Kro stopped his arm, letting the knife rest where it was, in the center of a half filleted fish. Then, turning slightly, he finished the cut--laying the thin piece of meat next to the rest.
"The answer to that question is complicated, I'm afraid." The alchemist let a silence stretch as he began cleaning his work area, depositing the severed fish heads back into the well, which accepted them each with a small plop. Done with that, he pulled out a set of small jars from the utility box.
"These contain salts from the four cardinal banks of the Mazandaran Sea." After removing the lids, Kro pinched a small amount of salt from each jar. Then he sprinkled the seasoning--rubbing the mixture into the fillets. "You want to know me, Belmorn? Know that these salts are utterly inimitable, more precious to some than gold. No matter where you go, no matter what local chefs may say, you will never find a better combination of ingredients for preserving and flavoring fish. Trust me, I've looked."
For a moment, the alchemist inclined his eyes skyward. Above them, clouds of slate grey rolled in from the north--from the great drop-off men had named World's Edge. He did not like the looks of those clouds.
"Your people knew me as a nameless, travelling merchant who apparently sold very desirable brushes." Kro rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his mouth. "But this was only one life of many. I hail from a speck too insignificant for most maps. There, and also everywhere, my name is Tenebrus Kro." Offering his full name for the first time in years was not as difficult as he had imagined.
Kro continued, "Before the wagon, I fancied myself an alchemist." He paused, gazing inwardly, thinking, remembering. He continued as if reciting words scrawled on a page. "I think it was the searching that drew me to that incorrigible quest for the hidden. For a handful of years, this seemed my calling, but that all ended the day that I had my first epiphany. That the discovery of cosmic truths were never going to be found at the bottom of a mortar. The goals of the alchemic discipline are not true quests but excuses for those too inept or afraid to search past their own door. And so, I vowed to go into the world. To search as many shadowy corners as I could. And to become something more useful. Something I could never seem to find the right label for."
Kro stopped to draw in a long cold breath which he let out slowly. In silence, he replaced the jar lids, then set them gently back into the box on the ground.
"Livinia, my wife, she liked to say I was a seeker. But as it happened, my dearest, who saw and knew so much, was only half right. Seeking was never enough because I had to claim whatever obscurities I discovered. To dissect, to boil down, and to learn. And, yes when the item was deemed appropriate, it might be sold from the side of that wagon. After all, things that might improve the lives of many should not be hoarded by the few."
He turned away. As the man's hood fell back to rest on his shoulders, he could feel a sudden flash of cold. "Unfortunately, one or two of the treasures I brought home proved a hell of a lot more volatile than salt."
Belmorn and the girl watched with expectant eyes as Kro pulled an old rag and some thick paper from the utility box by the wagon wheel. He wrapped each piece of salted fish with all the care of a butcher. One by one, these were each placed into the box. After that, Kro plunged the rag into the fishing hole before wiping clean the shelf that had been his butcher's block. By the time he was done, the wooden surface was steaming.
"So..." Belmorn finally said. "What did you find?"
"That's the wrong question." Rivka spoke up for the first time in many minutes. Her voice sounded lower than before. Older too. "It's not what he found you should be asking about, but what he brought back." The blankets lay piled at her feet now, revealing a mismatched array of garments that made very little sense.
She was still wearing the brown pants, but now there was a skirt over that--dark blue with a line of small goats embroidered along the bottom. Over a cotton shirt was a brown jerkin with drab fur around the arm holes. More of this fur covered her boots and lined a deep blue hood which hung against her back.
Kro recognized the clothes right away. Rivka's eyes became lances locked on the alchemist. "You brought her here, didn't you?"
Kro did not answer. All his energies were focused on breaking free of the child's terrible, accusing eyes.
"My uncle talked about you," she said. "Used to say that the Veld carried the mark of that witch because the dark man with the wagon put it there. He also said the sickness that swallowed Jayce, started with just two victims." The words echoed out and into the sky. "A woman and a small girl who were both named Kro."
