hair that was unkempt and black with a fair share of silver. Without a word, he scrambled to his feet and began brushing snow from both legs and backside. With a scowl, he turned from Belmorn to regard the trees. Then he hurled a stick at the nearest crow-lined branch.
"Damned feathered shrews!"
The stick went wild, soaring just under the intended branch and through the trees beyond. After throwing a rather obscene hand gesture, the man composed himself. Then he spared a single word for his rescuer.
"Thanks."
Belmorn watched speechless, as the man in the hood stormed off. Though perplexed, he could suddenly feel the weight of the crow which would be his supper, tugging at his hand. Enough of this hooded stranger, Belmorn had troubles of his own. Besides, he had instructed his horse to leave if it heard trouble. If Magnus had done so, the road ahead had just gotten a hell of a lot longer.
He turned to leave the hooded man to his business, but something made him stop and look back. What he saw made one eyebrow stand up. Against all good sense, the hooded man was marching straight for the old oak tree that had nearly been his grave.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Belmorn blurted out.
"Exactly what I came here for," grumbled the hooded man, lifting his feet oddly as he moved. "I don't suppose you have an unlit torch on you by chance."
Belmorn raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
Upon reaching the old oak, the hooded man carefully wrapped his fingers around the handle of something sticking out of the trunk. Then, with a single, firm tug, he pulled it free. It was a knife--long and thick, with a wicked curve to the blade. Belmorn hadn't noticed the thing before, but now it seemed the most important object in the glade. He watched intently as the now armed man rounded the tree, and the sinister knife passed from sight.
After that was when he heard them. Wet, squelching sounds. The insinuations of living things being cut.
"Finally!" The word hung heavy with relief. "Halfway round the world nine times and the answer was here. Right here, all along."
When the man appeared again, there was something new in his hand. Something small but apparently worth courting death for a second time to retrieve. Whatever it was, he secreted it away into an unseen pocket. The knife though... that, he held at the ready.
As the hooded man approached, Belmorn frowned behind his collar. The notion that he might be improperly paid for his efforts occurred. Stopping a few feet away, the hooded man's eyes narrowed into slits, as though he were taking in the look of his rescuer for the first time.
"You're still here," he said in an uninterested tone. "Fair warning... I've got no way to repay you for what you just did. And if you were thinking of robbing me... you should know that the others already took all the good stuff."
"You've got me wrong, friend. I'm no thief. The only thing I'm after tonight is supper," Belmorn held up the bird. "I'm on my way to Roon. And past it."
The other man said nothing. If his face wore an expression, it was obscured by the shadows of that midnight hood. There were numerous long, black feathers sticking out of his cloak--all at odd angles like the quills of some half-bald porcupine. Finally noticing this, the man began to pluck them out, one by one.
"There is nothing past Roon. Not anymore."
Belmorn's eyes widened, but he had no chance to respond.
"Have you ever eaten a timber crow before?" the other man asked.
"No." Belmorn shook his head.
"Better than starving outright, I suppose," the hooded man took a deep breath, rubbing the length of his arm that had been constricted. "Fair warning... the meat tastes like dead leaves and worm-asses, but if you can keep it down, boon for you."
"I'll... keep that in mind." Belmorn's eyes moved off the shabby bird carcass to sweep around the area. As far as he could tell, the hooded man was devoid of any resources, save for whatever might be stashed in the folds of his cloak. A man alone and effectively naked in the middle of a cold, dark forest.
"You say there were others? That you were robbed?"
"Robbed. Taunted. Left to die." The hooded m
an shrugged. "I believe that was the order. Must have been an hour ago. They found me just like you did, though there were less birds at that point. Bastards killed my horse, took all of my wares, and left me to feed the rose. They thought it was hilarious."
The story struck a chord in Belmorn. "I'm sorry." He frowned in distaste. For one brief moment, he considered bending his cardinal rule--the one about never investing in business outside of his own.
"Not your problem." The hooded man's tone was dismissive. "People are cold in these parts. Though I have to admit... the ones that left me to die didn't look half as nefarious as you, friend."
From behind his high collar Belmorn's head tilted back. He looked the man up and down--wondering where that curved dagger had gone to. Eventually, he let out a little sigh. Slowly, his eyes drifted back to the vine covered trunk--to the squirming pod that had once been a very large crow.
