The interior was lined with shelves and surfaces of all sizes, all filled with exotic bric-a-brac. There were bottles and vials, books and bones and other sundries too numerous to take in. Mounted on one wall was a wooden elephant mask. The surface was dry, covered in cracks and ancient yellow sap. Belmorn followed the thing's unnerving, vertical eyes to a shelf just below, where a strange collection of eggs was displayed. There were six in total, all unbroken, each mounted into its own little stand. The smallest was many times larger than that of a chicken. Before each, a tiny label had been scrawled out.
Rhea, moa, strige, lammergeier, impundulu...
The names meant nothing to the blackfoot. The largest bore a deep coffee color and the label of roc, but Belmorn could see there had been one more in the collection. The gap at the end of the shelf was not only conspicuous, it also held a seventh egg stand--empty and covered in dust.
The lanterns hung to his left, on a wall that featured an ornate panel with brass hinges. It was the sort of thing that would allow the fourth wall to open--transitioning the panel into a shelf where merchandise might be displayed. It was a common enough sight in the wagons of travelling merchants. Belmorn narrowed his eyes, remembering the cloth tapestry covering the other side. The color had been difficult to discern in the moonlight. Black? Violet perhaps?
"There you are, you son of a bitch!" Kro's whisper was triumphant. He pushed the current drawer shut and turned around in a flourish of cloak. He held a small, polished cylinder in his hand so Belmorn could see. The object was unfamiliar. Definitely made of rock, but possessing a strange metallic sheen.
"Do you know what a lodestone is?" Kro's eyes shimmered in the weird light.
Belmorn looked at the rock and shook his head in answer.
Kro held the stone closer, causing the lantern-glow to slink and slide over its surface. "If there are shards, more slivers of metal, the stone will find them and pull them out of the wound. But it will not be a pleasant process. If the girl wakes, the pain will be considerable. She won't understand. She'll scream--probably a lot." Pursing his lips, Kro shook his head. "We can't have that. She'll hear. She'll come."
"Your witchwyrm." Belmorn shuddered over naming her, as if he were tasting something foul.
Kro's expression soured--turning grim. His voice returned at a fraction of its previous volume. "Please understand, I will do what I can. All I can. But if she finds us now, it's over. For you, for me, and yes, for this little girl as well."
Belmorn glared back at the man in the hood. He did not speak, and no, he did not understand. Not by half.
"Listen to me," said Kro. "I don't know why fate has laid you across my path, but there is a hefty debt I owe you. Tonight, I have paid off some and will gladly do more but not at the cost of my own work."
Belmorn's glare hardened, but he chose to listen on.
"You are a stranger here. You have never glimpsed the beast. Have not lived most of a decade with its mark carved into the walls of your heart." As Kro spoke, furious passion came to a boil. Tears welled in his eyes, trembling, threatening to flow. "I will allow nothing to come between me and what must be done. Nothing. Do you hear me, Belmorn? If it comes to it, if she starts to wake," He nodded toward the child. "I will stop the screaming. I will not hesitate."
"What?" Belmorn could feel his own fury rise at the implication. "So help me, wizard, if I see that knife of yours..."
Kro turned, looking sincerely wounded. "I am no child killer!" His voice came in a low rasp but the offense was plain. "And for the last time, I'm no damned wizard." From the folds of his cloak appeared a vial of green powder. "Gorgon dust is science--not some magician's trick. I should hardly expect some backwater riverman to spot the difference, but I will use it on the girl."
Belmorn's eyes were already wide and wide they remained. He had not forgotten what a single puff of the substance had done to his body. Nor what it felt like to fall--arms immovable stone by his side. In that moment, he might as well have been plummeting off the edge of the world. It was a horrific sensation. One he was still not ready to forgive--and yet... if Kro was right about the Veld's witch...
Remember Sasha. Belmorn's thoughts came in a scolding hiss. Your son still needs you. If you die, he follows but swollen and purple.
