Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  A small girl was up on the balcony--kneeling on the railing, then standing. Then, she jumped!

  As she soared, Belmorn noticed that something was in her hands. Something that flashed in the dying light. He wanted to shout, to extend his arms and catch the falling child, but it all happened too fast.

  The witch never saw what hit her. The blow came from behind, forcing her head forward and slamming it into the ground. In its confusion, the beast might have seen a small person tumble from its back, might have seen one of the hated things race over to comfort this much smaller one. Yes, it might have done these things... if not for a strange and insufferable sensation. An itch--terrible, all consuming. It had blossomed quite suddenly, behind one of its eyes.

  There was no thought process for what happened next. Only instinct and a lifetime of experience. The blackfoot saw his opportunity, just like he had a hundred times out on the brackish course. It was a small window, barely a second long, but he did not waste it. Sparing a final, momentary look to the girl, Belmorn leaped, straddling the neck of the witchwyrm as if it were one of his monstrous eels.

  Rivka's knife had been driven directly into the witch's forehead. Just in front of that huge bony crest. Moving almost by itself, Belmorn's hand reached out and grabbed the handle--pulling as if it were a saddle horn. Then he abruptly felt his stomach leave his body.

  With an ear-splitting shriek, the witch reared up. It stumbled, then spun around--flailing, stomping, scratching with twitching limbs and a stump of tail that had not stopped leaking.

  Rivka looked up--catching the riverman's face one final time. His eyes, usually so full of storms, seemed calm now. She reached out for him, but the witch was already off. Running at full clip down the street and straight out of Jayce with a riverman on her neck and the tip of a long knife in her brain.

  15 - 3

  Hard and relentless blew the wind, but the blackfoot did not let go.

  The monster ran with brainless abandon, wailing and bucking and trying to throw its rider. Belmorn had been jostled, had slid a fair bit down the neck and towards the body, but he did not let go.

  The town of Jayce was behind them and the sky had become the world. Furious colors were everywhere, rendered in broader strokes than Belmorn had ever seen. Swept away on the back of a mount he could never hope to control, the man's eyes looked to a cloudscape of fiery orange. Just above the horizon he could see a great burning circle. The setting sun reminded him of a mouth. A yawning, gaping thing, eager to swallow both man and witch.

  Belmorn's eyes fought to stay open in the wind, then focused upon the goal. The knife was some six feet or more away now. Still sticking out of the thing's skull.

  Leg muscles squeezed the serpentine neck harder than ever. Scales longer than any snake's flared out and away from the witch's body, creating sharp protrusions--a far cry from the smooth, slimy skin of the greater eels.

  What felt like a hundred points pressed into him. Their discomfort was exacerbated by the thunderous, plodding gait of the creature. The man winced. His every muscle was eager for this flight to be over. And soon enough, it would be. One way or another.

  Jayce wasn't on most maps, but the one he had been following, put it right on the edge. World's Edge--that massive, legendary drop-off of sheer cliff face, beyond which stretched a vast ocean of ice and perhaps... a land of green-haired raiders, who once crossed aboard dog-faced ships. If one believed such things.

  The blackfoot needed to climb and fast. Needed to reach the monster's head before they ran out of Veld. He shot out a hand but without consideration for his injuries. A shock of pain exploded in his side, sharp and deep enough to raise the question of whether he himself had just been harpooned. He hissed a cry through gritted teeth as the wind ripped a tear from his cheek.

  More than anything, Belmorn wanted to let go, to let the end have him. But the faces of his loved ones would not allow this. Malia. Sasha. They were there, in his mind's eye. Even here, even now, the memory of their eyes grounded him, cauterizing his pain.

  Regardless of what his conscience had to say on the matter, the actions of Rander Belmorn were most certainly not those of a coward. Fear does not drive a father to cross an entire continent in search of salvation for his dying son.

  'Love does that'.

  Even now, the emotion burned in him, throbbing angrily in every one of his wounds. Again, his eyes found the knife. It was roughly six feet away, still protruding from the top of the witch's skull. Just past the sharp, bony crest, right where Rivka had put it.