Taking in a long breath, and then shakily letting it out, Tenebrus Kro looked directly at the girl. Saying what she deserved to hear would not be easy. Then again, he didn't deserve easy.
"Your uncle was right, child. But it wasn't a sickness. Not technically. Just another of the wyrm's adaptations. It seems there are spores in the eggshell, you see. Spores that are released by the very act of hatching. It is a defense mechanism unseen in the rest of the animal kingdom--intended to remove all threats to the newborn, while providing it with plenty to..."
The girl gasped. Her eyes darted back and about like a hummingbird at a rose bush. Just as her emotions looked about to boil over, Rivka's expression went flat.
"Why?" The question was tinged with neither anger nor judgement but her expectant glare did not relent. "Why did you do it? Why would anyone bring home a thing like that?"
"Because for all my accrued knowledge, I remain a fool." Kro shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. "All my life, some part of me has puppeted these legs, these hands. Driving me to unearth and unveil, and I have been its willing slave. The damn thing was a gift. It was sixty years old, at least. I never could have imagined an egg remaining vital for so long." He sighed yet again. "She so loved when I brought her souvenirs--my Lishka. She was so smart, always so curious about the world around. When she first saw it, she assumed it was a rock. 'Only a funny rock.'" Kro's voice hitched. Despite his efforts to the contrary, tears welled and fell, tracing streams down his dark, wind-bitten cheeks. "Your uncle was right, girl. Plague didn't kill your family. I did."
Tenebrus Kro turned away. Then, laboriously--as if the thing weighed a hundred pounds--he pivoted the shelf he'd been using back into its original, upright position. Just as slowly, he secured it in place with a series of brass latches. Then he rested his head against his wagon, thinking dark thoughts, and for a long time, the man did not move.
They should hate you now. Both of them. And you deserve it, Kro thought this but was unwilling to turn and see the judgmental glares he could already feel.
Light flashed over the glen, casting the cart and thorns in cold, vivid light.
"Snow lightning," muttered Belmorn.
Kro couldn't stop a rueful snicker. "Bad omen."
"Yeah?" asked Belmorn. "Bad for who?"
Beneath a roll of thunder, there came another sound, as if the thing making it had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The howl was long, ghostly, and upon hearing it, Kro knew that it came from neither dog nor wolf. Nor did it come from Her. No--this sound heralded something he had not expected. It meant that a swarm of vermin had finally found his door.
PART TEN
WOLVES AT THE GATE
1 0 - 1
Once the terrible sound had faded away, Belmorn stood enthralled by the whipping winds and tiny vibrations humming beneath his skin.
"The witch?" His head darted to his horse and the pair of Graelian axes mounted to the saddle.
"No." Kro's eyes were wide, but not with fear. "But, this is impossible! He couldn't have found me. Not here. Unless... we were followed out of the woods. Shit! I didn't even think of this."
"What? Someone followed us here? Who?" demanded Belmorn, wondering what fresh problem had laid itself across their path. "Damn it, Kro, what is this?" As he spoke, the blackfoot looked to the horses. Snorting clouds of panic and fear, both looked half ready to bolt.
&nbs
p; "Oh, don't let the howls fool you, Belmorn. Those are just rats at our gate. Filthy, plague-carrying--"
But Kro's tirade was cut by another blast of sound. Somewhat like the call of a wolf, but only in basic terms. Hearing it a second time, Belmorn noticed it didn't pierce him to the bone like the witch's wail.
"We have to go," hissed Tenebrus Kro, running to the trolls, who were already getting to their feet. "Belmorn. I need you to trust me now! Just ready the horses! Please!"
Rivka backed away without direction. Her head was darting, her mouth a rigid line.
"Come on, girl!" Belmorn waved her close. When they were near the horses, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Careful," he said. "They could hurt you without meaning to."
"He won't," she said without a shred of doubt. "Your horse. I stayed with him. When they took you away. I fed him too, and when the guards went home, I told him stories. Told him not to trust those idiot guards and he didn't. He's a good horse. He won't--"
The front hooves of the adamandray stomped in succession, shaking the ground. Rivka stumbled back, swallowing her next word.
