Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  The scarred man who Morgrig had called Slagter, staggered backwards. He tried to speak, but his mouth no longer had the power to form words. Blood colored the few shards of his shattered front teeth. Then, in a blind rage, he lunged for the girl who had smashed his face.

  A form clad in velvetblack rose up from the ground. Eyes burning like comets, the captain clawed at the side of his saddle, at the latches securing his greatsword. Then with a mighty roar, Galttauer called upon the very last of his strength. The long blade that had first belonged to his great grandfather lashed out in a furious horizontal arc.

  There was a small, wet sound. And then, after a stumble, the scarred man fell to his knees. His hands raked the air like talons searching for a fish.

  Belmorn's eyes widened again. His mind trying to string together the rapid succession of events.

  Though the assassin's hands still twitched, the head that had driven them was no longer there.

  PART FOURTEEN

  A BLACKFOOT'S WORK

  14 - 1

  Belmorn and the girl stared though neither said a word. It felt like many minutes passed before the severed head returned to the cold earth--bouncing, rolling, carving a great pinkish arc in the snow.

  Struggling to stand, Henric Galttauer also watched as the headless body lurched forward. The ragged neck, with nothing to support, pumped spurt after spurt of steaming red. Until it didn't.

  Wearing a scowl, the captain straightened, then spat upon the body. He stabbed his sword into the ground, and still the onlookers said nothing. They watched the once proud man stand in victory--his own body still pierced with Roonik arrows. Captain Henric Galttauer looked more than victorious, more than heroic. He looked mythic.

  "Galttauer," came the surprised voice of Rander Belmorn.

  The captain coughed, winced. Then, using his sword as a crutch, he dropped to a knee. "I'm fine." His labored breathing carried an ominous rattle. "Help the girl."

  Belmorn nodded. Getting back to his feet, he reached Rivka and kneeled. He placed his hands on the sides of her face and stared as if searching for something lost. The girl dropped the axe, and for the first time in years, she allowed herself to sob.

  Belmorn pulled her in. He had tried so hard to close his heart to the girl. To remember why he was where he was, and who needed him most.

  Sasha.

  His boy might as well have been a million miles away, on an island surrounded by a lake of fire. If he allowed himself to love this girl, would his heart take the path of least resistance? Would it decide that what had been found was equal to what had been left behind?

  No. Stop being stupid.

  Belmorn looked at the dying sun. The orange sky gave way to hues of pink and indigo. He pressed the girl's face into his shoulder and hugged her tiny body.

  When he released the girl, the first thing the blackfoot did was smile. "Are you okay?" He picked up the fallen axe.

  The girl sniffed, nodded, drew the back of one arm across her face. "Me?" she waved her hand. "Sure. Been wanting to do that for a long time. Fucking bird-men."

  Belmorn raised an eyebrow, surprised by the curse but in no way opposed to its application. In a swell of panic, he turned his gaze to the unmoving form of Tenebrus Kro. The man lay face down. For a few seconds, as dread rose in his throat, all Belmorn could do was remain nonplussed.

  The sounds of horses reached him like a jolt. They were bristling and snorting--scraping the hard ground with their hooves. Fear rimmed the eyes of his oldest friend. He had seen that look in men before. And in the slime-slick beasts he pulled out of the churning black. He had never seen it on Magnus though. No matter how many times they had waded out from the shore. No matter what sort of monstrosity was breaching the surface. Clearly, the element of surprise had been lost.

  "Captain," Belmorn shouted. "There are arrows in you."

  Galttauer looked down. "Huh." He was still fighting to stand and yet, a familiar smirk appeared. "Forgot about those."

  Belmorn pursed his lips, then shook his head. "Should I... ?"

  "Take them out? No." The captain's tone was firm. "No point." He studied the riverman for a moment before turning away. "You have no stake in this fight, yet you're here, risking all to take down this monster. I can't say I understand why, but I know honor when I see it. At least... I used to." His speech fractured, then broke. After a fit of coughs racked the man, he spat a bloody wad upon the snow. "You're a good man, Belmont. For what it's worth, I regret hauling you up on that stage. Then, and every minute since."

