Belmorn grunted. He did not appear amused. "So that's it then?" he growled. "You were going to kill yourself?"
"No. I was going to kill that fucking hag and use her tail and teeth to enter into that other place. Then I was going to find them, in whatever state. Even if it took a hundred years to sift through the bones."
Belmorn's feet moved on their own. His mind reeled, swirling with conflicting emotions for the man by his side, and for himself. "So do it then," he said with a frankness that surprised even him. "The tail barb didn't go over that cliff. You cut it off. That was her key, right? Her only way into the Without? You want to pick through bones until you die, there's nothing stopping you."
"If only I could." Kro turned, locking eyes with the blackfoot. "The barb is in Jayce, that's true." His fatigue sounded as if it went deeper than flesh alone. "But think back, Belmorn. Morgrig's men, when they were made to vanish, did you see the witchwyrm stick them with her stinger alone? Even once?"
Belmorn considered this. Summoning horrific images and forcing them to replay in his mind. It was always the same. Head first, then tail. Teeth, then stinger.
"What I said before was true. The tail is the key... but what is a key without a lock?" Kro's head tilted into a subtle angle. "Think of it like touching a lit torch to a bit of black powder. The two must meet if the desired reaction is to occur."
"Tail and teeth," Belmorn sounded distant, deflated. "The witch--she had two poisons, and you needed them both."
Tenebrus Kro looked down, said nothing. Though most of his face was obscured by cloth, the man's eyes held a resigned smile.
16 - 4
No longer in open country, Rander Belmorn and Tenebrus Kro moved over the cobbled rock of a street. The town of Jayce had returned with no grand announcement. Quietly creeping up before surrounding the two men, who hardly took notice.
Belmorn's mind dwelled on the face of his wife, Not as he last saw her--contorted with pain and anger as he'd rebuffed her argument and walked out the door--but as the young woman she had been. That girl had soft, copper skin and hair the color of midnight--stars and all. Malia Greyrain, she had been then. Even at fifteen, the girl had possessed a staggering beauty and quiet wit, sharp as any knife. And there had been stars in her hair. At least, that's what a seventeen year old Rander Belmorn had thought. The flowers she wore were so small, so perfectly white--even now they caused his heart to lurch.
He had made that girl a promise some years after, on their wedding day, to love and to honor. The first had come as effortlessly as the incessant thrums in his chest. But on that dreaded day, now five months gone--when he chose to leave his family in their darkest hour--Rander Belmorn had broken the second half of that sacred oath.
His boy, Sashander was dead. Or would be soon enough. The question that dogged Belmorn now was... had he been there, would it have made any difference?
Would it?
It was a question he had avoided for many nights, many weeks.
"Belmorn." The voice was so unexpected, so soft, it jarred the blackfoot to his core.
Feeling like he had been doused with a bucket of ice water, the blackfoot looked around.
There were people in the street. Dozens of them. Some were kneeling, others stood erect, but all seemed to be regarding something on the ground. A mass or mound--something big and dark. At first, they didn't seem to notice the two men coming down the road. Then heads turned and eyes appeared to ignite in pairs. To the men who approached, they looked like candle flies.
No, thought Belmorn. Stars. They look like stars.
His mind galloped back to another, more recent memory. His mouth was throbbing. His lip had been split, cleaved by the hungry peck of a timber crow. He had felt the fever coming, even then. The glimpse had been brief: lights between the trees, all in pairs.
And then he had woken up. Night was suddenly morning again. The fever he'd expected was nowhere to be found and his lip was inexplicably whole. Mended by unseen hands. The mystery had gnawed at the time, but so much had happened he had almost forgotten.
"Belmorn," the voice of Tenebrus Kro came again.
"I see them," the blackfoot's voice was a ragged thing.
As he gazed into the stars that weren't, he knew that they were eyes. Just not the eyes of men.
PART SEVENTEEN
LEGEND
17 - 1
"Rander."
The word drifted in on a lazy breeze.
