Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  For an instant, the boy's eyes met those of the tall stranger. "There's more. Before him, a lot of brave warriors tried to kill the Teng-Hu. Dozens. And they all died."

  "All of them?" Belmorn sounded unconvinced.

  "Yup..." The boy looked around before dragging the back of one hand across his nose. "All but him," he indicated the statue.

  "So who was he?"

  "Depends who's telling the story." The boy shrugged. "Some say he was a soldier named Gabriel--first killed while defending his king in some old-time battle. But others say he was never mortal to begin with. That his true identity was actually that of Charon, the fabled boatman whose duty it was to guide lost souls across the black rivers of the afterlife."

  The phrase triggered something in Belmorn. Something which brought him instantly home. "Black rivers..." he said under his breath and then said no more. It had taken until now, but the story was beginning to sound very familiar. He could remember a legend he had heard as a boy. Of an unkillable warrior known only as the Wanderer. He noticed a small plaque affixed to the base. Two words had been carved--

  THE GRAVELESS.

  "Such is the way, I suppose," Belmorn said this dreamily. "The older a thing is, the more guesses people manage to attach to it."

  "That sounds right," said the boy with another shrug. "A name isn't so important though. Not when you can do what he could. See... the one bit all versions agree on is that whoever this man was, he couldn't die. That's the important thing. Why he could fight a monster for two whole days with a sword through his chest. Get it?"

  Belmorn looked to the statue's tarnished silver face. "Favored by the spirits. The Graveless Wanderer..." Belmorn's voice was distant. "I do remember this story."

  "It's my favorite," said the boy, wiping another sniff away. "I like your horse."

  "Oh?" Belmorn smirked, stroking the animal's neck.

  "He's big. Why are his legs so long?"

  With a chuckle, he looked between Magnus and the boy. "Ever heard of a river ghost?"

  The boy shook his head.

  "Adamandray are a special breed. Their legs have to be so long and powerful to feed upon the saltgrass which grows beneath the powerful current of the river where I come from."

  The boy took a step closer, but when the horse clopped the ground with its front hoof, he stopped. His eyes were as wide as saucers. "It looks like someone painted his legs."

  Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "It does," he tried unsuccessfully to lower his smile. "But my people say, long ago... Rinh, the great river spirit, grew angry at these horses. For, you see they were the sole creatures it was powerless to carry away. So, in a rage, Rinh stole away all of the color from the legs of these special horses and gave it to the river itself--making murky black what once was clear..." Noticing how utterly enthralled the boy was, Belmorn began to smile. "We call them ghosts because of how they appear when wading out amidst the rushing waters. There's often a bit of white just above the surface." He stroked Magnus' shoulder--moving his hand down to where the shades of dark and light mingled and became stripes. "Just enough to make it seem that instead of walking, these horses are floating out there."

  "Wow." The boy looked to be imagining this very thing. He shuffled his feet, nervously inching closer to the gigantic horse. From beneath his blanket hood, the child's mouth had become a tight line. "River ghosts," whispered the boy. "I like that."

  A strange feeling had grown in Belmorn. One he could not quite categorize. The purse under his hand seemed to pulse like a living heart. He knew perfectly well that the coins inside were few, and since he possessed nothing more to pawn, they were going to stay that way. Just as he knew that he could not get involved with any business that did not directly assist him in reaching his ends.

  By Rinh, it was already September. Time was running so thin; it was far too terrifying to think about. He looked down at the raggedy boy and his horse blanket hood. Belmorn had seen countless others like him. Passed by them in the streets. Waifs, urchins, children of the cobbles--whatever the local moniker, cities always possessed more than their fair share. And just as in all those other places, in Roon, Rander Belmorn was a stranger. It was not his responsibility to spend his concern, nor his charity.

  Remember the cardinal rule, he thought.

  "His name is Magnus," Belmorn's voice was so deep it practically rumbled. "He won't hurt you. Especially not after such a fine swapping of tales. Speaking of which... yours was better." He flipped forward a coin--a golden twin for the one that got him past the gate.