  As the long green ends of his haresh buzzed behind him, he focused on the sound, used it the same way he would the roar of the black river. The noise became his anchor, a way to block out all the little things he couldn't control.

  One of his hands was still holding an axe. And though he lamented dropping its twin, for the coming work, one would serve.

  With a deep breath, Belmorn began ascending the neck. The movements were small, but far from polite. He used the axe's blade--thrusting it into the scaled hide as if climbing the sheer face of a mountain.

  Stealing a glance at the road ahead, Belmorn's stomach sank. They were nearly there. Almost at the Edge. And though he viewed it all through the chaotic jostling of the witch, he could see something out there. Something like a pillar of steam stretching into the sky like smoke from a distant campfire. The sight sparked a memory.

  This had to be Skáldi's Breath. Indisputable evidence of an underground river--hot and full of ugly, blind fish, just like Rivka had said. The steam stretched from the sea to the heavens like some strange, ethereal tether. And for some reason, Belmorn's mount was running straight for it!

  Of course, the dreaded witch of the Veld wasn't thinking clearly. Not anymore. Not with the point of a knife in her brain. The knife. He had to reach it. Had to keep moving up the ladder of scales that got more and more spine-like, the closer he got to the head. Time slipped but the blackfoot didn't notice. His mind was on the work. On his footing and ensuring that each strike of his hammer-axe hit its mark. Finally, Belmorn reached the huge crest at the base of the monster's skull.

  Up close, it was nearly four feet high--like the dorsal fin of some terrible fish but made of solid bone. Belmorn frowned, then turned to spit into the wind. Releasing a mighty roar, he pulled himself closer to that conspicuous bony crest. Close enough to wrap his arms around the thing and to hold on for dear life. For the next few seconds, the only thing the blackfoot concentrated on was breathing.

  He could feel the cold, uneven surface of the crest against his cheek and in the palm of his free hand. Usually that hand would be holding a Graelian harpoon. Another of the blackfoot's tools--around two feet long with a devilish point on one end and square ring on the other. Flat, so it could be pounded, driven like a railway spike into the blubbery, slime-slick flesh of the blackfoot's natural prey. Those things that come up from the trench. The diplocaulus, the salt lion, seven species of greater eel (all longer than a man is tall), even the dread nautiloth--they had all known the bite of his steel. And now, so too would this damned, murderous hag!

  Belmorn launched from the crest and out onto the skull. Dropping, he gripped the handle of the knife Rivka had put there and lifted his axe.

  KANG!!

  He brought the hammer-end of his weapon down with all his might. And again, as he had done so many times out on the brackish course.

  KANG!!

  Each blow pounded the knife's pommel like the flat end of a harpoon, driving it in, deeper and deeper.

  KANG!! KANG!!

  Finally. With the fourth strike, the witchwyrm stopped screaming. Less than ten feet from the cliff, it froze in place. Then it began to tilt. It leaned toward the Edge. In the direction of that rising pillar of steam.

  Belmorn's stomach clenched. His eyes shot wide, and far below, the dark water gazed back, beckoning both beast and rider into oblivion.

  Every shred of reason told the blackfoot to let himself go--but the work
wasn't done. Rander Belmorn raised his axe once more. Clutching the images of his wife and son, he drove home that final inch of steel.

  KANG!!

  Like a newly headless chicken, muscles flexed and jerked, mimicking life in the throes of demise. Still upright, the slain thing lurched forward. A powerful hind leg kicked one final time, finding only open air. That was when both beast and rider began to fall--over the edge, through the steam, down and down and down.

  And so it happened that Rander Belmorn, beloved father, devoted husband began to fall. Plummeting alongside the monster he had slayed--right off the edge of the world.

  15 - 4

  Tenebrus Kro leaned hard into the gallop, his hair in constant motion--flickering like a black flame. The lower portion of his face was obscured by a form fitting scarf once meant to shield his face from the world. Though from now on, it would be the other way around.

