Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  "Better get going. Voss, Dirk," barked Morgrig. "It's you two who'll be dragging it back... and ya better not be late." Morgrig opened a pocket watch then snapped it shut again. "Dinner's gonna be a spectacle tonight."

  The two men who had been wrestling Kro's mare each seized a leg. Around them the other bandits filed past--back through the same gap in the trees from which they had come. And like a shepherd tending an especially ugly flock, their leader was the last to go.

  Wearing a look of extreme weariness, Mannis Morgrig turned to the alchemist. "You see what I have to deal with?" he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sorry you had to see that, but you had to know. Up here, there's no one to buy a horse for a hundred miles. Might as well enjoy the spoils, yeah?"

  Kro stared back, seething, hating, willing destruction with his every cell.

  Just then, a bright flash of white light lit the heavens. For a few seconds, neither man said a word. Both stood firm--an invisible line of malice between them. The thunder rolled in a few seconds later. It was soft at first--distant.

  The alchemist said nothing. He only pulled at his bonds and glared.

  For a moment, something in Morgrig seemed to shift. Maybe even, to give. "Snow lightning," said the brigand. "Bad omen in these north woods." His voice was flat. "But bad for who I wonder?" Morgrig had grinned then, displaying rows of yellowed teeth.

  Narrow with disdain, Kro's eyes flicked to the dagger. It was still many feet away, still embedded in the trunk of the old oak. He wanted nothing more than to bury it in the chest of this man.

  This despicable, red-bearded leader of rats.

  There were more memories than this and each burned like an open flame. No matter how the alchemist willed them away, they would not leave his side. As he followed the trail through the snowy wood, Tenebrus Kro made a decision. If he could not stop the bombardment of memories, then he would burn them for fuel.

  "Just look at that leg. Damn thing's broken!" The voice of Mannis Morgrig was almost as infuriating in echo form as it had been in person. "Dinner's gonna be a spectacle tonight."

  Again and again, Kro could hear the parting scream of his horse as the masked man's cleaver-sword opened its throat. The mare had been with him for almost two years--ever since purchasing her off that one-armed trader in distant Eos. All reddish chestnut but for a white painted face, Cinnabar had been a good horse, but she had also been Kro's friend.

  His very last in all the world.

  2 - 3

  Out of his robes, the alchemist produced the dagger he had pulled from an old tree.

  Morgrig's gift.

  The blade was curved--nine or ten inches long with a fine handle wrapped in leather. Kro turned it over in the fading light, musing on just how close he had been to becoming plant food. What Morgrig had presented as a sporting chance Kro knew for what it was. One last kick to the ribs from a sadistic bully. Both men knew there would have been no way to reach the dagger in time. Not before the damned rose slid its coils around his neck for the final goodnight.

  And yet...

  Kro tested the edge with his thumb, stopping at the first hint of pain. It seemed a fine little weapon--one he could imagine few wasting on a cruel joke. And yet, here it was. His fingers tightened around the handle as a wicked sneer curved his lip.

  The alchemist knew he had to return to what he had been doing before a single, stupid misstep had caused his night to go so horribly awry. He still had the oil and now, after all he had suffered through... he had the seeds. Nothing in the world mattered more than his true quest. And now, finally, the answer to that brain cracking riddle was in his hands. After so long he was so damned close.

  For seven years he had searched, scoured, tracked, experimented. Surely, he had earned this one tangent. The right to reclaim his stolen property. And maybe, to bring a little devastation to the filthy vermin who did the stealing.

  The question was not if he could find Morgrig's camp. Judging by the state of the trail, the men moved with all the stealth of drunken mammoths. But beyond a nebulous need to make them pay, Kro had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. One man against at least fifteen bandits, cutthroats and brigands--any one of which was more than his physical match.

  As he trudged through the snow on a path toward probable self-destruction, the alchemist frowned. Kro needed a plan and he needed one now. It was time to take stock.

