And so he resolved, just for a while to brood on the hooded man, and what he might do if they ever crossed paths again.
He turned to see his axes had been propped against one of the numerous pines not ensnared by a carnivorous plant monster. The only crow he could see now was on the ground. It was the one he had split down the center. Its tattered feathers were flecked with dark red and a fresh frosting of snow. He noticed the bird no longer had legs. More alarming than that, it had been eviscerated.
As he realized these disturbing details, a uniquely pungent smell pulled his eyes downward. On the front of his coat was a most peculiar thing--a sort of macabre corsage fastened in place by a long pin. Small yellow flowers and pale twigs wrapped around what could only be his supper's missing legs and intestines. The talons, whether by reflex or design, were now curled into tiny fists. With the sweet musk of decay in his nostrils, Belmorn tore the talisman from his chest and flung it away.
"Rinh!" he spat, checking himself for further tokens of the hooded man's appreciation. "If I ever see that damned wizard again... so help me."
Belmorn needed to stand--to shake off the sensation which now crept and crawled up his spine. He cursed himself a fool for ever feeling even the slightest shred of compassion for the man.
Stiffly, he walked over to collect his strewn belongings. He returned the axes to their homes beneath his bearskin cloak. Aside from the missing legs, the body of the dead crow appeared untouched.
The eyes of the blackfoot narrowed as he wondered again about those legs. What part they played in the hooded man's spells? For a second, Belmorn thought better of cooking the bird. But hunger was no beast to be reasoned with. And so, with a frown, he grabbed the bird and with stiff fingers, started plucking.
Another hour had passed--or near enough to make no difference.
Belmorn was reclining against a tree with one arm behind his head. With the crow meat now in his stomach, he could say with certainty that the hooded man's warning had indeed been a fair one. That said, it had also been the best meal Belmorn had eaten in almost two weeks. He glanced over at his companion. The horse that had saved his life.
The head of the massive adamandray drooped close to the ground. Its teeth clicking and nibbling at what looked like more wild leek greens. Seeing this, Belmorn's brow softened.
"No more forks in the road, Old Man." Belmorn hunkered down a bit more, buttoned up his prodigious collar and closed his eyes. In his mind appeared the familiar image of a dark-haired woman who was his wife. The apparition was so potent, so indescribably beautiful, seeing it hurt his heart.
Then he saw her expression. The anguish in her eyes. The accusation.
No--this was not the time for that. Not when he was so close. Not when a barkeep in Fengaal, the constable of Staghardt and nearly half dozen others, had all given the same answer to his only question. One word, spoken with tight, trembling lips.
"Jayce."
The thought brought an unbidden throb of heat to his mouth. The pain was sharp and his tongue shot out stupidly, making it worse. He had tried to keep the wound clean, but the crow meat had been greasy stuff. Removing a glove, Belmorn cupped a handful of snow until it began to melt, proceeding to wet the blood-crusted gap in his lower lip.
The act was excruciating. Forcing his trembling hand to its work, the man cried out. The sound was too loud, but there was nothing for it. The lower half of his skull had become a pounding drum--almost too brutal to bear.
Tears in his eyes, Belmorn looked up to see the horse was showing signs of distress. Magnus' hooves came stomping down as his massive head whipped from side to side.
"Sorry, Old Man--" He winced, tasting blood. "Didn't mean to wake..." His voice trailed off as he realized that the horse's stress was not fueled by his outburst.
Out there, between the trees and in a dozen pairs... Eyes all looked his way. His mind raced to the crows, but these were different. Larger. Brighter. Each shone in the dark like some earthbound star.
The hand of the blackfoot flew back for an axe but a blinding impact stopped him. He saw a flash. Pain the color of starlight.
It was an accident, he managed as a coherent thought. Magnus had turned his head in surprise. And when near one hundred and fifty pounds of horse skull connects with a freshly cleaved lip, the result is undeniable. The man careened backwards--toppling and crashing into unconsciousness.