  The blackfoot wore a hard, stern expression. "I have a stake in plenty. And it's Bel-morn."

  "Ah. So it is." Galttauer took a step. For a second it looked like his knee wasn't going to hold, but it did. "Bastard." He growled, looking down at the headless man. "Who the hell is this? Killed nine good guardsmen and their Captain for the bargain."

  Belmorn paused, then grimly shook his head. "You'll have to ask him." He nodded at the unmoving form of Tenebrus Kro. "If he ever wakes up."

  A distant crash turned their heads. Belmorn and the captain stared down the street as a strange sort of music reached them. It was tuneless, meandering between a shriek and whimper. Though far from the cacophonous barks of before, there could be little doubt of the source.

  "Old Man!" Belmorn shouted. "Keep her safe! You hear me?" He turned to the girl, then pointed to the corral. "Stay on the other side. If that thing takes me, get her out of here."

  The gigantic horse whickered before trotting over to where the girl was standing. Rivka however, made no attempt to climb into the saddle.

  Belmorn knelt down so he and the child were at a height. "Rivka, please--"

  "No! You said--"

  "Listen to me, girl! On the river, every hunter, every blackfoot has a job. There are those who take the lead--who leapt aback the giant eels and pound in the stakes. But those stakes are attached to long ropes, held by others. Men and women. Hunters just as vital as the lead. It is their job to pull on those ropes, to haul the writhing beast onto the shore. But..." Belmorn held up a gloved finger. "They have to be patient. To watch. And wait for the right moment."

  "And how do they know what moment is the right one?"

  At this, Belmorn offered a lopsided smile.

  The girl's lips were pursed. She looked to be considering a counterargument, but after a few seconds she just sighed. "Okay." she pushed forward the Graelian axe. "But you have to take this back now. It's too heavy for me anyway."

  Belmorn accepted his other axe with mixed sentiment. He wanted the girl safe, and having both his axes in hand seemed like a good start. "Okay." He stood back up. "Now go."

  The girl grasped one of the saddle's square rings while gripped her knife in the other. Then she and the horse headed behind the broken corral.

  The riverman glared down the empty street, toward the approaching footsteps. The impact tremors shot through his body, hammering his bones and heart. Then came the wail. And the barks.

  "Captain?" said Belmorn, a deep frown on his lips. "If you can still lift that sword, I suggest you do so."

  14 - 2

  Kro?" Belmorn shouted as loudly as he could, but the smoldering remains of the alchemist made no reply. "If you are still with us, I need you in this fight!"

  The street ahead was empty. Laden in snow-covered cobbles, but empty. And then it wasn't. In an explosion of splinters from the side of a building, the monster appeared.

  "Damn it, Kro! You're too stubborn to be dead, so wake the hell up!"

  The beast of Jayce was frantic--seized by rage and frenzy. Her claws scraped earth and stone as powerful legs scrambled for purchase on the snow-slick ground.

  Belmorn watched her come and he did not blink. The man stood tall, rigid, the long green ends of his haresh snapping behind him. Though his face was exposed to the elements, he could no longer feel them.

  As he watched the monster regain its footing and shift direction, he tightened ten ardent fingers around the hand
les of two identical axes. The act summoned a stillness, a sense of clarity that reminded the man exactly what he had been made for.

  "Belmorn." The voice was the captain's. He did not sound well. "Meet her. Buy me a few seconds to see to Kro. If I can rouse him, he may be of more help than an old fool who can't lift his own damned sword. Now go!"

  As she moved in that strange serpentine scramble, the beast vomited forth a terrible shriek. Even from this distance, Belmorn could see the light of dusk gleaming off her teeth. Those curved, saber-fangs were unfurled, ready to strike--yearning, he knew, to be sheathed in his own flesh. And so, he too burst into action.

  Belmorn's legs carried him down the street--not so much running but coursing. He had become like a bird of prey, but one too insane to know the difference between a blind mab and a white shark. Instinct and thought were one. His hands and axes shared a single course of action now: to collide with the coming nightmare.

