How have things fallen so far from right? The question wasn't difficult to answer, just difficult to face. Because you let them.
Galttauer lifted the cup to his lips and drank, drank until he could barely feel the other question gnawing at the frayed edges of his mind.
What will they eat... when there are no more horses?
7 - 2
The bell sounded again and there was light coming through the open door. It cast the entering figure in a stark staggering silhouette. Eyes collected on the man who ignored the only other sitting at the bar.
"Damn it, Graden." Ottma did not look pleased. "What do you think you're doing? I already sent you to bed once tonight."
Graden Kuhn, the city apothecary, was slight of frame. He dressed in a buttoned vest and glasses that made him look like a librarian. "Did you? I feel like that was yesterday."
Ottma frowned. "Yesterday too."
The man looked consternated at this. He placed one hand upon his face and slid it up to a crop of short, silver hair. He shrugged. "Well then. Must have gotten lost." After a snicker, he added, "Come on, Ott, don't be like that. I just want what all these fine gentlemen already have."
He tossed a pair of silver coins onto the bar and sat. The chosen stool was just two down from the captain, who had yet to react.
"I just want a taste of those lovely tits of yours."
Galltauer looked up. He tried to catch Ottma's eye, to gauge her level of distress. As far as he could tell, there wasn't any.
This was the Hag's Folly, the house of Ottma Steinholm, but it hadn't always been. For nearly thirty-two years, the place had operated under another sign. The Three Steins had been named for the trio of brothers who had opened the place, as well as the minimum number of pints typically consumed by its patrons.
Over the decades, three owners dwindled until only Ivan Steinholm--and his daughter--remained above the ground.
After the second failure to rout out the witch, the people of Roon had to acknowledge the shadow on their door. There was no denying the rumors or the ravings of that traveling merchant--of a thing on the mountain that had bested their finest warriors twice over. Unfortunately, the protector they looked to was revealed as no mighty storybook legend. Only a man who was out of options.
Ottma had inherited the bar from her father and uncles, and she could see the growing, infectious despair. All who walked through her door did so with black clouds around their eyes and in their throats. They came for liquid forgetfulness, and for a while, it seemed that this was all she could give. She was no soldier, no witch-slayer. She was a simple barkeep--brewer of the coldest ale in town.
But then came the day when Ottma had hung up a new sign over the door. The Hag's Folly was more than a name. It would stand as a statement. A bold assertion of courage for those who had forgotten the concept. Out there was a monstrous thing, but not in her tavern. In truth, hope was the thing. The most precious ware she could sell.
Renaming the half frozen ale from barrels stored outside had not been part of the plan, but a joke that stuck.
Witch teats. Served ice cold and always in pairs.
As with the dark wooden bar and every table and stool, she owned it. But every so often some horse's arse would twist the words. Usually just enough to piss her off.
"Come on, now, don't make me beg. One and two." The city apothecary slurred, stabbing a finger down on the bar. "Right here. Then, I'll say goodnight. I promise."
Ottma considered the request with a sour look, but started filling an empty cup.
"Oh." The apothecary sounded surprised but not nervous. "Captain! Didn't realize that was you."
Galttauer grunted in return as his grip tightened around the cup's handle.
"That was some business we had today, eh?"
In the following silence came the sliding of chairs as three of the patrons proceeded to hastily exit the Hag's Folly.
"Looks like Mannis Morgrig continues to escape the justice of the Hraaf and the Vaarg. And right out of one of your goodnight cells, no less. Tell me, Captain, how does a thing like that happen? Right under your watchful eye?"
"Here." Ottma slammed a single cup in front of the city apothecary. "Be thankful that's all you're getting from me. Now drink up and get out."
Startled by the impact, Kuhn's face lit up. He lifted the drink to his lips, then paused. "The witch is one thing. But it seems like executing a simple cutpurse should be within the limited abilities of our mighty captain." The rank was slurred into something resembling an insult. With a lopsided grin, Kuhn gulped down a greedy mouthful. Immediately, his eyes went wide. "What is this?" The words were wet and garbled. As he spat them, clear liquid dribbled everywhere. "Water?!"