1 - 4
The sun filtered down through the canopy in long, unbroken rays. Covered in snow, the woods were almost too pristine to be real. The world shimmered like some misplaced childhood dream. Belmorn had trouble believing his current surroundings could be part of the same world as one containing man eating crows, vampiric plants, and an army of flaming eyes.
Pain throbbed where the crow had begun to eat him, but this was far from the man's chief worry. His tongue prodded gently, inspecting the thread which now connected the halves of his bottom lip. The taste was sharp. He touched the area and, to his horror, withdrew a vile green paste on his finger. Belmorn spat, looking in revulsion at the mossy phlegm-wad that hit the ground.
The stitches appeared remarkably well done. At its zenith, the pain had been crashes of lightning behind his brain. But now, the sensation had been reduced to a dull, rhythmic thrum that pulsed in time with his heart.
Aside from the lingering taste, Belmorn knew he was doing better than he had any right to be. The problem that twisted his gut was the fact he had absolutely no idea who had sewn his face back together.
Had the spirit of his Black River smiled down from so far away? Or had this been the work of the man in the hood--returned perhaps with a sudden stroke of conscience? Though it pained him to admit it, Belmorn had no way of knowing, so he resolved to focus on what really mattered.
Time--his true adversary. It was still slipping away.
The path stretched in a winding white line, cleaving the forest, showing him the way. With more than the usual effort, the blackfoot climbed up into his saddle and rode on. Feathered hooves tramped ground laden by leaf and snow. The adamandray's head hung low. Magnus had looked remorseful all morning, like someone who had just smashed his already injured best friend in the face.
Far from oblivious, Belmorn smiled. He stroked his friend's neck. "It's alright," he said. "I'm alright. Not sure why, but I feel okay. You really saved me back there. But if you had taken any longer, there might not have been more than a dirty skeleton for you to rescue. I really did not like those birds."
Magnus snorted. Shaking his head, he arched his back, jutting up the saddle uncomfortably for a moment.
"Not that I'm complaining." said Belmorn with a sudden lilt to his voice. "And believe me, I've learned my lesson. No more breaking the cardinal rule. To hell with these northerners. Our business is all that matters." He sighed with frustration. "Whoever that damned wizard was, he said Roon wasn't far, and that is the news we needed."
The city of Roon represented more than an opportunity to purchase life sustaining wares. Much more. Roon was one of the last remaining steps on his journey. Nineteen weeks of riding and seeking, of hunger and saddle sores and exquisite heartache had all added up to a single sum. The proverbial 'X' which marked the spot. The blackfoot's coveted treasure was close now.
Jayce.
After discovering the name, Belmorn proceeded to wave it like a banner at every city and town and for every stranger in between. From what he had learned, the village was the definition of remote. Allegedly it was situated across the High Veld--in the shadow of Mount Einder. The mountain's scant arrangement of peaks was said to approximate the silhouette of a castle. What made Jayce so difficult to find was how completely it was ignored by modern cartographers. A curious thing. In the last nineteen weeks, every map Belmorn had laid eyes on made no mention of any settlements past Roon.
All but one.
It had been expensive, that map, but possibly, hopefully, worth every damn penny.
Belmorn's heart tripped.
&
nbsp; There was light ahead--finally an end to the forest road he had been following for so long. Whether the stallion had entered a canter of his own volition or by some cue from its rider, Belmorn could not say, but with a boisterous shout he did intend, he urged Magnus into a full gallop.
A sudden widening of the road ended at something Belmorn had not expected. Halfway between defensive wall and sculpture Roon's outer wall was a sight to behold. Squinting at the white stone as if it were giving off light, Belmorn tilted his head. His gaze moved up and up, trying to locate where it all ended, but the top of the wall was lost amidst the overgrown branches of trees.
The horse whinnied with an excited head shake.
"Yeah," was all Belmorn could muster. His eyes devoured the series of oversized figures which stood shoulder to shoulder, in a rigid line that wrapped around the wall in both directions. As he approached, Belmorn could see that every stone man held an enormous shield and was probably over twenty feet tall.
