Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  Kro snickered quietly, saying nothing.

  Belmorn went on. "Unfortunately, we haven't seen him in almost seven years."

  The statement hung in the air until Kro released the breath he had been holding. "Seven years..." he said. "... is a long time to wait for a horse brush. Where you are from, I presume such things are hard to come by?"

  Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "This man sold more than brushes. Things no one had seen. Impossible things."

  Kro looked at the riverman sharply for a moment, assessing the insinuation in his tone. "Where did you say you were from?"

  "I didn't," said Belmorn. "But that doesn't mean you don't already know."

  Kro lowered his hood, then glanced at the adamandray. As if aware of their conversation, the gigantic two-toned horse looked up from the grass.

  Belmorn continued, "It was one of the first things you said to me back in Roon. You called Magnus by his breed. I have been on the road for almost five months. Do you know how many people have known an adamandray when they saw one? Do you? Those idiot guards, they didn't even think Grael was a real place, but you, wizard, you called me 'riverman'."

  Kro stared at a patch of nothing in particular, somewhere between Belmorn and his horse. Then he turned his attention to the silver mare. As his jaw moved, it felt about as natural as rusted clockwork. "You say you are here looking for a horse brush?"

  "I didn't say that at all. I'm not looking for a brush, just the man who sold them. I've been tracking him. Asking every passerby, in every city, town and encampment--inside taverns and outside stables. I asked merchants at their tables and men displayed in stocks and pillory. Even bandits unlucky enough to stop me on the road... I asked them all."

  Belmorn turned to look south. His stormy grey eyes glaring with the accumulated fatigue of his journey. Standing there, Kro said nothing.

  "This man," Belmorn went on. "I haven't learned much... but I believe I've discovered where he's from. An obscure town, missing on most maps." He stepped forward, closing the gap between the two men. "I may be slow recognizing a face I haven't seen in seven years, especially when it's kept so diligently beneath a hood... but I'm not likely to forget--that." Belmorn's head inclined towards the wagon's broadside, the tapestry that billowed in the now-gentle breeze.

  On that faded purple field was a symbol used by alchemists to represent the circle of life and death. The Ouroboros. The serpent who devours its own tail.

  9 - 3

  Initially, Tenebrus Kro responded only with a subtle shake of his head.

  "The brushman?" He said at last.

  Rander Belmorn relinquished a nod.

  "Huh," Kro chuckled. "Gone for a few years, and I'm reduced to a blasted brush salesman. Of all the things I sold from the side of that wagon." The man looked astonished but also deflated. For almost a full minute Kro stood motionless, eyes glazed over but shifting, as if he were reliving a dream. Or some other life.

  "My boy is sick, Kro." Belmorn was standing to his full height. His hands were fists, his mouth a rigid line. "It is the purple sickness."

  "What?!" For the first time, Kro's careful demeanor was shattered. "Your boy--but how? How long has he been stricken?"

  "Three weeks before I set out," said Belmorn with an internal sigh of relief. "Twenty-two in all."

  "Belmorn... that is..." Kro said in a low voice.

  "A death sentence. Yes, I know."

  "Belmorn..." Kro's words failed him. "Shit. I am sorry."

  "Don't be," said Belmorn. "Sorry can't help my son. But your medicine can."

  "What do you mean--my medicine?" Kro stepped forward. In his eyes, something bloomed, a notion, a realization, something profound enough to leave him visibly altered. "Oh, no..." He spoke practically in a whisper. "Belmorn, I know why you're here, what you've come for. But please, I beg you... Do not ask me for that."

  The man's words ignited a fury that possessed the blackfoot. To have come this far, gone through so much.

  "I have no choice!" Belmorn's gloved hand shot forward, grabbing Kro by the cloak. "I have come for the same medicine you once gave to a woman called Nikta Bergen. I was there when you gave her the white broth. It was almost nine years ago, but I can still see the writing on the label. Two words. Witch. Tears. It is the only substance I know of that might stop my boy's own throat from choking him to death."

  The man shrunk deeper into his cloak, as far as Belmorn's grip would allow.