Ottma crossed her arms. "Don't like it? Feel free to go home thirsty."
Kuhn stood up so suddenly, his stool shot backwards. His face was all scowl. "You think you're funny? You ugly bitch, I should--"
But the man never finished his threat. With one great hand, Galttauer grabbed the back of Kuhn's head and slammed it down hard onto the bar. Then he spun the drunken man around--pinning him there.
"Whuh? Brgh--" The apothecary sputtered, dazedly trying to right himself. "You get your hand off me!"
The captain glared down at the man he was restraining. Then he pressed harder.
"Ahhggg!!" moaned Graden Kuhn. "So now you're gonna do something huh? This is what it takes for you to get off your arse?" The man spat out a broken laugh, and then winced. "Our people rot and starve with monsters just outside our doors, and you do nothing! Your guards are so stupid, they let Mannis Morgrig himself waltz in through our front gate and instead of bringing him to justice, you let him do exactly what he came for. To remind us all how pathetic you are. That he's no more afraid of you than she is--that fucking witch."
Galttauer released Kuhn from the bar and seized him by the shirt. Then, using two hands, he lifted him within an inch of his face.
"What's the matter, Captain?" the apothecary offered a crimson grin. "Don't like truth? Well here's some more: You killed this city. Not a monster or some filthy bandits, you. History will remember that. There will be no statue of you in the square, but don't worry too much because there'll be no square. Roon is done. Murdered on your watch. Vanished off the face of the world. The only question is whether you'll be remembered as a failure or a coward."
Graden Kuhn searched the captain's face for evidence of injury, but Galttauer responded only via a weary glare. Then he looked at the woman behind the bar. The Hag's Folly certainly had a ring to it, but he knew that wasn't why she had chosen the name.
Captain Henric Galttauer turned his attention back to the drunk, bleeding mess in his hands. Rather than anger or contempt, something else stirred inside of him. Something he had once brandished so deftly, in a time long ago.
A time before wolves and witches...
PART EIGHT
BIRD MEN
8 - 1
Rander Belmorn opened his eyes but immediately wanted to close them again. To sleep for just a few minutes more. Or maybe a month.
"Your skin is really dark."
"Huh? I'm... what?" The man's voice came out a fractured rasp. He had no memory of lying down on the pelts that currently approximated a bed on the floor.
"Dark, I said. Well, darker than anyone I know." The high voice cut through the fog in his mind. "Are you a nobleman? Maybe a duke or a king or something?"
Belmorn sat up, still blinking away the lingering sleep. Not two feet away sat a young girl, her stockinged feet dangling over the edge of a wall-mounted cot. She was dressed simply. Wearing a cotton shirt that was too large and a pair of brown pants. In her hands, she was turning over a leather headband while inspecting the inside.
"This says 'Lord Belmorn'," said the girl, eyeing the inscription. "I can read, you know. My mum taught me. She also taught me that 'Lord' is something people call dukes and kings and stuff. So... are you one?"
Belmorn stared into the pal
e green eyes of the girl who stared right back at him and finally, recognition slid into place. This was the girl. The child he had been so desperate to save.
"No." He rubbed his head, trying to piece together the where and when of his current situation. "I'm no noble anything, girl."
The riverman peered through the dust hovering in the room. Through the particles that seemed caught in hazy light beams like flies in amber. All around were shelves full of small glass bottles, stacks of papers, and various bric-a-brac he could not hope to identify. And these caused more memories to fall into place.
The thorns. The wagon. The horses... They had been making too much noise, and there were trolls. They had been on all sides. Then came the colossal footfalls--the terrible, ominous stomping just on the other side of the wall. And there was the wail and barks that caused a chill to settle in the man's bones.
"Why does it say 'lord,' then?" The girl pressed, ignorant to Belmorn's unnerving recollections. Then she gasped, eyes going wide as saucers. "Oh! You stole this didn't you?"