"The Roonik Guard." He spoke with reverence, having heard the term many times in the preceding weeks.
The road led to the only break in the stone figures that he could see. In place of a door, there was a single portcullis--a sliding gate made of criss-crossing metal bars. Belmorn had seen the like before--usually at the far end of a castle's drawbridge, but such things were antiquated. From another, older age... just like Roon itself.
Belmorn had heard it called the last of the great shield cities; now he had an idea of what that meant.
Unlike his ultimate destination, Roon had been depicted prominently on every map. The place served as a gateway to the vast northern expanse which men called the Veld. Raised in the waning years of the last millennium, before the green-haired raiders crossed an ocean of ice in their dog-faced ships--in a time when the legendary Venomancers of Zanhaziib yet held sway over their now-lost domain.
If one believed such things.
Belmorn pulled Magnus to a halt, dismounted, and walked closer to the gate. The pattern of the bars was unique. Not vertical and horizontal but crossed in stark angles like an iron latticework. He placed a gloved hand upon the surface, then pulled it away to inspect the red flakes.
"Definitely iron." He hadn't meant to say the words aloud. His speech elicited an unexpected snort. A man stood just inside the gate, a guard, who was trying his best to look as if he had not been caught asleep at his post.
"You there... Highwayman." The man's accent was strange, similar to the only other north man he had met. The one he should have left to the crows. "Never seen you before."
Slowly, Belmorn unfastened the buttons holding up his collar.
The guard stepped forward. That was when Belmorn could see that the man was gripping a black powder rifle.
"True," said Belmorn in the most pleasant tone he could muster. "I have never been here before. I am... looking for something."
"That so?" the guard scoffed, raising an untrusting brow. "And what might you be hoping to find?"
Though loathe to spill his story to this lone sentry, Belmorn knew that any hesitation on his part would come across as suspicious--even deceitful.
"Only rest and supplies," he said calmly, truthfully. "And if I can find one... a guide."
"A guide to where?" The guard snorted again. "Hate to disappoint you, friend, but past Roon, there's nothing worth finding. The road ends here."
Belmorn lowered his head and grinned a knowing grin. "Unfortunately for me, it goes a bit farther on, I'm afraid. I'm headed for a small mining village called Jayce. Do you know it?"
Hearing the name caused a subtle shudder in the guard. Attempting to recompose, he nodded. "I do. But as I said, it's not worth finding. Silver stopped flowing near ten years back."
Belmorn flashed a scornful glare. "Didn't come all this way for silver."
The guard coughed up a laugh. "Nothing else in Jayce--never was. Just a dead mine, an empty mountain and a town full of ghosts. Take my word on this, friend... you came all this way for nothing. Even if there were treasure left in those veins, you'll find no one here mad enough to show you the way. It's too far into the Veld. Past the moat, almost to the mountain. And that road, well... it belongs to her now."
Belmorn raised an eyebrow. His face hurt and was losing his patience. "Her who?"
The guard pushed his face closer to the bars. Close enough so that Belmorn could see the bloodshot white of his eyes. "Why, the Veld has a witch. Slithered into these parts about the same time the silver stopped flowing." The guard studied Belmorn's face. "I promise you this, friend... run afoul of that one and you'll spend every night of the rest of your miserable life begging and pleading for one thing and one thing alone..." Yellow teeth flashed in a crooked grin. "Forget what you're after, friend... death will be your new treasure, and she'll make you beg for it. Problem with witches... They tend to keep their victims alive for as long as possible."
Belmorn's jaw tightened. From the proximity, he couldn't help but smell the guard's breath. Sweet and revolting like maggoty beef. From a pocket, he produced something small and circular--roughly the color of gold. Holding the coin between thumb and forefinger, he pushed it forward enough so the guard would reach for it, and then pulled back.
"Let me in," Belmorn said firmly, quietly. "I'll cause no trouble and will be gone by morning." He looked past the guard, tried to glean something of the city itself.