  "Price is no object." Belmorn produced a pouch and rattled the contents. "There are six guilders here. Guilders! All yours. Just give me what I want."

  There was much to process. Much that had been dropped so unexpectedly on his head.

  As he backed away, Tenebrus Kro stared at the man-shaped cluster of raw nerves that loomed before him, wishing beyond all reason there were some god out there that might intervene.

  The purple sickness.

  The words pricked at a familiar pain in his chest. It was nothing new--the usual mixture of guilt and well-honed despair--but this time it did not come alone.

  Lishka. Livinia.

  He could still see their faces, as sad as they were heartbreakingly beautiful. Even now, as his eyes began to well up, they were waiting for him.

  Witch Tears.

  Kro looked to the mounds of grassy fur that covered his uninvited guests, the Pershten. He stared at them long and hard as a myriad of regrets rose to the surface of his mind. Things had changed again. A new plan had begun to rise in his mind, like a phoenix from the ashes of his original. And it had just been snuffed out.

  Tenebrus Kro knew that he was alone again. Alone--his truest state. There could be no hope of recruiting the blackfoot, not now that he knew what drove him. While a man might be swayed from the duties before him, a father was another matter entirely. Surely none knew that better than he.

  At the appearance of a biting wind, Kro pulled close the sides of his hood--his fingers lingering on the fabric.

  "Kro!" Hearing Belmorn's voice was like being doused by a bucket of half-frozen ale. "Damn it, wizard, do you hear me?!"

  "I..." Kro began again in a more resigned tone. "I hear you, Belmorn. Half the Veld can probably hear you. And for the last time, I'm no damned wizard." The tears welling in his eyes itched into his nose, making him sniff. "Nikta Bergen." He could hardly hear his own voice. "So that was her name. I had forgotten. Though, nine years is a very long time." His body bowed, as if he carried the chains of a condemned man who was truly guilty of his crimes. "It pains me to tell you this but, the medicine you have come for is gone. Used up. And before you ask--no, I cannot simply make more."

  The large riverman nearly doubled over, as if kicked in the stomach by one of his people's sacred horses. His mouth worked--open, closed--though only a single word came. "No."

  Rander Belmorn had found his quarry, the very man so many had told him was either impossible to track or dead. He, a simple riverman, he had done that. Yet contained within this accomplishment was the thing he had dreaded most. The knowledge that his time away from home was for nothing. Just as his wife had declared it to be, riding away from the side of his dying boy had proved the worst decision of his life.

  Rand... He could hear Malia's strained voice. Don't you dare. Your son needs his father. Now more than ever. Can't you see that? Can't you understand?! We both do.

  He had argued with her, restated the same case for the third or fourth time, but to no avail. Comprehension hadn't been the problem.

  You think it is strength pulling you out that door? Real strength would be to stay by his side. To watch him and love him every second of every day he has left. Make no mistake, if you leave, it will not be because of strength. It will be because it's easier to set off on an impossible quest than to stay by his side. Tell me, husband, do you know what sort of man abandons his family in their darkest hour?

  Belmorn tried to stop the memory from playing out to its conclusion. He shut his eyes. Shut them until he thought the hot tears might bu
rn off his eyelids. But there was no stopping what he already knew. What he was and would be until his last breath.

  A coward.

  The word had been in him for a long time, hidden away, secretly brewing behind prickly walls. Now that it was free, it could never be put back in.

  "The medicine," Belmorn's words cut through gritted teeth. "You made it once. You can make it again."

  "Damn it, Belmorn, are you listening? No. I can't," Kro grumbled, shaking his head. "Listen to me now. The active ingredient in that tincture was something that I happened upon. An heirloom from a distant land--a gift. Might as well demand I turn those six Guilders you brought into soup."

  The more Kro blathered on, the more Belmorn wanted to lift the one-time merchant high into the air and shake him until he heard the snap of every bone or until a little bottle labeled Witch Tears fell out. Whichever came first. When he unclenched his jaw enough to speak, Belmorn asked.

  "This ingredient. What was it?"