The mix of excitement and reproach drew a lopsided look of exasperation from Belmorn. Without a word, he extended a hand.
After a few seconds, the girl relented, handing over the leather circlet.
"Thank you." Belmorn wrapped the object around his head, but without the haresh scarf between it and his skin, the leather felt cold. Frowning, he lowered the headband, looking to the inscription himself. At the delicate loops and curves of the hand-wrought letters. "And no, I did not steal this," he said, amused. "This band was a gift from my wife. The inscription is, well... kind of a joke. A bad one."
"A bad joke," repeated the girl, but not as a question. "I think... I'd like to hear that."
"Would you?" Belmorn shook his head, utterly unsure how he had managed to wander into the current conversation.
The girl nodded. "Sure. Been a long time since I heard a joke. Good, bad, or whatever."
Through his nostrils, Belmorn relinquished a long sigh. "Alright. But if I tell you... will you give me your name?"
"Depends," said the girl.
Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "On what?"
"On how good the joke is." The girl smiled behind her hands and Belmorn very nearly smiled back.
"The first thing to know is where I come from. Grael is a small village, one possessed of no storied history or reputation. It's just one of many such settlements built by my ancestors along the banks of the black river. The thing is... we river folk aren't quite far enough from the capital of Racallia to avoid paying the taxes." He exhaled through his nose. "But when it comes to protection, we are generally left to our own devices. Am I going too fast?"
"No," said the girl. "But so far, this isn't a very funny joke."
With a shake of his head, Belmorn pinched the skin between his eyes. "About four years ago, a group of riders came. Six of them. All Westerners. All wearing their intentions on their tongues and sleeves. I watched them from the bank as they rode in like a bad wind."
"Were they bandits? Did they open throats?"
Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "What sort of a question is that?"
"I don't know." The girl shrugged. "My uncle used to talk about bandits who would 'open your throat, as soon as look at you.' Never mind. Keep going."
"These riders, they... did not open any throats, but they were bad men. On that, you are going to have to take my word."
"We-e-e-l-l," the girl dragged out the word, sounding slightly dejected. "Did you kill any?"
"Of course not." Belmorn spoke quietly. "But as I was present and able, I approached them and had a conversation."
The girl's expression twisted to show she was not impressed. "That's it? A bunch of bandits ride into your village and you just 'had a conversation'?"
"Well..." Belmorn cleared his throat. "It was a conversation with axes."
"Ohhh, I get it." said the girl. "You kicked their sorry carcasses out of town."
Belmorn was once again taken aback by the child's colorful vocabulary. He shrugged his shoulders in something resembling an affirmation.
"Okay. Your joke is getting funnier," she went on "But that still doesn't explain the 'lord' thing."
Belmorn sighed. "It was just something one of them said. The men were very drunk, and I have no idea how, but one of them had learned my name." He lowered his tone and tried to mimic their accent. "'This must be the protector of this place, the illustrious Lord Belmorn.'"
"Oh boy." The girl smiled with nervous anticipation.
Belmorn smirked. It had been a while since he had just talked with anyone, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying recounting the exploit. "As for the title, I sure as hell did not encourage its further use. But it followed me like the linger off a murkwhiff. As I said, this band is a gift from my loving wife." He shook his head, snickering. "She thought it was hilarious."
At this, the girl pulled back. Raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I did tell you it was a bad joke."
The girl pursed her lips. "That's okay. I liked it anyway." she inhaled sharply, favoring her arm. "My name is Rivka Pesch."
"Well Rivka," Belmorn smiled, remembering why the girl was where she was. "My name is Rander. Rander Belmorn" He held out a hand, which the girl eyeballed but did not touch. "I'm pleased to say that you look a lot better than the last time I saw you."
The girl's expression was hard to discern. "Thanks. I feel okay. This arm hurts though--a lot. And the bandages itch. Also, the other guy won't let me outside."
Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "You mean, Kro?"
