The Mark of Gold

by A. S. Etaski

  I rubbed my damp forehead as my heart galloped in my chest. Huh, bua, why…?

  The Dragon’s son returned to his crouch and, for the first time, I got a good look at the overall shape of this hybrid’s body. Most visible and noteworthy were the handful of ivory-colored, defensive spikes along his spine; they laid flat for now but appeared able to extend straight out. With his horns, teeth, talons, heel spurs, and now these spikes on his back, Mourn had something sharp on every side of him except for the tip of his tail and his underbelly.

  Unless his cock is like Kerse’s and has spikes as well.

  The harsh clash of thought and sensation was difficult to sort in that moment, but it helped me stay perfectly still. After moving, Mourn hadn’t turn that intense gaze on me, and I was glad. I might have screamed.

  Metallic eyes remained focused out across the river while I sat comforting my chiming arachnids. I glanced out that way, trying to spot whatever it was. The banks were empty but for us, on both sides. Gavin noticed this display, too, and quietly closed his book, setting it aside. He watched the fire behaving against the natural order.

  Finally, Mourn leaned forward onto his arms and crawled low across the rocks, holding his body straight above them, and headed straight for the water. His claws somehow avoided clicking the stone; the barest drip of drops trailed after his steps as he entered the shallows. He slipped through the water without rushing or making it splash, settling his belly down into the current to swim a few strokes before he submerged out of sight, his tail a dark shadow curving behind him.

  If I hadn’t been watching him, I wouldn’t have known he’d gone into the water. A creature that large should have left more ripples.

  A few moments later, I heard them. What must have drawn the hunter’s attention to the far bank. Pigs.

  A drove of eight or so were coming to drink from the river. My stomach gurgled, and I covered it in a vain attempt to muffle the sound. I remained seated and quiet, as did Gavin so as not to startle the prey. Although I did not know how much Mourn wasn’t eating on account of me, giving away several smaller kills already, I still hoped he might share a wild pig if he caught one.

  Otherwise, I must think about adding to Gavin’s snare traps.

  It felt like a long wait before the first, fuzzy blobs of pinkish-brown foragers gathered in a clump on the bank. Despite their clear grunting reaching my ears as they cautiously approached the water, Mourn did not resurface. Hooves paced and contented oinking interrupted their swallows as they drank. I could not think they would be lingering long after slaking their thirst; they hardly stopped moving.

  Where is he? How long before he needs air? My stomach growled in comment from behind my hands, and I bit down the urge to shush it aloud. Demanding infant.

  A deep whorl of sound barely preceded the terrified squealing of the pigs as the water exploded faster than I could swallow. I inhaled and coughed on my spit, holding my eyes stubbornly on the strike despite making an embarrassing amount of noise myself.

  The hybrid’s lunge had snared one of the larger beasts from the sounds of the struggle. One strong hand had clamped beneath the jaw, claws buried in its throat, and the dark body shifted parallel with his prey. His black tail wrapped once around the barrel ribs of the hog and tightened down such that its panicked squeals weakened instantly.

  Mourn hauled the pig into the water with him, held it under until I must be sure the beast had drowned. Meanwhile, the rest of the pigs had fled, their shrieks of alarm and the snapping of brush echoing as they trampled through the forest.

  “He learned to ambush first,” Gavin commented from rather far away.

  I nodded, coughing one last time to make sure my throat was clear. “Well, he ambushed us.”

  “Indeed, he did.”

  “And this is common for hunting the underground, anyway.”

  “Yes, I wanted to ask what you knew of a Dragon underground.”

  Oh, that. I grimaced. “Nothing. Maybe some legends of our queen fighting him, depicted in tapestries at court. But I think those are symbols, not recorded events.”

  Gavin’s stringy, dark hair fell forward as he picked up his fallen quill. “Do you say his claim to be sired by one is possibly false? Is there no Dragon?”

  “Well…” I considered. “I do not know. If it is not a Dragon, it is a demon which looks like one.”