  The boy caught the small metal disc by clapping both hands together. He looked up, appearing quite surprised.

  "The guard back there," Belmorn shot a lazy glance behind him. "He mentioned a place. Something called the Folly?"

  "Oh. Yeah. The Hag's Folly." For an instant, the child's eyes flitted to the left, then dimmed. "They don't like me there." He shrank away. His body language was practically screaming a desire to run.

  "Is that so?" Belmorn folded his arms. "Why not?"

  "Because little leeches ain't good for business, are they?" The gruff voice spun Belmorn around. Armored men were storming his way with swords drawn. He recognized one as the guard from the front gate.

  "That's him. Bribed me with a guilder. Don't see them much."

  Belmorn could feel panic flushing into his cheeks, but also fury.

  "A guilder, aye?" said the man who had spoken first. "Well stranger, it seems you've got deep pockets. But where pray tell are you intending to spend it? I fear our whores won't be nearly expensive enough."

  Belmorn said nothing. He counted the men. Five. On his best day, he might be able to take three, but this particular day was about as far from his best as he had known. Crow flesh had staved off his hunger, but he was days past exhausted, and the effect of that damned wizard's powder yet weighted his limbs.

  "I have come a long way. I seek no trouble, only a single night's rest and the right to spend some coin restocking my provisions," Belmorn's voice was low and steady. It took some effort, but his words offered no aggression.

  "That's shit," the tall guard spoke up again. "He told me he was looking for a guide to take him to Jayce."

  At this, the five Roonik Guards burst out into a fit of laughter.

  "Oh-ho! Jayce is it?" Sputtered the leader "Well, boys! Looks like a proper madman has wandered into our fair city! Either that or a liar, and you know how the captain feels about them. Where did he say he was from again?"

  "Place called Grael, Sir. Never heard of it."

  "Probably 'cause he made it up! Either way, it's too late for this. The captain can sort it out in the morning. Let's go stranger, you're coming with us."

  The Roonik Guards stepped forward, but Belmorn only tensed. His mind racing madly, running through the course of action left to him. He had no intentions of occupying a jail cell but resisting would surely prolong that stay. Perhaps indefinitely. No. Better to go along quietly and make his case to the man in charge--the captain.

  "No!" The voice was thin--youthful but firm. "Leave him alone!" Quite unexpectedly, the boy leapt in between Belmorn and his attackers and was standing with both hands held out. The selfless act caused a second round of laughter to explode from the five guards.

  "Out of the way, leech!" One of the other guards thrust out a steel boot which was caught by the boy's stomach.

  The small body doubled over pitching forward. Teeth clenched in pain as little hands released the dirty blanket. Belmorn watched all of this unfold in a series of truncated, slower than average motions. By the time the boy's face ricocheted off the stones, fields of white pressed into the sides of his vision. The man's hands were no longer hands at all, but hard things--hammers of solid iron.

  This was the last rational thought the riverman would retain of the evening. Everything after was lost in a blur of fever and rage.

  3 - 2

  Darkness returned, bringing the faint glimmer that approximated the shape of a young
boy. A boy of about nine.

  As the vision had been in the woods, the form remained blurred, shifting, as indistinct as mist. The face though. Belmorn's heart thrummed at the sight. It was a face he missed more than feeble words could express. He reached for that face--wishing beyond all reason that the shimmering flesh would become solid when his fingers reached it.

  That was when distance stopped making sense.

  The inches between them stretched and grew until the boy-shape was almost too distant to see at all. Belmorn squinted hard, refusing to blink even as tears welled and streamed.

  At first, the phantom boy had held out a hand of his own, reaching for his father. All too quickly though, the limb began to turn--changing until Belmorn could no longer recognize it as a piece of his son. The hand twisted into a horrible hooked thing. Like a tool for digging or perhaps a weapon. Before Belmorn could act, the boy began to claw and rake at his own throat--digging in with sharp fingers of living light.

  "Sasha!"

  Jolted awake, Belmorn sat up in the cold and the dark. He blinked unconsciousness away. Tried desperately to see, to understand.

  Where am I?