"Yeah. About the only thing he's let me do all morning is lay down and eat." Rivka shrugged, sighed. "Breakfast was fish. It was really salty, but good."
Belmorn measured her words. "Tell me, Rivka, do you remember what happened? Back in Roon?"
The girl nodded. "Most of it, I think. That man, he was going to shoot you from behind. But I didn't want that to happen so I yelled. Yelled as loud as I could. Then you turned and... I think... your sword exploded." Looking wistful, the girl seemed to be watching the events unfold again. Then, ever so slightly, she smiled. "It was worth it. I'm glad you're not dead, Rander."
"Me too. Thank you, Miss Pesch." Belmorn gave a sad sort of smile. "Would it be okay if I looked at your bandages?"
After a few seconds of consideration, the girl nodded. Carefully she pushed the cloak from one shoulder, and then she stretched down the collar of her shirt to reveal the wrappings beneath. With great care, Belmorn inspected what little he could see. The dressing was new. It appeared clean and well wrapped. When he reached the spot where the broken sword had pierced her, the girl drew a sharp breath.
"Sorry!" he blurted out.
The spot looked well-padded. Something had been placed between the wrap and the wound--something green. There was a bit peaking past one edge. Belmorn leaned back, carefully letting the cloak fall back onto her shoulder.
"It's okay. I'm fine." The girl was a tough one; that much was certain. "Besides, I'm the one who's sorry."
"Sorry? What for?"
"I bled all over your scarf." The girl's lips pursed tightly together, slowly twisting into one corner. "The other man, Kro..." she pointed. "He said it needed to be thrown in the fishing hole, along with anything bloody. He said the scent might draw 'unwanted attention.' He's been talking like that a lot. Talking like I don't know what's really out there." Rivka paused as a steely resolve washed over her. "He's wrong though."
"Is he?"
"Yeah. I've seen a lot."
Furling his brow, Belmorn considered this for a long moment. "Rivka?"
"Yeah?"
"How old are you?"
"Twelve, I think."
"Oh? That is a very good age. My son is going to be twelve. Next July, he'll..." Belmorn trailed off. After a while, he found the eyes of the girl again. They were bright, full of so much genuine concern the man's heart nearly broke in two. He redirected the conversation. "And where is your family?"
"Oh, them." The girl wiped her nose across the back of one arm but the automatic action caused her to gasp. Trying to hide the pain, she pushed on, "If you mean my Mum and Dad, they're back home."
"Back in Roon?"
"Roon?" she scoffed in disgust. "No. We were from farther up. Near Mount Einder. Small, mining town. Ever heard of Jayce?"
8 - 2
Jayce.
Hearing the name of the town ignited a blast of black powder in Belmorn's brain. For the girl's sake, he pressed on gently, careful of his tone. "Jayce... I have heard of it. Not exactly an easy place to find."
"No? Well I know where it is." Cinching the cloak tighter around her neck, Rivka shrugged, hiding another wince. "Last town before the world ends." her voice held a hint of pride.
"So I hear." The voice of the blackfoot was somber and warm. "But how is it that if your family is all the way back in Jayce, you were living under that statue?"
"I wasn't living under the Graveless, I just like sitting there. It's the only place I don't feel..." The last word went unspoken, but it might as well have been screamed as the top of the girl's lungs.
Alone
"I was small the last time I was in Jayce. Five maybe. Uncle Hebrecht, he was the one who took me to Roon. But that was after."
"After?" Belmon's voice was as small as he could make it. "After what, Rivka?"
"After they came." Her lips parted stiffly, not wanting to form the next words. "The bird-men."
Rivka hopped off the cot and shuffled across the floor. She stopped at a desk beneath two shelves that ran the length of one of the short walls. She began fiddling with what looked to be a clockwork music box. She picked it up, absently opening the lid, but instead of a dancer, there stood a figurine of a man with a long beard. His hands were up, his mouth carved in a silent scream. Upon seeing this, Rivka snapped the lid shut again, put the box down, and stepped away.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 14