"Rander."
Louder the second time, it came with a jarring sensation, as if the whole world were quaking.
The man's eyes snapped open. There had been dreams but holding onto them was like grasping at fog. He stared up at a wooden ceiling, and someone was shaking him.
"Rander!" The voice caused him to take a sharp breath. Belmorn threw aside the pelt which had been laid on top of him and sat up. Suddenly, he felt very cold. Kneeling beside him was the girl. Rivka Pesch. She was wearing various layers including a dark blue skirt that featured a line of small embroidered goats along the bottom. Grey fur topped her shoulders and boots and was lining the deep blue hood that hung against her back.
Despite looking very pale, the girl was smiling. She had been cleaned up and for the first time, Belmorn could see that her skin was far lighter than his own. The dirt of living on the cobbles had obscured many things including a field of soft freckles across the bridge of her nose. Most shocking of all though was Rivka's hair. What he had taken for brown was a stark, silvery blonde.
"I knew it!" she said in a reassuring tone, forgetting or ignoring that she was the child. "I could tell you were waking up! How do you feel?"
"Feel? I..." Belmorn began to answer, and then stopped. It was a simple question. His anxious mind raced to fill in the time between his last waking moment and this... but something was wrong. There was only then and now.
He lurched forward, gasped, shooting a hand to his ribcage.
The girl leaned closer, looking, in Belmorn's opinion, utterly unconcerned. She lifted his hand away and inspected the bandages that constricted his midsection.
It was then Belmorn realized something else. "Rivka?" he asked nervously. "Where are my clothes?"
"Over there," said the girl of twelve, with a wave of one hand. "They had to see if you were hurt. You're shirt and coat and everything is right over there." she gestured toward a chair where the garments in question had indeed been laid.
"They?" Belmorn drew the pelt back over his chest. "Who's they?"
"You don't remember?"
Belmorn shook his head.
"The Pershten! We were wrong! The witch didn't get them! They came back and have been taking care of us."
Belmorn looked on but said nothing.
"One of them, Gretch--she's really nice--she found us these beds!" The girl's face was practically beaming. "To tell you the truth, I don't remember falling asleep or much before I woke up this morning."
"Morning?!" Belmorn looked for a window, but the small room did not have one.
"Yeah. Gretch said there's usually lost time. You know that sleep-thing they do with their hands? Well, she said they had to try extra hard to get you to go down last night. I guess you lost more time than I did." The girl smirked. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"I..." Belmorn reeled. His mind fighting to reclaim what was missing. "The witch," he said at last. "I remember... riding it. Riding it... right over the edge.
"The edge of the cliff?" Rivka's eyes were nearly the size of saucers. "How?!"
Belmorn started to remember. Riding, climbing, pounding in that knife as if it had been a harpoon and of course, what it felt like to be five fingers away from oblivion. He looked to the girl and cleared his throat. Deciding to leave off the part about hanging off the edge of the world.
"Mostly dumb luck," he said. "but also... the witchwyrm wasn't thinking clearly. Not with that knife in her brain."
Rivka made a choking sound. Just once.
Belmorn smiled. Nodded.
"That was an impressive thing you did. Not very smart, but impressive. I honestly don't know what you were thinking jumping off the balcony like that."
"I," The girl lowered her eyes. "Don't think I was thinking."
Hearing this Belmorn might have chuckled if not for his aching ribs.
"I mean," Rivka seemed to be searching for how to proceed. "It was like I skipped that part. Like my hands and feet already knew what to do. I know that sounds stupid."
Belmorn smiled. "Not at all." Placing a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face. "In fact, to an old blackfoot, what you just said makes a lot of sense."
The girl appeared moved in ways she lacked the years to voice. Then her face scrunched up in thought. "Kro calls you that sometimes. Blackfoot. Is that the name of your people? Are they the Blackfeet?"