  As he rode, wind conspired with the sunset as it blazed off the snow. Rimmed in tears, the eyes of the alchemist strained to remain open. Cold air penetrated the cloth, moving over his ruined cheeks and neck. This might have been a relief if not for the stiff tugging that told him the scarf and his recent wounds had fused.

  What had happened with the scarred man and the exploding cross was too much to face right now. Real pain would arrive soon, but for the moment, Kro was thankful that the rush of battle was keeping such things at bay.

  After the witch had fled with a large riverman attached to her back, Kro had wasted no time. The girl was a bit worse for wear, but she would live. Better than he could say for the adamandray, who he hadn't seen move. But this wasn't the time to think about them either. Kro had to clear his brain and focus on riding. To fight through still oozing injuries for the sake of a man he hardly knew.

  The blackfoot had justified every tale Kro had ever heard of his kind. But this wasn't Belmorn's fight. At least, it shouldn't have been. This time, Kro's own life was supposed to be the only one on the line.

  Why does everything always go so wrong?

  Air and salt, water and flame. Unearth, unveil, and know. The creed of the alchemist ran through his head as Kro once again cursed himself a fool.

  The stolen silver mare he hadn't bothered to name had retreated behind a number of stacked wooden boxes. Coaxing her had taken time. Too much damn time.

  With Jayce far behind him, Kro stared ahead into the cloud of kicked up snow. He could hear distant bellowing but this was cut short by a choked sort of cry. The witch sounded as if she had found fresh pain, and that was good.

  "There!" Kro shouted to no one in particular, his eyes catching the bright yellow splatter on the ground.

  Raising an arm, Kro squinted until he saw a column of steam in the distance. Seeing the tracks turn in that direction, he smirked.

  Like a moth to a candle.

  Slowing his horse, he swallowed hard. World's Edge couldn't be more than fifty feet away. Heart in his throat, he turned to the east. The cliff stretched as far as he could see in either direction, but there were no more spatters of blood. And worse... as far as Kro could tell, he was alone.

  He pulled the mare to a stop. "Bel-morn!" He shouted with one hand cupped around his mouth. Kro sat as still as possible, listening through the whipping wind as the name echoed away.

  His call went unanswered.

  With a frustrated grunt, he pulled down the scarf. The face revealed was a horror. A landscape of angry reds and charcoal black. Raw meat but with too many openings. Both cold air and adrenaline were helping to numb the chorus of pain, but ripping away the cloth had done fresh damage.

  Kro lifted his hand, again cupping it around his mouth."Bel-l-l-mo-o-o-rn!!"

  Even shouting hurt as the too-tight skin around his mouth stretched and cracked.

  God damn you, he thought. I told you to take the girl and go home. You're not the one who earned this ending, you self-righteous son of a bitch.

  The alchemist allowed his head to roll back. The sky was everywhere. It blazed and churned and it looked empty, felt empty. A different man might have thought to pray, to beg whatever god might be listening for one last blessing. But Tenebrus Kro was a man who believed such acts to be pointless. The gods were gone, if they had ever been there at all. Ever since he could remember, he had always believed only in what could be touched and dissected.

  Still, however unlikely it was, part of the man yearned for a miracle.

  For some reason, Kro turned his head until the great pillar of steam was in his line of sight. Had he heard something--or... ?

  He dismounted and led the mare closer to the edge. There was still no sign of the blackfoot or the witch, but something told him to keep going.

  Ten feet from the edge, he heard it again. This time for sure. Something that wasn't wind or steam or his own thundering heart.

  Releasing the bridle, he ran to the edge, sliding on wet ground at the end. Then, carefully, slowly, he peered over the edge.

  Belmorn looked up. It was his only option. He had fallen quite a distance, though he wasn't dead. Not yet.

  At the last second, his trusty weapon had saved him. When he leapt from the back of the falling witch, he swung the thing, hoping to catch the top of the cliff. In the end, though missing its mark, the weapon had dug into an errant jutting of the cliff's side some thirty feet down.

  And so Belmorn looked up. Staring at rock and sky, wondering if he had the strength left to hang for much longer. Then in that darkening sea of pink and violet, a shadow appeared. A shadow that looked a hell of a lot like the silhouette of a man.