  The room was dark and small--lined with straw that smelled awful. The walls were stone, as was the floor. Beyond these mundanities, the only thing he knew for certain was that this was no dream. Pain never felt quite the same in dreams as in real life. And wherever he was, there was plenty of pain.

  He couldn't see them, but Belmorn knew the bruises were there. His jaw pounded like a percussion section. Fractured? Possibly. But how? By who?

  His last few memories were muddy and too large, as if they had swollen to an abnormal size--in that other place. The one with the boy trying to tear his own throat away.

  No! He thought. That won't help you now. Put it away and get off your ass.

  Belmorn stood up, but too fast. It felt a little like his head hadn't risen with the rest of him. With a sudden wave of vertigo, he pitched forward, slapping one hand flat on a stone wall. Then he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

  When the retching subsided, Belmorn dragged the back of an arm across his mouth. White pain exploded from his lip, leaving him reeling, almost out of breath. After a few moments of heavy breathing, his tongue inspected the only injury he remembered getting. The triangular gap in his lower lip was still sewn shut, but the pain that radiated from the spot came in great pulses of heat reaching into his stomach.

  "Never made it to the damned apothecary." He laughed without thinking but ended up sucking air through his teeth. "Never made it anywhere."

  It didn't take a scholar to know where he was--at least in the general sense. Three of the walls were identical; the fourth was comprised of a latticework of iron bars. Beyond the bars, the gentle glow of torchlight kept the darkness from being complete.

  Belmorn smirked, recalling just enough. That last night, after reaching Roon at long last, he had done something stupid. Something that very well may have undone all he had worked for.

  Nineteen weeks of keeping to the plan... for what? So you can break the cardinal rule twice in two days?

  "Sasha," Belmorn said the name again, this time tasting the full brunt of the coppery pain it brought. He bounced both fists off the iron bars. Time was his enemy, that was true... but time had an endless number of allies to throw in his path.

  "Oy! You hear that?" The voice was distant.

  "Yeah. Sounds like he's awake," came another voice. "I'll get the captain."

  The hushed voices were followed by a series of footsteps that echoed and shrank. For a time, Belmorn heard nothing beyond his own breathing. In, out--in, out. It was a ragged, monotonous sound and he hated it. If he had to listen to that long enough, he might just go mad. And so he resolved to focus on something else.

  His feet were cold. Hell, they felt more wood than flesh. Intrigued by this, Belmorn looked down to see a pair of stockinged feet.

  "Where are my boots?" His shout echoed, but quickly died.

  He wanted to punch the wall. Instead, he cupped the top of his head. Neither his headscarf nor leather band were there. Gone also were most of his trappings--coat, gloves, coin purse, and the bear pelt cloak he had just purchased in Britilpor. They had stripped him of everything but pants and shirt and locked him away for... For what?

  He could almost remember, but a crippling throb of pain pulsed behind his forehead, stopping him from trying. Tears streamed down his cheeks in hot lines, but they barely registered. Belmorn shut his eyes tight--tighter. His lids felt as if they were covering smoldering bits of coal. But why? Why the hell had they done this to him?

  As if in response, a sudden vision flashed across his mind. A vision of dark feathers and a long stabbing beak. As the fractured memory replayed, Belmorn flinched. Then he understood.

  "Hold it together, Lord Belmorn," he spat. "This... is not where your journey ends. Can't be. He wouldn't do that to you."

  He who? Came a petulant voice in his head. You mean your river spirit? Rinh can't help you here, blackfoot. No one can.

  Suddenly, a new sound rose above the incessant in, out--in, out of his breathing. Footsteps. Heavier, surer of themselves than the ones he had first heard.

  From beyond the bars, the glow of a lantern registered. Next came voices, a harsh clunk of metal on metal, and the whine of hinges. Belmorn tried to make out what was being said, but his head was throbbing, pulling him down, down to the filthy straw. Whatever was about to happen, he wasn't ready for it.

  He watched as two armored guards entered his cell followed by a third. All had blades pointed at the prisoner, but only the last one wore a smug look of satisfaction. Not especially vexing at first but as soon as Belmorn glanced down, a sneer pulled at his throbbing lips.