  Gavin grunted, smoothing the ruffled feather. “And your spiders are at ease around him. As spiders are the symbol of your demonic goddess, might this be considered evidence?”

  Again, I hesitated to accept that which seemed reasonable. “No. My spiders were not made by a cleric of that goddess but by a mage who hates them. She does not use that magic, as far as I know.”

  “Interesting.”

  Mourn interrupted us, surfacing in a noisy burst compared to when he’d gone in. He was dragging his massive pig nearer to the shore, beaching it slightly downstream from us. It was much larger than it had appeared from afar and for certain drowned. I could also see that the beast-Elf had refrained from taking any bites out of it on the way across the river. Unless he intended to gloat and eat it in front of us raw, I dared to assume he would share.

  “Should you both be up for roasted pork, Deathwalker,” Mourn said, huffing deeply for breath, his body dripping streams of water as he stood up, “I should like to have some as well.”

  Gavin nodded, slowly rising from his seat. “I will build the fire higher.”

  “Thank you.”

  Suddenly, I was very aware that I was naked and sitting on a rock. Mourn’s genitals matched his size, and his scrotum seemed of tougher skin than a typical Davrin. His phallus had no obvious spines or ridges in its flaccid state, though the head flared at came to a point rather like Kerse. There was a small bit of wiry, black hair around the groin, but patches of scales around his thighs prevented growth anywhere else.

  What is—

  He rumbled in his throat, and my thoughts froze, my face and chest flushing hot enough only the fading Sun might have kept him from seeing it. He’d caught me staring. Studying his natural equipment.

  Fucking Goddess.

  I stood up on my feet before he could say anything, fully nude with my tits, mons, and white bush showing. His reptilian eyes did inspect me, down and up again, but without a hint of lust; most likely judging my strength, perhaps my unborn’s well-being.

  Quickly. Something practical.

  “How can I help with the food?” I asked.

  Mourn’s shoulders lowered as he let the awkwardness go. “Will you help me skin and butcher enough for meals for three?”

  “I do not require that much,” the Deathwalker said. “Enough to rest in my palm.”

  “Very well. We will keep the rest wrapped for the morning when the Sun can help me dry it out.”

  I smirked to imagine what spell could mean the Sun merely “helped” with the drying and nodded. “Sure.”

  Retrieving my shorter blades, I quickly honed the edges. With spiders riding my naked shoulders, I assisted the half-blood with his catch. The work went quickly without any but the most necessary words, for Mourn didn’t doubt my ability to dress an animal.

  While working, I was struck by how different the exchange had been between Gavin and Mourn, contrasted with the Ma’ab hauling that grass-feeder from the Midway and wanting the apprentice to cook it. The simple and unassuming manners without contempt or bullying was enough to gain the apprentice’s help with the cooking. It made me wonder if Mourn had watched that exchange and knew from the scents wafting his way that Gavin possessed skill in making wilderness meals flavorful.

  Was the claim of his sire false? Was there no Dragon underground? Gavin and I had reason to be skeptical. However, if Mourn’s blood was of any demonic heritage, then it was of a patient and observant nature to which I had no previous exposure to in connection with the Abyss.

  The Daughters of Braqth consumed what they want
ed with regular torment of those weaker. The Sathoet were controlled by their appetites only until they grew unstable and had to be destroyed. Soul Drinker, whose hunger was not patient or easily contained, who disliked all “competition” for its bearer’s attention, was much more convincing as a demon than Mourn.

  I was inclined to believe the half-blood was what he said.

  Perhaps he might simply tell us about his Mother and his sire underground. How he came to be born.

  CHAPTER 9

  We stayed by the river with the campfire glowing during a calm and warm night. My belly was full of further, tasty abundance, and Reverie did not beckon me for once. I washed my clothing first. Mourn offered a minor magical spell which would mend and dry my clothing so I could wear it sooner.

  “Trade?” I checked.

  “No. Now that you are clean, the odors on them are obvious.”

  I smirked. “Yes, and thank you.”

  Again, he rumbled those words in a language I had never heard, motioning with one clawed hand. Bumps spread over my naked skin in their wake.