"Put her there." Without looking, Kro pointed toward the opposite wall, at what approximated a bed. Little more than a wall shelf, it was mounted roughly a foot off the floor and covered in a patchwork quilt that looked as old as it was dusty. Belmorn crossed the floor in three strides, leaning forward to lay the girl down.
"You can go now. There's little enough room in here as it is." Kro knelt, looming over his unconscious patient. "Just remember, keep yourself and those horses quiet."
Belmorn frowned, stealing one final glance at the unconscious child. As he turned for the door, he could still feel the girl's warmth on his side, hanging there like an echo. Like the insidious memory of a missing limb.
As he stepped toward the rear of the wagon, glass bottles and jars and who knew what else softly shifted and clinked. Ducking his head, Belmorn slipped out through the door and he did not look back.
6 - 5
For the second time in as many minutes, the air outside was new. Belmorn breathed deeply, looking up at the moon and the stars, holding them until his head swam. He scanned the secret hollow within the thorns as pinpricks of starlight hung in his vision.
Belmorn winced--working a thumb and index finger over his eyelids. Dropping from exhaustion felt like a seduction. If for no other reason than to escape the memories of the past few days.
The Veld has a witch. Didn't you know?
A thin wooden snap pulled Belmorn from his thoughts. He saw stars in this hollow place. On the ground, in the shadows. But unlike the ones in the sky, these stars came in pairs.
The horses stamped their hooves, snorted, grunted, shook violently their bridles. Remembering what Kro had said about the dangers of noise, he rushed to the animals. They were backing away, back down into the thorny corridor and away from the glade. Away from the dozens of glowing eyes that had them surrounded--twinkling like tiny stars.
The hands of the blackfoot ached for their axes, but the weapons remained right where he had left them--secure and on the back of the retreating adamandray. Belmorn looked back toward the glade. He was utterly surrounded.
At first, the things remained on the perimeter, close to the thorny walls where shadows were thickest. Then, as if by some unheard cue, they shifted, moving like water from a burst dam to flow between the man and the horses. Belmorn's heart thrummed in his chest. There was nowhere to go but back to the wagon. He couldn't knock, wouldn't dare interrupt the surgery. Axes or not, this swarm of eyes was for him to handle. One more act for this endless gauntlet of a day.
One of the shadows broke away from the herd. Raising a pair of the hardest fists he could make, Rander Belmorn clenched his teeth and prepared for the absolute worst.
"Please..." The voice was a small, frayed thing. It came from a figure, slowly stepping out the dark.
As moonlight revealed more of the twisted, nearly-naked form, Belmorn could see the speaker was no man.
"Please," the hunchbacked creature said again. All around, more shadows were revealing themselves as members of the same strange race.
Magnus released a threatening squeal.
"Still your beasts!" said the thing.
Unable to move or scream, Belmorn watched as the creatures lay open hands upon Magnus and the silver mare. Rinh, how he wanted those axes.
Then, to his utter astonishment, the horses began to calm. Large, grayish hands spread over the animals' necks, backs, and legs, yet the horses no longer appeared agitated. Within seconds, the heads of both animals drooped until they lay down and went inexplicably to sleep.
Belmorn palmed his forehead, absently itching a spot usually covered by his missing haresh. He managed a weak "Huh?" before the creature whipped its head round, locking eyes. It he
ld a long finger to a small pair of cracked lips, and Belmorn said no more.
The creatures were hairless, stood shorter than he was, but only because of a bent posture. Their upper body was bare, revealing mottled, grey skin that looked calloused, almost stonelike in texture. What Belmorn first took to be green fur actually seemed to be some kind of living moss. This covered their arms and shoulders while shabby pelts hung about their loins.
The arms and fingers of the creatures were larger than a man's. Due both to the limbs' length and the creatures' postures, the hands hung mere inches above the ground. Each face possessed the rudimentary building blocks of a human's but was distorted into something distinctly other. The eyes were luminous, set far apart and deep into the skull, creating a prominent ridge of brow. The small mouth was hidden almost completely beneath a nose so massive, it must surely have been a burden to support.