"What? No." Belmorn mused at the sudden turn of subject. "Blackfoot isn't our tribe. It's just a word some use to describe those who do what I do." He could see by the girl's expression, this wasn't helping.
"You're... a fisherman, right?"
"A fisherman?" Belmorn barely restrained rolling his eyes. "No, girl. Fisherman stalk minnows with worms and string, I--"
"You pull stuff out of the water to eat, right?"
"Well, yeah, but--"
"Fisherman." The girl sounded very certain. She even folded her arms.
Belmorn responded in a fluster. "No, no. It's very different. Anyway, you are completely missing the point. The water--the river--is thick with tiny plant life. Like bits of floating moss." Feeling like he had regained control of the conversation, Belmorn's tone shifted to that of a campfire storyteller. "So thick, in fact, you can't see anything, can't know what's swimming right beside, just beneath the surface. On the backs of our horses we wade out until the rushing water reaches halfway up to our knees." Belmorn checked the girl's expression before going on. "We do this barefooted, you see. And as the river moves over our skin and between our toes, we listen to it--communicate with it. After many hours, our exposed skin darkens with the moss. Black feet. Blackfoot. Get it?"
"I get it," the girl whispered, her eyes wide with expectation. "Do they stay that way? Black?"
"Rivka." Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "We do bathe where I'm from."
The girl frowned, unconvinced. Then she glared suspiciously at the blankets over Belmorn's feet.
"Rivka." Said the man from Grael.
"What?"
"Where is Kro?"
"Outside, I think. He left a while ago. Before you started to stir. He assumed I was sleeping, but I heard him ask where Bror was, and then he left."
"Huh." said Belmorn. "And what about Galttauer?"
The girl flinched at the name, then slowly shook her head. "I don't know. I wanted to ask, but..."
"It's okay." Belmorn started to rise from bed, then stopped. "Rivka."
"Yeah?"
"Could you wait out in the hall? For a minute?"
"What?!" she vigorously shook her head. "No! I don't want to go out there alone!"
Belmorn pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Then I'll need you to turn around? Please?"
Rivka frowned, raised an eyebrow. "Is this because you don't want me to see your feet?"
Belmorn drew in a long breath, and then let it out through his nostrils. The air was cold and he had every reason to feel it. The hollow pit in his chest screamed and cursed, condemning him for his myriad shortcomings, but mostly for failing his son.
And yet...
"Yes," he said with a sigh. "It's because of my dirty, black feet. Now turn around before the sight of them scars you for life."
17 - 2
Followed by the girl, Belmorn stepped out into a narrow hallway. His highwayman's coat hung nearly to the floor. Aside from this he wore the pelt of a black bear, the green head scarf Rivka had picked out for him only the day before, and a look of consternation.
"What is this place?" He looked from one end of the hallway to the other.
"I think the miners used to come here if they got hurt," answered the girl. "When I was little, Jayce had a real doctor--one who didn't wear a mask. I think this was where he helped people."
Belmorn narrowed his eyes, looking to the next door down. As he stepped, it creaked slowly open until one of the Pershten appeared. Clearly one of the females, she was dressed in the same shabby fur the others had been--goat pelts, he now reasoned.
Gently, she closed the door behind her, but not before Belmorn caught a fleeting glance of someone lying in bed. Someone surrounded by many more trolls. The captain, he knew at once.
Rivka threw her arms around the woman, who accepted the gesture with some hesitation.
"Gotmorn, chylde." The Pershten woman spoke in a thick accent as her blue eyes nervously regarded the man. "Feeling better?"
"A lot. Yes." Rivka inclined her head, looking up past two heavy, moss-covered breasts. With a smile, she turned. "Rander, this is Gretch. She is the one I told you about. The one who has been taking care of us."
Belmorn's expression softened. "You have my thanks, lady."
The troll shook her head. "Chylde is over kind. Many Pershten gave care." her voice was low and thick with emotion. "But... your thanks are not needed, Witch Rider. We Pershten owe you more than can ever be repaid. Not with hands nor silver."