"We've got flowers back home," Belmorn swallowed hard. "Ours don't eat people."
"Most don't, as it happens." The hooded man stormed past, finding a spot of ground where the snow had been disturbed recently. "The vampire rose is unique. The thorns are hollow. It uses them like fangs. To feed. To drink."
The man spoke clinically. Matter-of-factly. As if he had not, barely five minutes ago, been caught in the clutches of the very monster he now described. As such, Belmorn couldn't help but wonder if the man's ordeal hadn't caused him to go a bit mad.
"This specimen is still young, which is why I chose it," the hooded man was rubbing his forearm. "Eventually, if it feeds enough, flowers will grow. Big ones. They do look a bit like roses from a few paces back. Give you one guess what color." Without waiting for an answer, the hooded man fixed a glare between the trees. "Ah..." He looked suddenly pleased. "I got you, you son of a bitch."
"You've got... ?" Belmorn looked at him in confusion. "Not the men who robbed you!"
"Who else?" The other man sounded preoccupied. "Mannis Morgrig--an ugly name for a rat who fancies himself a wolf. I knew this bit of wood fell under his pissing territory, but I've only recently returned to these woods. Before tonight, I'd be fortunate enough to know the man solely by his reputation." As he spoke the word, the hooded man seemed to dwell on the unsavory taste of it. "The rest of his merry band are just flies, but Morgrig, well... he's the shit they've gathered around."
With that came another flash and rumble. In the weird light of the clearing, Belmorn stood and stared as thoughts turned inside his skull.
"Snow lightning is a bad omen," said the hooded man with a flat, distant look. "Bad... but for who?" He said this strangely, as if speaking to a third party only he could see.
"You can't go after these men." Belmorn's voice was grim. He plunged forward a series of steps until the hooded man was within arm's reach. "Alone, you'll be at their mercy all over again."
"Alone..." The hooded man locked eyes with his savior. "Alone is my truest state. My only state." The man's voice had become low and deadly. He turned his back to Belmorn, inserting a hand into his cloak. "And before you go offering something both of us will regret... a bit of advice. When you wake up... please be on your way. Nothing here deserves one second more of your time. Just get back to the path. Roon is shit as destinations go, but it isn't far."
Confoundment twisted Belmorn's face. He started to say something, but the man in the hood moved fast. His arm thrusting forth a handful of what looked like very fine sand.
Muscles clenched, joints locked in their place, and the body of Rander Belmorn became rigid as stone--dropping most unflatteringly to the snow-dusted ground.
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There was no light, only black--and black were the sounds.
Surrounded by a copious void, Belmorn became aware of a vague sensation--like something pulling at the back of his mind. The longer he concentrated, the more it summoned the notion of something unfinished. Something of the gravest importance. But before he could recall what the something was, a shimmering silhouette appeared before him.
The light made Belmorn wince in pain. This new something, hurt his eyes. Beholding it was not unlike staring too close to an open flame or directly into the sun. Though the silhouette was not well defined, he knew it to be the outline of a child. Belmorn felt himself reaching out, but the child--the boy, he knew somehow--was far beyond his reach.
Suddenly, he wanted to scream, to tell the boy not to go. But in this land of nothing, his voice was like everything else. It did not exist. Unable to stop it, the child-like shimmer did a fine impression of time and slipped away.
Time. The word formed in his mind. On this errand, time was his greatest foe.
When his true eyes opened again, for a split second, Belmorn assumed he was dead. High above, trees stretched like great featureless columns--all reaching for a single vanishing point. He tried to move his legs, his arms, even his tongue, but all felt as pliant as stone.
Deep inside, the man felt a gathering panic. He tried to think, to remember what had happened, but a dark shape darted past his vision. The first crow was soon followed by others, emboldened by their brother's tenacity. Belmorn gaped in impotent horror as more and more of his field of vision was invaded by wings and beaks and talons. Negative space bled into and asserted itself over the positive.