  His missing boots suited the guard remarkably well.

  Belmorn wanted to lunge right then. Unfortunately, just remaining upright was taking the lion's share of his energy. When the fourth and final man entered the cell, he moved slowly, with a deliberate, confident gate. Behind him flowed a regal cape of a perfect shade of black--the sort only velvet can manage. This man carried an air that the others lacked. Tall and broad of shoulder, he was garbed in a pale suit of armor--ornate but not overly so. Belmorn noted a conspicuous hole in the center of the chest plate--circular with a reinforced rim--revealing dark fabric beneath.

  The man wore no helmet, though his head was crowned with a thick mane. The pale, golden locks swept into waves and wrong turns, recalling words like "wild" and "untamed." With the way the other guards gave him space, there could be no question to the man's identity.

  Here, stood the captain.

  3 - 3

  Unlike the three men he'd sent in, Captain Henric Galttauer was unarmed save for a large, brass lantern. In lieu of a verbal order, he cleared his throat upon entering and dutifully, the guards took another step back--lining the far wall.

  The captain hung his lantern on a hook, and then, with a flourish of cape, he fixed the prisoner with an ice-blue stare. Surprisingly however, the man on the floor said nothing. Didn't flinch nor shrink the way so many in his position had before, but simply stared right back.

  His eyes--there was something about them. Something dauntless. Tangled black hair disappeared into a wiry, untrimmed beard of the same color. The man's skin was a coppery brown as foreign as the headdress his guards had taken from him. Whoever he was, the prisoner was no north man.

  "Good morning," said the captain in a tone of melted chocolate. "I trust whatever fight you have left has calmed since last night. That... was quite a display."

  "Where am I?" The prisoner spoke evenly, voice measured to not sound threatening.

  An amused smirk curled the captain's lip. "In a very tight spot, I'd say. Out here, we may be within an ace from the world's edge, but this is still my city. And those stones under your ass..." He leaned in, towering like a giant above the helpless wretch on the floor. "Well, those are mine too." Still smirking, Galtt
auer searched the man's face, but it was like trying to read a book written in an unknown language.

  "Why am I here?" asked the prisoner.

  Was this man joking? The captain smiled more to hide his own confusion. "Why?" He snorted dismissively. "The Roonik Guard is an ancient order--nearly as old as these stone walls. For generations, the citizens of Roon have looked to members of my family's line for protection. It is a duty my father passed to his son--one I shall keep gladly, until the spirits decide to call me home. And when a stranger appears at our southern gate with a monstrous horse and a questionable point of origin, my guards--even those who are easily bribed--know to alert their Captain." Galttauer leaned in, even closer, velveting his voice with confidence. "And when this stranger proceeds to incite a six man skirmish in my city square, well..." He shrugged. "Here we are."

  Lines creased the prisoner's brow, and the grey in his eyes churned like storm clouds. A frown began on his lips, but the man winced ever so slightly. It was then that Galttauer noticed the crudely stitched split in his lower lip.

  "Perhaps my men were a bit overzealous last night... but these are trying times. Let me start again." The captain straightened to his full height, taller than most men he knew. "I am Henric Galttauer, Captain of the Roonik Guard and oath-sworn protector of this city." He stopped to see if the prisoner appeared impressed. But the copper-skinned man said nothing--did nothing beyond glare right back from his spot on the floor.

  On the captain's face there grew a subtle expression. One that might almost have been offense but for a secret curling of the lip. An expression that, on one side at least, threatened to become a smile. Galttauer was intrigued by the man in his cell. Despite the ungodly hour, he was almost enjoying himself.

  "I will admit," He began again, "etiquette is not exactly a prime concern out here, but in my experience... introductions generally arrive in groups of two or more. You are... ?"

  But instead of responding, the prisoner began to look around the cell. His eyes flitting from place to place, came to rest on the boots of Guardsman Kürsch. Boots, Galttauer noted, which the man had not possessed before the previous night's arrest.