  Draconic? Or… what had he called it?

  To’vah.

  After dressing, genuinely refreshed, I got started inspecting my filthy and damaged gear, sorting it for either destruction or cleaning and repair. I did not hurry, expecting this to take until dawn, though Mourn said he would expedite it with another spell after I knew what could be salvaged.

  As after the storm on the Midway, items had been compromised by the warp rot, pastes and powders discolored or smelled funny. Both Mourn and Gavin could tell with a glance if a component held any magical imbuement at all. Disappointingly, I had to discard all those once enhanced by magic, such as the slow-acting fever inducer I’d used on Kurn. The warp rot had spoiled them all.

  This left only a single, natural toxin potent enough to use on its own—the one that had killed Bictrius. Between my spiders and this last paste, I only had two options, and both were to kill quickly. Could be worse.

  I left the inspection of Shyntre’s pellets until last, peering inside the pouch at the little brown dirtballs. I counted twenty in decent shape, pursing my mouth. What should I do with them?

  At this expression, Gavin silently offered to inspect them, his pale hand outstretched. I handed the bag over and said, “A last-moment gift from a mage before I left. But I never knew if they were imbued.”

  “Why not?” Mourn asked. “You knew if all the others were.”

  I folded my arms across my lap. “My leader is not a mage but passed the maker’s request with this pouch. They were intended only for me. I accepted the advice and didn’t share.”

  “Why only for you?”

  I shrugged with discomfort. “He knew I carried.”

  Gavin had peered inside but not for long before tipping one out into his palm with care. He studied it by firelight. “Their purpose?”

  “Fester-shield and fever-breaker,” I said. “To be taken after bleeding injury or during illness. Based on a mushroom, genethsa, which I also gave as a gift to Osgrid for her wisdom about Gavin’s state after his death.”

  Mourn tilted his head curiously as my scholar said, “Interesting. Dosage, and how much time to tell if they are helping?”

  “One or two a day. I could tell improvement in that time.”

  Gavin returned the pellet to the pouch and cinched it closed. “If they were magical, they aren’t now. Or they may never have been and are potent like the toxin.”

  “My thoughts as well.” I accepted the pouch. “If I could be sure, I might have taken them the last few days and recovered in the cave faster.”

  “I am glad you did not,” Mourn said. “Should your body’s response prove worse than neutral…”

  I cocked an eyebrow, and he stopped talking.

  Yes, I got it. I would be that young mata in mourning he didn’t want to watch. A fate evaded both with a sigh of relief and some pinch in the back of my mind. I wondered if I’d missed a window of opportunity to miscarry and be safe enough to recover from it. I wondered if it would be better “after.”

  Less worry or vulnerability.

  The fear of inevitability clung to me, that being pregnant required too many resources while I was also compelled to travel. That it would kill us both in time, and I feared that pain before death Gavin had described. His reason for delaying his “transition,” despite wanting to serve his Lady in a greater capacity than a mortal Human could, was the same reason as mine.

  How did I get here? Did the Valsharess See this coming? Perhaps that was why She had been shouting at me in the sandstorm, insisting that I look, as well. Had this Deathwalker been that unrecognized smudge of grey I’d seen on the red horizon?

  Gavin and the Grey Maiden.

  “How many knew you carried when you left Sivaraus?” Mourn asked, startling me out of my thoughts. “Is this common for the Vloszia Dalnanin?”

  “The what?” Gavin interjected pointedly.

  “Blood Sisters. But it speaks more the color of blood. Red Sisters.”

  The Sisterhood.

  Should I answer this? The Prime would not like me discussing this, but Elder Rausery had told Sarilis about the Red Sisters, and the Queen’s geas wasn’t preventing me from doing the same with these Surfacers. I also wanted to know what this mercenary knew of Sivaraus, since he’d blurted out the name like that in front of my scholar.

  “Hm.” Gavin glanced at me, noting my all-black uniform. “Why are they called this?”

  I smirked. I could give him that. “The uniform is blood red below, and we use light to its best effect in the great cavern.”