  Closer and closer, man came to monster until there was no gap left. The man roared, fangs shot forward and there resounded a deafening CLANG!

  The witchwyrm reared up on its hind legs, changing its posture, arching its neck like a swan. Then it aimed that huge, adder-like head at the little thing who had dared to follow it home.

  Henric Galttauer could barely believe what he was seeing. Somehow, the blackfoot was still on his feet! He had somehow evaded and struck the beast, which was now careening out of control!

  The captain's strength was fading, and with it, everything else. He knew he'd never swing his sword again but that sound, that thunderous CLANG--it had stirred something. Stoking what few embers he had left.

  Galttauer looked to the fallen alchemist. There was no movement but by whatever Gods were left, he had to try. Belmorn's bravery was prodigious, but in the end, he was just one man. If he failed--if that damned hissing nightmare made it to the horses and to the girl. Well, the good captain was going to be about as useful as a pair of shapely breasts on a corn snake. The alchemist, though... for the moment, he was an unknown quantity.

  Keep going. Henric Galttauer spat red. One more step. Another!

  Kro was maybe ten paces away. Lying face-first in the snow where he had fallen. Galttauer didn't know if the man was dead or alive, but he forced himself on. Gritting his teeth as fresh pain ignited with every step. He could feel three separate wounds, but he did not look down. The arrows still inside him were the least of his worries.

  Not so far away, a battle raged, though the foreigner and the monster had eyes only for each other. As the captain stepped closer and closer to his last, neither seemed to notice him.

  Finally, expelling air and flecks of red, Galttauer dropped to his knees. He placed a hand on the fallen man's chest and, for the briefest of moments, considered allowing this to be his final act. A welcomed relief, but one he hadn't earned. Not yet.

  With an unintelligible curse, he flipped that damned loudmouthed Kro onto his back. Then, with pain throbbing in his every nerve, Henric Galttauer allowed himself to look down.

  The blackened areas of flesh started at Kro's neck and went up to his cheek bone. Tendons were visible. Pink strings and oozing places caused the captain's stomach to lurch. Though the man's pointed black beard no longer existed, his lips were miraculously intact. And past them Galttauer could make the vague shapes of exhalations.

  For better or worse, Tenebrus Kro was still alive.

  The captain turned his head, coughing a fair amount of blood onto the snow. He plunged one hand into a pouch attached to his belt, one of many he had stocked before leaving his city.

  Roon. Last of the great shield cities. The home he would never have a chance to fail again.

  He retrieved a small glass vial, no larger than a man's thumb. With force he was not sure he had left, Galttauer squeezed until he felt the thing pop. Careful not to drop any of the glass, he held the crushed vial and its contents under the alchemist's nose.

  Within seconds, Kro's eyes shot open.

  Tenebrus Kro sat up with a jolt, looking everywhere at once. There was blood on Galttauer's shirt and on his face and more matting his mane of blonde hair.

  "Henric?" Kro heard himself say. His words sounded distorted. Stiff.

  Instead of a response, Galttauer extended a shaky hand. In it was a black powder pistol, the sort carried by the Roonik Guard. He offered the weapon handle-end first, making Kro feel as if he was expected to take the thing.

  "How's your aim?" sputtered the captain, jerking his head toward the street.

  Kro gasped upon seeing the clash of man and beast, which was now close to two hundred feet away. Understanding what was being asked, he took the weapon.

  "On a good day?" Kro coughed. "Got to be worse than yours."

  The captain smiled then. Just enough to reveal red teeth. "How about on the worst day?"

  "Seems we're about to find out." In that moment, Kro had never felt more regard for the man. "Incidentally, where were you hiding this thing?"

  "Up my ass." With blood dripping from his chin, Galttauer smirked, looking amused with himself. "Listen... I need a favor."

  "Of course." Kro gave a nod. It hurt to talk, to even move.

  "Back down the mountain... my men... That masked sonofabitch said some of them... might still be alive. I think he hobbled their horses and just rode past."

  Kro frowned, then winced as fiery pain cracked his cheek.