  The unseen pockets of his cloak held things which the alchemist deemed most irreplaceable. A few seeds, a vial of strange, dark oil--these occupied the spot over his heart. Another pocket held a pair of goggles and two small bottles. The green one held what remained of the Gorgon dust. With some help, he had harvested the stuff on that abandoned spec of an island off Hellas from a species of lizard with very special eyes. For some yet-unknown reason, upon death the animal's eyes calcified and could be ground into a fine powder. A powder with incredible properties. Truly, gorgon dust was potent stuff but he did not have enough to petrify an entire camp.

  The interior of the second bottle was covered with what looked like soot. Inside were three objects, all coal black. The first was crooked, segmented, roughly two inches long; the others were small like pebbles. As Kro turned the bottle, the bone shifted to create a dull tink against the glass. Once, it had been the smallest finger of a hand from a child whose name he had never learned. Kro had come to think of him as the kindling boy.

  It was easier that way.

  All accounts agreed that the mother and infant sibling had perished in the infamous blaze. They had been buried with low spirits and high emotions on a small hill, far from their village.

  What was left of him who the villager's claimed had invoked the wrath of their harvest God was an anathema--a reminder of what can happen when worship is allowed to wane. The father had acted quickly and in secret. Wrapping what was left of his son in a bit of burlap, then leaving the remains on an oceanside cliff, beneath a pile of stones. A place where the boy could surely do no more harm to his people.

  Spontaneous combustion had fascinated Kro for years, and he wasn't going to miss a chance to study a body firsthand. Though it had taken many days, he located that shallow, clifftop grave--and with no discernable guilt, the alchemist had exhumed what was left of the boy who had turned three quarters of his own family into piles of smoldering ash. Three fingers, part of a rib, and some teeth were all the burlap held.

  The bones, he'd found, were shockingly abnormal--nearly hollow like those of a bird. Along the marrow cavity, inside pockets too small for the naked eye to see, Kro had discovered a reflective substance, like crystalized tar that proved to be as volatile as it was impossible to extract.

  Kro did not believe in harvest gods. The kindling boy, by some accident of birth, had simply been born wrong--not a boy at all but a living powder keg. One equipped with an invisible fuse that time had quietly run all the way down.

  The alchemist stood in the snow, just remembering, transfixed by the small, ashy bone. It was easier to think of things as components--ingredients. How callously he had pulled the remains from where they had been laid to rest by a frightened father and husband whose entire world had been burned to the ground.

  Thief. He thought with a twinge of shame. Just another label you've tried on for size. Alchemist, collector, merchant... and thief. But why stop there, grave robber?

  As often happened in the darker hours, black thoughts were drifting to the surface. Thoughts about balancing the scales. About fate and its cruel tricks, and the sort of world where a child could be born with tar in their bones. Or could be stolen away. Vanished--winked out of existence by some monster.

  Or a witch.

  "Daddy..."

  Kro could hear the voice of his daughter as if she were standing right beside him.

  "What's that? What did you bring back?! It looks like a funny rock."

  "A rock?! He had laughed." No Lishka..." His voice rang with the trembles of a heart so full it was overflowing. "Look aga
in. Look at the shape. How one end is bigger than the other. Can you see?"

  "Ohh..." The girl had said, her eyes alight with recognition. "It's... an egg?" she squealed, throwing her arms around her father and burying her face in his warm belly. "It is! Oh daddy! I love it!"

  Even in his memories, the words were muffled by the fabric of his cloak.

  "Do you think it will hatch soon?"

  Kro drew the back of one hand across his face. Past and present--neither tired of tormenting him. Once he had been happy. A man with two perfect girls.

  He would be with them very soon.

  Kro had been telling himself this for a very long time but somehow, the promise felt truer now than ever. Was this just another of fate's tricks? His scientific brain spun and worked. Always needing to discern--to understand the why, the what, and the how. Always.

  Secretly, it was the part of himself he hated most.