  "Something beyond rare. Honestly, I don't think you would believe me if I told you."

  "Try me." Belmorn imagined his words were a knife against the hooded man's body. Why was he playing coy now? Had he not heard his son was dying?

  "No."

  "What?" the riverman balked. "What do you mean, no?"

  "Belmorn, listen to me. You have a family. And that is a blessing among blessings. Believe me. Trust me. Go back to them. Now, while you're still whole and intact."

  "How can I do that?" Belmorn exploded "That would mean that all of this--all of these weeks away have been for nothing! I cannot return like this. Not empty handed."

  Kro appeared to roll this thought over before responding. "What the hands are or aren't holding doesn't matter. Your family just needs the hands, you big idiot. Don't you get it? All they really need is you."

  9 - 4

  The slow, wooden creak of the wagon door slid through the air.

  The men turned to see the third member of their strange company. On the back of the wagon, Rivka stood, fully wrapped in a veritable mountain of blankets. Only her face was visible, a light shining in a multicolored sky.

  "Pretty cold out here," she said.

  Belmorn nodded in agreement, but privately, he continued to seethe. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breathing that exited his nostrils like dragon smoke. He still had much to say to the man before him. Merchant, wizard, vagabond--whatever he was.

  "Come." Kro spoke with a calm voice. "We should eat. You especially." He looked at Belmorn. "You must be starving."

  Belmorn sneered but said nothing. He could hardly disagree. More than a day separated him from his last meal, and that had tasted of dead leaves and worm-asses. Without a word on that subject or any other, he trudged over to where the girl was standing.

  "Interesting outfit," he said flatly.

  "Thanks." The girl looked very serious. "I really hate being cold. Were you two going to fight? It sounded like it."

  The question hit hard. Belmorn hadn't expected it. "No." He expelled a cloud of breath. "We weren't going to fight. Come on." He gestured to where Kro had walked.

  "Because if you were going to fight," the girl whispered, "he'd be in trouble."

  Offering no disagreement, Belmorn couldn't stop the grin pulling the edge of his lip.

  On the other side of the wagon, Kro stood beside something inexplicable. In the ground was a hole filled almost to the top with water. They were standing on earth. A hard packed country of rock and soil, not some frozen lake. Yet there it was--a fishing hole. Perplexed, Belmorn turned to see that Rivka was grinning.

  "That's where your harsh went. Your old one, I mean."

  "It's called a haresh. Not a harsh."

  "Oh. Right," said the girl. "Well, whatever you call it, my green one looks better."

  Belmorn's smile managed to just touch his eyes.

  Out of the ground protruded a long stick that had been threaded through the eye of a tall metal stake. Belmorn was silent for almost a full minute. His eyes flitting here and there as potential responses proceeded to bloom and wilt on his tongue. The stick, he saw, was twitching.

  No, he thought. Not a stick. A pole.

  With a heavy sigh, Kro slipped a pin from the stake's eye, releasing the fishing pole. He pulled it up slowly until the beginning of a long line appeared. The line supported at least a dozen sturdy hooks and, to Belmorn's surprise, live fish. Steam poured off the fish as they hit the air. And for the first few seconds they writhed and flapped before going utterly still.

  "How is this possible?" Belmorn shook his head in disbelief.

  "There's a river down there," said the girl. "Right under us. It runs along the thorns. The lower villages of the Veld pull these fish from it all the time."

  "The moat," Belmorn muttered under his breath, remembering how strange the term had sounded for a wall of tangled thorns.

  Kro nodded. "The Pershten tell of a great lake, deep beneath the mountain. Always hot, always teeming with these ugly fish. We know the lake feeds into this river. The evidence can be seen on especially cold mornings. Skáldi's Breath is its name. A great column of steam rising from the icy sea, just past the cliffs off World's Edge."

  "Huh," was all Belmorn could manage. He snatched one of the still steaming fish--turned it over. It felt warm in his hand. The eyes were clouded over--useless and blind.

  "That's a mab," explained Rivka. "They're ugly, but taste pretty good."