  "Belmorn?!"

  The voice sounded distant, but it rang with elation.

  "Kro?" This exploded past the hanging man's lips. "How? I thought..." Just then his grip slipped an inch down the axe handle. "Tell me you have a rope!"

  "A what?" Kro's voice sounded farther away than he looked.

  "A rope, damn you!"

  "Oh!" With that, the head disappeared.

  Once again Belmorn was alone with his axe, his cliff, and certain death a thousand feet below. He had heard tales of daring men and women who were able to scale sections of the Karaggash Ridge with their bare hands. To a simple riverman, it had always seemed an improbable feat--a skillset which never seemed more practical than in this very moment.

  He searched for a handhold, but the face of World's Edge was infuriatingly smooth. Clenching his teeth, Belmorn strained to pull himself up enough to place one hand on the flat top of the wooden handle. The small victory was a wave of hot relief in his shoulder. He searched the cliff with the toes of his boots, prodding and pressing for anything that might take a bit more burden away from his arm.

  Nothing.

  He looked up, hoping to see the return of his friend's face, but finding only cliff and sky. As he continued to hang, Belmorn wondered if his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. If he hadn't just yelled at an imaginary version of his companion, rather than the real thing.

  His shoulder and arm trembled as much from cold as the continued effort of holding himself up, but he tried not to notice. Exhaling a puff of steam, Belmorn closed his eyes. He could almost see them again, his reasons for being.

  Malia had been right. His impossible quest was indeed folly. He should never have left. Whether he survived the next two minutes or the next two years, the cure for the purple sickness lay a thousand feet below. The witch had gone to a violent, watery grave, and she had taken her special venom with her.

  SLAP!!

  The sound shot through the hanging man like a jolt of electricity. He opened his eyes, looked left. There, swaying in the breeze, was the frayed end of a rope.

  Tenebrus Kro had his heels planted firmly and was pulling for all he was worth. Behind him, the silver mare stood, looking a bit confused. The rope was tied to a ring on the back of her saddle, but Kro was bearing his fair share. The man on the other end weighed far more than he had even guessed.

  Still, they were making progress. Backward steps were being tak
en, slowly, carefully. Kro knew that if he slipped, it would mean all their deaths. If there had been more rope, he would have found something to anchor it to but... there hadn't been more rope.

  After what felt like hours, a gloved hand appeared above the cliff, and then an axe.

  "Come on, horse!" shouted Kro. "We're almost there! How about we both pull, eh?"

  The silver mare turned with some degree of indifference, but a full-handed slap to the rump got her moving.

  In one great heave the dark, damp, exhausted form of Rander Belmorn appeared and fell atop the cliff in a great, exhausted heap.

  Releasing the rope, Kro ran to the man who had somehow become his friend. Placed a hand on his back. "Belmorn!"

  "How... how did you find me?" The blackfoot was out of breath. He didn't look up.

  "Tracks. In the snow. Also, she was still bleeding all over the place." After receiving no response, Kro took a deep inhalation and slowly let it out. He looked at Skáldi's breath. He had only seen it twice before, once as a boy and again with his little Lishka on her sixth birthday.

  "Belmorn," Kro's voice was small. "Where is she?"

  "See for yourself," said Belmorn, pointing at the steam.

  Kro approached the cliff's edge. He peered over, through and around the steam. Before, his vision had stopped at the man hanging some thirty feet down. Now though, he saw the rest.

  A thousand feet below--where the ocean lapped at the feet of World's Edge, there lay a spindly, broken thing. Rocks similar to the giant's teeth of the Low Veld cradled the lifeless body of a monster whose mark had been seared into the fabric of the region for so long. Her head lolled, locked in an endless, soundless scream. From such a distance, Kro couldn't see the fangs, but he knew they were there.

  "This isn't over, Belmorn." Kro looked at his friend and then over the cliff again. "We can get more rope in Jayce. I think we can scale this--go down and bring back her head--" The alchemist stopped talking. His eyes widened as a wave dislodged the broken monster from the rocks and swallowed it completely.