  He clenched his teeth, unintentionally pinching the inside of one cheek. And as Kro continued down the trail, he became aware of the coppery taste of blood.

  2 - 4

  Ahead, light flickered through the frosted woodscape. Someone at the end of their rope might have taken it for an oasis. A place of salvation. But as Kro stood in the isolated gloom of near dark, his eyes focusing on the orangey glow which could only come from a roaring campfire, all he could feel was the cold.

  He gripped the ashy bottle, turned it to hear the familiar tink as the tiny finger and teeth shifted. The remains of the kindling boy had not held the secret to the prime element of fire nor any other cosmic abstract. But, as fate would have it, the bones did possess one trick, and it was a splendid one.

  Already the rib had been frittered away, bit by bit--along with three other teeth. Each time he had decided to call upon the kindling boy, the child had helped him--even saved his life once.

  This fact was the only thing able to keep Kro's guilt in check. The nameless child whose only crime was being born different had been granted a new legacy. Not fiery death, but the preservation of life.

  The alchemist reclined his head to look up through the canopy. What little he could glimpse of the sky looked empty--felt empty. It always did.

  A different man in his boots might have thought to pray--to beg whatever god might be listening for a blessing--but not Tenebrus Kro. He was a man who believed such acts to be the definition of futile. The gods were gone, if they were ever there at all.

  Kro had always believed only in what could be touched and dissected. Still, part of him yearned for the fantastic. Little else could have pulled him so feverishly across half the world--scouring in dark places for things only named in whispers.

  Vampiric plants, gorgons, size-shifters, and enormous black birds able to pull lightning from the sky--they had all been real. Had all been true. And there had been more. So many more.

  Willingly or not, every last one had given something of themselves for the cause. For the one mission. For the riddle.

  Almost reverentially, Kro lifted the bottle, touching it to his forehead. There were no prayers within, no promise of victory, only a threadbare notion he dared call hope. He looked at them--the final remains of a small boy he had never met. Just a little finger, a few teeth. Not much, and yet... he did not despair.

  After all, on at least one occasion, he had faced worse with a hell of a lot less.

  In the brush ahead, it was all too easy to make out where the thieves had dragged their supper. A lovely red-brown mare with a white face. Anger threatened to flare again, but Kro shook it off. Morgrig's camp was close now. Close enough to smell.

  There was movement ahead! Someone else was on the trail!

  Panic surging in his throat, Kro backed up to a massive tree and synched up his hood. Standing like that--still and silent, his snow-laden cloak acted as natural camouflage. As he watched the scout step ever closer, his eyes narrowed into hateful slits. Earlier, the dagger had felt so cold in his hand--as if sculpted from ice. Now it was a part of him. An extension.

  Morgrig's gift. The thought pulsed as fingers tightened into vice like grip.

  The scout was barely ten paces away now. Kro's heart pounded in his chest, behind his throat. He was sure that at any second, it would all be over. That he would be discovered, and the scout would call out to the rest of Morgrig's merry band. Fortunately, the man didn't seem especially interested in anything that wasn't in the bottle he kept raising to his lips. And so, as quietly as he could, Tenebrus Kro drew in a long, deep breath and watched as the scout stumbled another step in his direction.

  Finally, when the alchemist could hold the breath no longer, all he knew was release.

  PART THREE

  COLD AS THE WIND

  3 - 1

  As Belmorn took in the buildings and sprawling streets, all the leagues and months on the road melted away. There were a handful of people about--mostly men, none looking under fifty. All drab of dress and quick with the hairy eyeball, they moved in the opposite direction of the strange man who had just ridden through their gate.

  Magnus' shod hooves crashed small thunderclaps on the stone road. Gone were the muted thuds of the forest floor. The sounds made Belmorn feel a bit too conspicuous. Though as eyes squinted toward him and the giant horse, the blackfoot reminded himself that his purpose had little to do with subtlety.