For a moment, Belmorn wasn't sure how to respond. Then, he managed a low... "Okay."
The Pershten woman stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek. Belmorn half expected for everything to go black again. Instead, her striking eyes welled up with tears. He could see many lines on her face, framing certain features and crossing others in striking perpendiculars. Calling them wrinkles would be inaccurate. The lines looked like cracks in wood, fissures in stone. As he thought this, Belmorn knew that the woman was very old--not in the way men age, but by a scale used by trees, mountains.
"This..." Gretch's hand slid down to inspect Belmorn's lower lip. "This is Pershten work."
"It... it is?"
"Schtell's group happened upon you in the woods, yes?"
"I... don't know." Belmorn's voice was a wispy thing. "I can't remember what happened that night."
"Ah. They made you sleep." Gretch said this with a firm nod. "It is as I said. Schtell found you and gave aid. It is our nature, Witch Rider. At our core, my people are healers. Shepherds, miners, and fishers, but healers first. It is fortunate thing, you accept our talents so well." she laughed a little as Belmorn pulled his face away from her hand.
Rivka shifted in place, absently reaching for the still tender spot below her collar bone that had healed with an unnatural quickness.
Belmorn pushed his tongue into the lump where the two halves of his lower lip now met. He remembered the sharp taste of moss in his mouth. And the fear. "I... thought fever would take me for sure. I could feel it coming, starting to simmer." He spoke quietly with wide eyes. "When I arrived in Roon, the first thing I asked after was an apothecary, but... everything went sideways before I could get to one." He looked down. "The fever never took hold. Though I didn't understand why, or who, had come to stitch my lip shut. Or why I wouldn't have woken up while it was happening."
Belmorn stopped then--realizing something. That the night in the hollow had not been the first time he had been put to sleep by troll hands.
After patting the man's cheek again, Gretch's large hand slid to Belmorn's side, causing him to draw a quick thin breath through clenched teeth.
"Oh," said Gretch, regretfully. "This hurt?"
"Hurt?!" The man's eyes watered from the pain, but he forced his breathing to normalize. "Not much. No."
"Ah. Good thing bending bones do not sometimes break." she pointed to where the dressings were beneath the long black coat. "Keep this tight and still. This helps. Sleep too. No better medicine on earth or below."
"Somehow," The man raised an eyebrow. "I had a feeling you were going to say that." Belmorn smiled a bit more, allowing his edge to soften. But when he reached for the doo
rknob, Gretch stopped him.
"Gretch," he said. "I have to get in this room. I need to check on my friend."
The troll woman nodded. "The Roon man... we prepare him."
"Prepare him? What do you mean?"
"He is gone, Witch Rider. We must return what is left to his people."
Belmorn's face fell. When his voice returned, it was devoid of emotion. "Dammit, Galttauer."
With a solemn nod, Gretch spoke very softly. "His wounds were... too big."
Belmorn placed a hand on the Pershten's shoulder. Her lined face was rigid, but the sorrow in her eyes was unmistakable. "Tut mir leid. I am sorry."
"It's okay." Belmorn repeated the words, feeling immediately feeble. "Thank you."
"As for the other man. The Krähe." Gretch looked as if displeased that the name was on her tongue. "That one is outside." she pointed down the hallway, to a large exterior door. "Go, Witch Rider, and carry Pershten thanks with you."
The troll woman spared a final smile for Rivka before backing into the room she had come from and shutting the door. Again, Belmorn caught a glimpse of many Pershten around a bed, their attention solely on its pale-haired occupant.
Outside the sun was high and bright. It was a few moments before the eyes of the two adjusted.
More Pershten filled the street. Some were sitting on posts or wooden crates and standing in small groups. Still others explored the buildings across the street, inspecting doors and windows and whatever else Jayce had to offer.
"Belmorn!" Kro waved from where he stood next to a pair of familiar horses. One of which made Belmorn's heart shoot into his throat.
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 29