  "Please," Galttauer went on. "Roon is going to need a new protector. A better one. If there are survivors, get them home."

  Kro curbed his instinct to fire back with something biting and sarcastic. Something about how the captain was greatly overestimating Kro's own odds of survival. Instead, he placed his hand on that of the dying man. "I will, Henric. I promise."

  "Good. Now take this fucking pistol and get out there. One shot." The captain's voice had become a weak hiss. "Make it count."

  Kro raised the pistol. He had fired many such weapons, just never at a living creature. As he looked to the battle being waged not a thousand paces away, he knew he would have no trouble breaking that trend. Just as he knew exactly what his one shot had to be.

  14 - 3

  Rander Belmorn wheeled round, using his momentum and catching sight of the beast's tail. It passed by like the end of a whip--close enough to feel a breeze.

  The thing terminated in a hooked barb. Up close he could see that the thing was no scorpion stinger, but jointed, segmented--looking more like the leg of an enormous spider-crab. Kro had said that somehow, that organ was her connection to the place he called the Without.

  Without a doubt, it had to go.

  Belmorn's eyes slid up the tail to the yellowish-green opening left by Kro's Maldaavan blade. True to the man's claim, the wound had yet to heal. Flecks of the bright liquid were being splattered all around. The cut was small, but the red steel had done its work. Who knew how much blood had been lost already? How much strength? Between that and what internal injuries it had suffered in the clutches of that abominable rose, maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for victory.

  Raising both axes high, Belmorn moved quickly. Dodging a clawed swipe on the way, his eye never wavered from that bright spot on the tail.

  Graelian steel sung, then clanged with a sour note upon the ground.

  Belmorn looked around, left, right. He was alone. Left, right, right, left. The man spun around, both axes up, heartbeat thundering in his chest and behind his eyes, but the witch was gone. Vanished with no trace but the steaming blood on the ground.

  As the witch reappeared, she was preceded by a strange effect, akin to a mirage. For half a second, reality quaked. Shimmering as if it had been brought to a heatless boil.

  The serpent head appeared then struck, but Belmorn was already in motion. Twin axes clashed with a pair of enormous fangs. The beast recoiled, lashing a long white tongue while shaking its head.

  The tail! Belmorn's thoughts exploded in his skull. Stay on the tail!!

  He swung ag
ain at his target, but the tail moved unpredictably. He tried to keep eyes on it. Tried to anticipate, but...

  Belmorn had only been horse-kicked once but that was enough. He had never forgotten the all-encompassing pain and heart-gripping panic of being knocked into the air before crashing back to earth.

  This was a lot like that.

  Gulping, coughing, needing to vomit, the blackfoot scrambled upright, realizing he had been hurled almost a dozen feet. Tears flowed onto his cheeks as he tried to regain his lost air. Stupidly looking to where the witch had been.

  Gone again.

  He looked around--gasping. His lungs burned, but above him, the air seemed to be boiling. The foot came down hard, slamming Belmorn to the ground. He was pinned, but at the last moment, he had raised both axes, blades out. Now they were all that separated him from the scaly flesh of the beast.

  Wide eyes took in a darkening sky, but the sight was eclipsed by the head of a gigantic adder. Long, black-and-silver arrowhead scales flared away from the face.

  The witch turned her head, pushing forward the bulging orb that was one of her eyes. It was green, marbled with veins and marked with a central vertical slash, undeniably reptilian. With a pulse, the pupil contracted, thinning down to a finger's width as it both considered and hated the man.

  Out of its gaping maw flicked the pale tongue. Like everything else, the appendage was far worse up close--not simply forked but possessing many branches along its length. It flicked reeking saliva that steamed upon the man's cheek.

  Belmorn focused on the pearl white fangs. They looked small on the beast--shorter than most daggers but hooked. What the teeth held was his prize. Sasha's only hope. He needed that venom like he needed air.

  "Aggh!" Belmorn cried out.

  Though the axe blades prevented the witch from pressing harder, Belmorn couldn't take much more. The man's eyes bulged from pressure and pain as hammers pressed into the sides of his collar bone.