  "Without roasting, good might be pushing it. But I've done what I can." A crooked smile grew on the lips of Tenebrus Kro. "According to what Bror has told me, his group has been living off them for weeks. Ever since they discovered this place."

  "Mr. Kro?" asked the girl, looking around. "Where are we, anyway? I never knew the moat was hollow inside."

  "It's not." With a grunt, Kro pulled the last of the mab fish from its hook, then began transferring them to a cloth. "I cleared this out years ago."

  "Oh." The talking mound of blankets walked closer to where the men were standing. "That must have taken a long time."

  "It did."

  Belmorn exchanged a tentative glance with the girl. Covered in so many layers, she had taken on the shape of a wooden nesting doll. The notion nearly made him smile for a second time.

  "Why did you do it?" asked the girl.

  "Because I needed a storehouse that couldn't be plundered," he sighed. "This hollow... I used it for a long time. And then I stopped." Kro's words ground to a halt, looking miles away as he stared into the thorns.

  "Oh," said the blanket mound.

  Kro lifted the cloth, creating a sack for the steaming fish. He set it down beside one wheel of his wagon and a lidded utility box. From the box he extracted a small, flattish parcel of paper and twine, which he tossed to Belmorn.

  "Prepared these during the night," Kro said, closing the lid of the box. "Should be enough there for both of you, but I do have more."

  Having caught the thing, Belmorn fumbled to untie the knot with thick, half-frozen fingers. The opening folds of paper unleashed a most alluring smell that hit hard and fast, travelling from his nostrils down to his stomach.

  "Fair warning, though..." said Kro. "The meat is salty as hell, and raw."

  "That's okay!" blurted Rivka, who leaned closer to Belmorn, whispering. "A fire would be bad. She would find us."

  She.

  The word pulsed in Belmorn's brain, followed by another.

  Her.

  With a nod, he offered the girl first crack at the fish. From beneath the blankets, tiny fingers reared like pink worms, plunging hungrily into the cold meat. She looked up, smiling brightly as she ate. It had been a long time since the riverman had seen such happiness. The smile on his own face was a weak one, but it hung for almost four seconds before dissipating.

  Belmorn popped a piece into his mouth. The meat was incredibly delicate--thin to the point of translucency. The saltiness burned his tongue, but it was an undeniable comfort just to be eati
ng again. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

  At the side of his wagon, Kro turned a well-disguised latch that unfolded a shelf. It banged into position, the sound loud enough to elicit a nervous scan of the thorns from the girl. After laying out the fish on the wooden surface, Kro began to remove the heads. Every time the knife connected with the shelf, it produced a dull THUKK that caused the walking blanket pile to flinch.

  Belmorn stood, arms folded thinking, staring. For some reason, Kro looked suddenly, very old. The man's pointed beard was black, but streaked with a fair amount of silver, and his face wore many lines. He might easily have been fifty or more. Then again, the blackfoot knew, such trappings do not always come from age.

  9 - 5

  "Kro." Belmorn's voice was firm. "Thank you."

  Tenebrus Kro studied the large man, but his eyes were difficult to read. "You like the fish?"

  Belmorn snickered. "Er--yes. But that's not what I meant." He swallowed and gave the rest of the packet to the girl, who accepted the food with glee. "Whatever your reason was, neither one of us would be standing here if not for you. For that, you have my gratitude."

  "And mine!" said Rivka with a vigorous nod. She smiled, her cheeks swollen with partially masticated mab fish. The sight prompted warmth to flush inside Kro's chest, but he said nothing.

  Belmorn went on after a moment of silent deliberation. "These weeks on the road, one rule has been my constant companion. My compass. When Grael was freshly at my back, I swore to stay on task. To go and return as quickly as possible, and to never get involved in the business of others." Belmorn paused for a moment, looking regretful. "For nineteen weeks this kept me focused, safe. But in the last couple of days I managed to break this rule--not once, but again and again. And here we are." The blackfoot shook his head, chuckling. "Medicine or not, I am glad I found you, brushman. But if we are to part ways now, then tell me one thing. Is it merchant? Vagabond? Wizard?" He smirked at that last one. "What are you really?"