The nose struck a note of recognition in the man from distant Grael, though it was far from the drooping, wart-riddled organs Belmorn had seen in books. These noses were smooth, aquiline, creating a profile that in the low light, resembled birds of prey.
These strange, bent creatures could be but one thing: Trolls.
"Danger," said the leader in its frayed whisper. "But not in here." The troll made a gesture indicating the glade, and then it looked to the thorn wall separating them from the rest of the Veld. "Out there walks death. All our deaths."
There was a dull thud nearby, as if something heavy had just hit the ground. Slowly, the troll turned in the direction as more impacts resounded.
Footsteps? Belmorn thought.
As if by a crack of black powder, reality split down the middle. The wail--that wail--coursed through his body, through teeth and rib and seemed to go on forever. It was followed directly by a set of barks. One, then two, then one more. Each seemed to wield force enough to shatter bone.
Belmorn tried to swallow, but his throat felt lined with stone. Whatever vision he had once conjured of a withered old hag seemed quaint. His mind and heart raced--bombarded by thoughts and questions.
The walls looked to be roughly thirty feet high, perhaps more, but how thick were the thorns between him and that shrieking nightmare Kro called a witch? How long had the corridor been? An eighth of a mile? Assuming this hollow had been carved in the dead center of the Moat, the--
The wail sounded again, rattling the questions from his mind. It was too much. Was Belmorn not a blackfoot? Had he not faced and slain forty-nine greater eels and who knew how many salt-lions in over four and a half decades of life? Had he not faced and damn near defeated a dread nautiloth with only nine men as his anchor?
Yes. Yes he bloody well had.
Here was the sort of battle he was born for. Not man-shaped foes, but horrendous, unthinkable beasts the size of river barges.
Belmorn stormed across the glade. And the trolls shrank to let him pass. Vaguely he noticed females and children among them. One troll mother held a tiny babe to her naked breast. Upon reaching the sleeping adamandray, Belmorn reached for his axes but... a warm hand brushed his arm before he could unfasten the first of the sheath's leather clasps.
Turning around, his head felt heavy, thick even. The last thing he saw was the face of the only troll he had heard speak. And now, it spoke again. Just one word.
"Please."
PART SEVEN
THE HAG'S FOLLY
7 - 1
Henric Galttauer sat at the bar, quietly contemplating the first course of his supper. Past strands of blond hair, he stared into the cup, empty but for a last mouthful of pale, foamy liquid. After watching the remainder swirl and slide around the bottom, he finally swallowed it down.
BANG!!
A second cup was slammed down, splashing sudsy drops onto the dark wooden bar.
"Thing about teats, they go in pairs." With a smirk, the bartender and proprietor of the Hag's Folly, whisked away the empty cup. Ottma was a large, hard-faced woman, who happened to brew the coldest ale in Roon.
The captain didn't look up, didn't respond but to slide the new drink closer. Like the first cup, the ale was half frozen. The initial gulp slid down his throat like liquid ice, numbing him further.
Numb was exactly what he needed.
The captain of the Roonik Guard was not in the best of moods. He hadn't been in a very long time. How many years had passed since his brow had set in its current furl? Six? Seven? Seemed like hundreds.
Heralded by the chime of a small bell, the tavern door swung open and two new customers entered. The men received glares by all but the only man at the bar.
Exchanging nervous glances, the pair occupied one of the small round tables in the back, just as a half dozen others had already. The air in the Folly was more somber than usual, and that was saying something.
Galttauer took another long pull from the cup, chewing the small, tooth-sized bits of ice.
How could things have gotten so low? Fallen so far from right?
This was Roon. The last of the great shield cities. For over five hundred years, the city stood as a legendary example of what human civilization could achieve. His proud bloodline had always served, always protected the people and maintained the roads, ensuring travel safe and unplagued by vermin. For seventeen generations, no Galttauer had failed in this task.
Henric was the last of that line. Risen in the illustrious Roonik Guard to the rank of captain, he was respected, admired, and the most useless of all to bear his illustrious name.