"Whoa! Easy, Old Man. You're alright." Belmorn moved slowly with hands outstretched and his head low. "Just calm down. We both need to keep our heads right now."
The usually unflappable Magnus was not in a good way. His eyes bulged as he violently shook his bridle. From great gaping nostrils fired snorts of steam and fear, but the blackfoot remained calm. Slinking forward like a cat, the man slid a gloved hand up the animal's jaw line--willing his own resolve into the adamandray.
"Good man," said Belmorn, looping the reins around one hand. "Now I need you to stay with Rivka while I check your friend. Okay?" Magnus lowered his head and snorted, though his front hoof still pawed nervously at the ground. Not entirely satisfied, Belmorn spared a glance for the silver mare who'd backed herself against the thorns and was growing more frantic. "Rivka. If I don't calm that mare down, she's going to hurt herself. Will you stay with Magnus?"
The girl nodded.
"Good," The riverman gave a firm nod. "Thank you."
Rivka hesitated before thrusting her hand out to take the reins. As much as she knew the animal would never intentionally hurt her, Magnus really was enormous. Of such a size that the top of the girl's head didn't even reach his shoulder. It took a fair bit of courage gathering before she reached up to pat one of those long, striped tree trunks it used for legs.
Belmorn approached the mare, but his efforts were not required. The trolls had reached it first--were already placing open palms on the animal's neck and flanks, calming her with their strange talents. Rather than putting her to sleep, they gently led her away from the bramble wall. And when they did, Belmorn winced. He could see lines of blood dripping down her pale coat from where the thorns had scored her.
The troll leader opened his mouth to speak. Belmorn tried to recall his name, but that line of thought was shattered as the eerie howl filled the air for a third time.
"She is going to hear," said the Pershten chief. "Understand... nowhere is left. Not for my people. Mountain roads all shut."
"I know," said Kro, taking the reins from the others and mounting. "Just stay down. Get back under those pelts, and whatever happens, Bror, keep your small ones quiet. Belmorn! Better get on that giant horse of yours! We have to ride!"
The blackfoot still didn't understand what was happening but could hardly deny the urgency in the air. With well-practiced movements, he climbed the series of square rings, grabbed the saddle horn and swung his leg over the top. Once in place, Magnus shook his massive head and snorted in the direction of the girl.
"Bror!" Belmorn turned, remembering the Pershten chief's name. "Look after the girl. Please, whatever happens, keep her safe."
"No!" shouted Rivka. "You aren't leaving me! I won't be left behind again. Not ever again! Whatever is out there, it can't be worse than that. Rander..." She looked up without a shred of doubt. "You'll keep me safe."
Belmorn frowned. "I'm not one of your legends, girl. In real life, if a sword goes through a man, he doesn't keep fighting for a couple of days after. He just dies."
"Well... I've already had one through me." The girl moved a hand to the bandaged side of her chest. "And I got better. Now, come on. We are wasting time!"
Bewildered, Belmorn looked at Kro, who simply shrugged.
With a weary sigh, the blackfoot took the girl's outstretched hand, pulling her into the saddle behind him. She gripped the man's waist so forcefully, he grunted. He had ridden with Sasha like this many times, most of which had ended in questions of when the boy was going to get a foal of his own.
But he couldn't think about that. Not now.
Turning the silver mare, Kro reached beneath his cloak. The sword he produced was long with a heavy, squared-off pommel shaped like the keystone of some ornate arch. The blade itself was wrapped in red velvet and secured with twine.
"I want you to know this goes against my best judgement," he said to Rivka. "But if you're coming along, you'll need something to protect yourself with."
"What?" Disbelief filled Rivka's voice. "Are you going to give me... that sword?"
"What, this? No, girl. I'm afraid not," Kro said with a smirk, clearly finding humor in the question. He pulled off the velvet sheath to reveal a long reddish blade. In the light of the oppressive sky, it looked as if it had gone to rust. "This is a Maldaavan blade."