Utterly frantic, the stone man poured every ounce of will into a single action. To move his hand. To swat away the bird that had just landed on his leg. Gods--the size of it. Practically eagles, these timber crows. The bird's head twitched--rotating in short, mechanical increments. It hopped forward onto the man's crotch, twitching its head back the other way. Belmorn's effort to move was colossal, monumental--the hooded man's attack had done its work. Whatever magics dwelt within that strange dust had severed the connection between body and mind.
This is why, he thought, you never bend the damned cardinal rule.
Again the crow hopped--this time onto Belmorn's chest. Its eyes seemed to contain no malice or ill will of any kind, but something far worse... a black, bottomless hunger. The first strike shot a jolt of white pain, but this was merely exploratory. The second was worse.
When the bird pulled back, there was something in its beak. Something pink and wriggly like the tip of an earthworm. Belmorn watched, frozen in revulsion as the bird threw back its head, gulping down the tiny morsel that had once been part of his lower lip.
In his head, Belmorn bellowed--raged--battling the spell of the hooded man he had spared from a fate that now seemed deserved. But no matter how hard he fought, no fist would form from his lifeless fingers.
Something occurred.
Perhaps his initial assumption had been correct. Perhaps he really was dead, and this was simply what all men experienced after their time was up. A torture among tortures, unlike any recorded. For none who experienced it had the means of forging it into a warning. Trapped in a shell called self--forced to watch, whilst a pitiless world spun on.
Again, the crow's head flicked into a new angle. From hungry to curious. There were more of them now. Belmorn could see others on and around his useless limbs--each armed with a terrible beak and the unmistakable air of greed. Having sampled a bit of lip already, the boldest crow pointed its beak directly at the man's left eye socket.
Belmorn did the only thing he could do. He prepared himself. In his mind, he could see two faces--a dark-skinned woman with long black hair and a small boy that had his father's grey eyes. The emotions that swelled were powerful. Even there, lying in the snow, they warmed him. Exchanging fear for a profound sense of regret. And worse... of failure.
He could hear the woman's voice.
"Don't go," she said. "Don't you dare walk through that door."
Sudden movement flashed to the frantic blur of dark wings. The birds parted in his vision--screaming their dissonant, off-key chorus. Forgetting his state, Belmorn tried to crane his neck, but just as before, the man's body ignored his commands. And so he continued to stare in the only place he could. Watching snow and feathers as they
drifted gently down.
Then he heard them--the repeating crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps coming steadily closer. It was a familiar sound, and the longer Belmorn listened, the more certain he became. These steps were not human.
A long face appeared. One that terminated in a pair of enormous, black nostrils that gaped and fired clouds of hot steam. At the sight of his oldest friend, Belmorn practically burst.
"Magnus!" The word surprised the massive horse far less than the man lying in the snow. "Can't move. Some damned spell..." With this, one of his fingers gave a sudden twitch. "Wearing off... I think. Just don't go anywhere. Damn feathered shrews."
The adamandray snorted in agreement. Then he pawed at his friend's chest with a huge hairy hoof, stroking as gently as one might ever dare hope from an animal of such an impressive size.
In all, it was close to an hour before Belmorn was able to reach a full sitting position. And a few minutes more before he realized that he was not so far from a small, but healthy campfire. The sight of the thing was inexplicable, but he could hardly protest. And so, he allowed the flames to do their work, reveling in the warmth as it moved through his limbs, into his bones. Though his body was stiff, muscles were beginning to recall and slowly resume their purposes.
Both the snow and strange, out-of-place lightning had passed... and with them, the light of day. Despite his pragmatic nature, Belmorn had held out hope to spend this particular night in a bed. A real one, with neither stone nor root to prod and torment him into the small hours. Roon, the fabled city at World's Edge, was close now. He could feel it. But whatever else he was, Rander Belmorn was no fool. He had been on the road too long to risk travel by moonlight.
In the snowy glade, serenity had settled. The crows had all flown away, and aside from the gigantic horse, Belmorn was alone. He sat basking and listening to the fire's gentle pops, and for the moment, he was content.
Not for the first time, his tongue inspected the triangular gap in his lower lip. The pain had been sharp at first, but was worse now. The area felt hot. Dangerously so. As soon as possible, Belmorn knew he was going to have to sew the wound shut. He possessed both thread and needle but the thought of what he had to do was too much to face just yet.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 2