  People... Belmorn recalled the words of the strange man in the hood. Cold as the wind in these parts.

  He couldn't help but wonder how many of these north men would leave him to the mercy of a murder of timber crows, a man-eating rose, or something equally horrible.

  A witch, for example.

  When a breeze hit his face, no shiver came. Roon was cold, but far less so than the forest had been. Belmorn glanced up the street. Every dozen or so feet stood a tall post which terminated in an ornate lantern of glass and silver. These glowed with a golden light. The hue alone made him feel a bit warmer and left him wondering if that was indeed the intention.

  All around, architecture stole his breath. There were steeples and spires, topping immaculate stone structures of palest grey. He could see yawning gargoyles, sprawling staircases, and reliefs depicting battles he did not recognize. Wherever his eyes moved, they feasted. But as he walked, Belmorn began to focus on what lay in between those ancient wonders.

  In the negative spaces, he began to notice doors, carved wooden signs, and windows. Some were wide, others had been made small and circular, but all were covered in the same lattice pattern used in the portcullis.

  Are these the homes of the proud people of Roon? Belmorn wondered briefly.

  Up ahead, the cobbled street widened just as the guard claimed it would. Further down, in the center of the square, stood a tarnished statue of incredible size and detail. Nearly twice Belmorn's height, the silver man stood rigid amidst a small garden that had been built around him. One hand of the figure held aloft an actual glass lantern that glowed and flickered. But the statue seemed to gaze beyond his light source, as if searching for something.

  The tarnished figure had been rendered with plate armor of a bygone age. Appearing both decorative and functional, the surface was embossed with intricate scrollwork and finished with a series of buckles, though this covered only half of the figure's chest. Bizarrely, the other half was bare. More striking than that, however, was the longsword protruding from where the silver man's ribs would be.

  After walking around the statue, Belmorn saw that the blade extended a good three feet or more out of the statue's other side. It was a strange sort of sword. Not straight, but long and narrow, with a wicked curve.

  "He fought like that for two days. Did you know?"

  The voice came with no warning. It caused Belmorn to reel around as massive, hairy hooves clopped in place. Standing there was a small, waifish thing. The child was gripping an old horse blanket, using it as a sort of hood. The fabric was tattered and filthy. Even from a few feet away, it made Belmorn's nostrils curl.

  "I'm sorr
y?" Belmorn heard himself say. "Fought like what? With a sword through his chest?"

  "Yup," Said the child, matter-of-factly. "Run through with his own blade. Can you believe it?"

  Holding onto the reins, Belmorn smirked. "I guess that depends. Who was he fighting?"

  "A monster," said the child with reverence.

  The kid looked to be roughly ten or eleven, but it was difficult to tell. The face was filthy with grime and across the bridge of the nose was a dark smudge. But what Belmorn noticed most were the eyes. Like emeralds, they were full of something. Not storms, but something better. Hope, maybe.

  "This world is full of monsters, kid."

  He couldn't tell whether this was a boy or a girl. Not that knowing the gender would have stopped him from keeping one hand on his coin purse. Rander Belmorn may have been a simple riverman, but Roon was far from his first big city.

  "Monsters, sure, but not like this one," the kid continued. "The Teng-Hu came from far away. Somewhere in the east. It had had hands like talons, wings as black as midnight and three children which it carried in the folds of its robe."

  "Huh." said Belmorn.

  The child nodded. "They had ugly names. Fever, Infection, and Death."

  The blackfoot was staring in disbelief at how articulate this kid was. He felt almost certain this was a boy, but perhaps a boy educated by books and school masters, not of a life spent begging for scraps on the cobbles.

  "That's the reason the bird-men came. And why they've been here ever since. It's... how you know it all really happened." With a slight shudder, the boy took a step back into the long shadow of the silver man.

  Belmorn looked up at the statue, at the hard, beardless jaw and the stern brow. "Never heard that one before. That's quite a story," he said, meaning it.