The guard licked his lips, then managed to compose himself. Straightening his back, the man scowled through the bars. "Fine. I need a name and where you come from."
"Rander Belmorn of Grael."
"Grael?" the word sounded misshapen on the guard's northern tongue. "Never heard of it."
The blackfoot shrugged. "Well, I've never seen a female diplocaulus. Doesn't mean the males have taken to laying the eggs." He held the coin higher so it gleamed in the light.
The guard looked confused, but his bloodshot eyes followed the trajectory of the coin. "Gone by morning?"
Belmorn gave a slow nod.
After another moment's consideration, the guard pushed a hand through the bars. The palm of which was promptly filled with a golden coin. After biting the thing, the man seemed satisfied, then went right back to annoyed. Gripping the spoke of what looked like a large wagon wheel, the guard pulled, but this only resulted in a high metallic squeal. Looking emasculated, the guard tried again, harder this time, forcing unseen machinery to wine back to life. Slowly and with visible effort, the wheel was turned on its axis, slowly raising the latticed portcullis with each rotation.
When able, Belmorn led his horse by the reins beneath the gate. At the last second, he looked up to see the many angled points of the portcullis and urged Magnus on a little faster.
"A place this big must have an apothecary," he asked without asking.
The guard grunted, scratching behind an ear. "Kuhn's," he was out of breath. "But... if I were you, I wouldn't bother. Not tonight."
Belmorn stopped. "Why not?"
"Because by this hour Graden Kuhn will be far too deep in his cups to be of any use. For a peddler of wellness, the man is as cordial as a viper when drunk." The guard frowned. "Better to try in the morning when he's only hungover. Shop won't be open but if you bang hard enough on the door you may get lucky. As for tonight, find The Folly."
Belmorn gave a look of confusion, much to the guard's amusement.
"Roon's still got two working taverns, but that's the one you want. Ask for Ottma. She'll set you up with a bit of food. Maybe a bed if she's in the mood." Again the guard bit down on the golden coin. "Head down this main road here. It widens about a quarter mile down into a square. By this hour, it will be the only place with the lights still on."
Again, Belmorn felt his lip throb. After sparing a semi-grateful nod for the guard, he moved away from the gate and into the last of the great shield cities.
PART TWO
THE ALCHEMIST
2 - 1
It was always strange, seeing the dust do its work.
The body of the stranger first became rigid, and then it toppled--landing hard on the snowy ground with a dull thud.
The act had been impulsive, and in truth, Tenebrus Kro didn't feel great about it. After all, the stranger had appeared out of thin air--first rescuing him from the crows, then the vampire rose, and then promptly demanding nothing in return. Nothing but some greasy crow flesh for an empty belly.
The alchemist regarded the green glass bottle and the fine powder it held. For a fleeting moment, Kro could picture a remote island. The home of a strange, veiled woman who had shown him firsthand what the stuff did to a body.
Gorgon dust was among the rarest of ingredients he had ever come across. Truly an effective remedy--both for time-wasting conflicts and banal, unhelpful conversations. All who breathed it became temporarily incapacitated but suffered no lasting harm.
The man on the ground would be fine in about an hour. Kro knew that. Still... perhaps he had been too hasty--dusting the tall stranger who had just saved his life.
No. It's fine. He'll be fine, Kro thought, firmly. Stay focused on one thing at a time. Forget the last four hours; they were worth it. You got what you came for.
He reached into his cloak, stopping just over a hidden pocket. Through the fabric, he could feel tiny objects inside--the spoils which he had so carefully, surgically removed from the damnable plant that had held him prisoner for so many hours. Like tiny disembodied hearts, they pulsed in the perfect dark of his pocket--barely alive, not quite ready to die.
Kro had crossed an ocean before realizing that what he needed most grew just outside his own front door. And after making the long trek home, the last ingredient was finally his. Now that he possessed all of the tools, only one thing remained. The very task he had set his mind to so many years ago.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 3