  He paused as if imagining that, and Mourn prodded me again, “Do Red Sisters often gain the Surface while pregnant?”

  “Rare,” I confessed, my chest and throat aching with the unspoken threat of saying too much. “Few knew. Less than five. My leader figured it out after watching for weeks, my younger sisters did not.”

  The hybrid nodded. “Is the mage who made those shield pellets also the sire?”

  I shook my head, relieved he did not try to ask of my mission. “No. His… brother made them.”

  Yes, that feels better. I could speak about Shyntre and Auslan.

  Mourn’s tail curved slowly along the ground; he settled, relaxing as if this made utter sense to him. “I have known brothers who will look after each other’s offspring if it is known to them. Sometimes even if they were not sure who was the sire, but the female had shared them.”

  I blinked at this unexpected, voluntary insight. “You, uhm, have?”

  “Yes. And I have known brothers who defend each other where they could. Most were wary of me, for good reason, but I observed buas who made small sacrifices for the other.” He paused. “Sometimes large ones.”

  Was it so common? I shook my head. Although this seemed to fit my wizard and Consort, they felt like the exception in Sivaraus. “I saw mostly currying favor with females for protection and gifts, often betraying each other in this ambition, making the other look foolish or weak.”

  Mourn gave me a look. “Noble brothers, yes. They will stab each other as readily as sisters will for that status.”

  Didn’t I know this?

  “I speak of house guard and common born,” he continued.

  Was he army, once? Is this why he claimed to have been a slave despite his clear blood-relation to the Matron in his name? It could explain his weapons training, unless he discovered it on the Surface somewhere.

  “The sire isn’t house guard,” I admitted, touching my womb. “He is as far from melee as a male can be in the city.”

  “What do you mean?” Gavin asked.

  A smile tugged at me. “He is a trained companion.”

  “Trained how?”

  “A pleasure slave,” Mourn translated too accurately. “Or perhaps, prostitute?”

  Gavin blinked and looked at me. When I didn’t protest, he nodded. “Interesting to h
ear how the roles are so fully flipped between Manalar and this… Sivaraus?”

  I wrinkled my nose to recall Jacob and Mathias in the shed. “We are not like the Witch Hunters.”

  Mourn cocked a brow. “Aren’t you?”

  “No! We do not do what those men d—”

  I stopped. The purge of Consorts and their children returned, as did the last bua I’d watched executed publicly by the Sisterhood. This did not count those taken to Auranka’s Pit or forced onto the altar by the Priestesses.

  I was having dreams of a bua with gold eyes in the Desert, pleading rescue from the same fate, whom I was fairly sure had been the Valsharess’s son. Cris-ri-phon had been too late returning because he was afraid of angering his Queen.

  I felt sick. Oh, Goddess.

  I croaked, “Not all of us are like that.”

  Such a lie when it was easier to comply to survive. Yet when I’d been new to the Sisterhood, how I’d dreaded when it was my turn to prove myself in an execution.

  Then came the Queen’s purge. I’d felt so numb afterward. I didn’t know what I’d proven. I hadn’t felt anything at all until Shyntre admitted his desire, reluctantly, despite what I’d done. How he’d yelled at me. But then my wizard had returned my touch like I was someone of worth, and I’d wanted the reassurance.

  My Elder D’Shea couldn’t reach me in her bath, but if her son thought I could be touched and feel pleasure…

  Him. The most stubborn wizard in the tower.

  Then again, it could have been because I was pregnant. Mourn said “brothers” will look after each other’s offspring if it is known to them. Was that all it had been to my wizard? Why he’d made the pellets for Rausery to give to me? To preserve Auslan’s child, what really mattered to him, and I was just willingly carrying it?

  He fucked so fiercely hearing me say it. We coupled twice more after…

  In the awkward silence, Mourn could have pressed his point, could have forced me to defend how things were in Sivaraus, in the Sisterhood, as I had attempted with Elana in her own kitchen.

  “It’s just the way things are,” she’d said.

  And I’d agreed.