Though the statement was delivered with gusto, neither Belmorn nor the girl looked very impressed. Clearly crestfallen, Kro went on.
"In the forging process, the smiths in Maldaav cool the metal with the saliva of giant bats. Buckets of the stuff. It makes the edge... thirsty. Even the slightest nick from this sword is a serious thing. It causes wounds that will not stop bleeding without the touch of fire. Trust me, this one's safer with me." With his other hand, Kro produced a familiar curved knife. With a flick, he turned it in his hand, offering the pommel to the girl. "Here."
Belmorn turned enough to see Rivka beaming. Then, with wide, disbelieving eyes, she reached out to accept the blade, pausing at the last second. "Are you sure you don't have another one of those rusty bat swords?"
"It's not rust," Kro smirked. "But yes, I'm quite sure."
She took the knife. Holding it up, the girl watched as light slid down its dangerous curve. "Thank you, Mr. Kro."
The girl's kind words went straight to his heart.
"Just understand," he said, sternly. "That's no toy. Keep it in your belt, blade pointing down until you intend to use it. Be careful. It's very sharp."
"I will."
"Good." Kro pivoted his mount in the direction of the tunnel they had rode in through. The mare's front hooves crossed the threshold from the glade just as a fourth howl blared. This time, the sound was followed by something else. Something that sounded suspiciously like the distant shouting of men.
"We'll lead them away." Kro halted the mare to look at the Pershten chief. "Hide. And whatever happens, keep hiding."
Bror nodded, then turned to his people, ushering them back under their goat pelts. Belmorn saw the panic in their eyes and the fierce love of one mother Pershten as she clutched her young one, pulling it back. For the briefest of moments, the two saw each other--a father and a mother each with something precious to protect. The responsibility carried a most primal emotion.
Fear, yes, but not for themselves.
And so, the father and the mother turned from one another. Each needing to face that fear as best they could.
1 0 - 2
Thorns whistling past on either side and above, the horses raced down the long corridor. In the tight space, the sound of hoofbeats was thunderous. Tenebrus Kro leaned harder into the silver mare. His eyes fixed determinedly ahead, but barely registered the passing blur around him. The haunting blare of the horn had yanked his insides into a massive knot with the distinct sense of an old debt come due. Back in the woods, the enemy had been too numerous and his own panic too fresh. Kro
had done much in his colorful life, but the bandit's screams had affected him on a level he hadn't counted on.
The men were his enemies. His robbers. They had not only killed but eaten his horse, an animal he had ridden for almost three years and across two continents. They had found him in his most dire hour of need and they had left him for the rose. Morgrig and his men deserved to be mummified in thorny vines--to be pierced by a thousand pinpricks as their life blood was stolen slowly away. Such would be justice and irony distilled into a single moment. No simple, base vengeance, but poetry. Kro had reassured himself of this many times in the days since the incident. And while the logic rang true, it was all just too damned cold.
Questions of morality aside, the mechanics of what happened had been something of a flash in the pan, an unexpected chemical reaction. Poorly understood, even now. The heat, the smoke, the seeds... and the gland of the size-shifter. Even shriveled and dry, the thing was potent.
He had discovered the gland on a distant beach, extracted it from an animal most would assume to be some kind of eyeless seal. Tenebrus Kro however, recognized the thing for what it was based on one confounding detail. That the remains of a last meal was still protruding from an exploded stomach cavity. Laying on that beach and in full display was the mostly digested body of a small whale. An unfortunate creature more than twenty times the size of the animal who had eaten it.
Of course Kro had heard tales of strange things before. Sea serpents, leviathans that were there one second and gone the next. Once in Garrolvai, he had been privy to the drunken ramblings of an old captain who proclaimed the real reason such monsters were never hauled out of the deep. No such things as sea serpents, the man had said--only shifty things with the power to swell to a size large enough to make other things seem small. Things like ships and whales. The minute you kill them, they shrink back down--all the way to their original size.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 17