"That bad, huh?" The voice of Ottma pulled at the captain's eye. Her voice was low, intended for an audience of one.
"Hmm?" It was the first sound the captain had made since sitting.
"Well..." continued the large woman "I always presume a measure of embellishment in the tales that make it across this bar. But based on that dark cloud you dragged in here, I'm thinking maybe, things really are as bad as all this."
The captain took another gulp of his drink. As he crunched on the ice, Ottma dipped his original cup in a bucket of water before toweling it dry.
"I have some stew left. If you're hungry."
"Hmm?"
"Stew," said Ottma more pointedly. "There's a bit left. 'Course it's mostly broth. Ran out of meat last week, and I can only recall what color a carrot is if I try really hard." she was smiling. On most days, any man would count himself lucky to receive a smile like that. Ottma may not have been the comeliest of women, but she was the genuine article, as honest as a summer rain.
"No," said Galttauer with a pang of guilt. "Thank you. I'll send out a garrison in the morning. Have them check the snares."
With pursed lips, the woman put down the cup and cloth. "Henric, you know as well as I do, there won't be any rabbit in those snares. Morgrig has--"
The captain's expression turned like bad milk.
"Sorry, Henric. Really. Not trying to rub salt in the wound."
The captain snickered and shook his head. "It's not you who should be apologizing, Ott. This is my mess." He took another long pull from his cup. "Mannis Morgrig is my fault."
The woman stepped back. To Ottma, the captain's meaning seemed clear. The news that had already spread through the city like a sickness was that of calamity. The convicted criminal known as the Red Wolf had escaped, aided by some unknown party, and, against all odds and logic, had once again slipped through Galttauer's fingers.
The fact that the escaped individual was not the despised criminal the woman--the whole town--believed him to be might have colored her opinion on the matter. But no one knew the truth beyond the good captain, and that particular bit of information was currently festering in his gut. As far as Galttauer was concerned, stew, even leeks and broth would be of better use in any belly that wasn't his.
What were you thinking?
Desperation changes men, even the good ones and Captain Henric Galttauer had committed an unthinkable act. He'd framed an innocent man--condemned him to a terrible death. And for what? To propagate yet another lie?
That the threat of the Red Wolf was over?
The lone vagabond with no ties and no hope was marching off to die anyway, and Galttauer would not attempt to track down the true threat. Not again. His duty was and would always be to the people of Roon.
The witch of the Veld had killed or vanished too many of his men already. Twice he had endeavored to find the beast and to bring it down, and twice was enough. Locking his people behind their great shield kept them alive--withering slowly like grapes on the vine, but alive.
Of course, life alone is never enough. His people had grown gloomy and cold--colder than the wind. With that mummer's fart of a trial he'd hoped to give them the tiniest sliver of respite. An opportunity to turn from their woes and unite. Even if only for a moment.
Galttauer had no idea how to kill a witch, but bandits were another matter entirely. Unfortunately, his men were limited, and every time they left the safety of Roon, they did so at great peril, for the shadow of their true enemy was long. Despite having personally led numerous attempts to rout out the southern threat, the bandits had proved elusive.
Mannis Morgrig is my fault.
Ottma had no idea how off her interpretation of that statement was. The so-called Red Wolf had only come to Roon's forest because the road had been left wide open, seeded with the red meat of Galttauer's own inadequacy. But too much time had been allowed to pass, and the bandits had grown comfortable. All too familiar with these northern woods and their absentee warden.
In trying to keep his people safe from one threat, the captain had invited a second to scratch at his front door. Not wolves, but vermin--following near enough behind a lion to pick at scraps in its wake.
Scraps. That's all the once proud people of Roon had now--scraps of their pride and scraps for their supper. Last month, the stores had dwindled to the point where an old stallion had been taken from the stables and delivered to the city butcher. There had been a lot of meat, but appetites returned quickly. Already there was talk about which horse to choose next, but that wasn't what really gnawed at the captain's mind.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 13
