Sufferborn

by J C Hartcarver

  “So you won’t mind helping me kill my brother, who is a member?” Daghahen asked, and was answered by the sand sound again. Hard to tell if Wik was laughing or not.

  You already have the means to destroy your brother.

  “What is it?”

  Me. The sand sound escalated and fell.

  “You’ll do it? Do you hate the Ilbith faction too?”

  I want to get out.

  “How will you kill him if I let you out?”

  How do you think?

  Daghahen shook his head. “I want to kill Lambelhen. I don’t need a Wikshen walking around.”

  What’s more effective than releasing a fox into a hen house?

  “Now you want me to release you in their midst? That would cause more harm than anything!”

  You’re a fool, little elf.

  Daghahen took the sphere in both hands and shook it, though the motion never bothered the pixie inside. “Listen. I might consider releasing you if you tell me how to kill my brother. Tell me about the blessings from other spirits he wears.”

  Don’t release me near the wrong person. I want a strong host. It’s my demand if you wish my help.

  “Answer the question!” His yell echoed far over the rolling field.

  You want your brother dead, consider it done. Take me onward. Look at the stars. They’ll tell you where to go. Look, they’re speaking to you now.

  Daghahen clenched his teeth and reacted by darting his eyes downward instead. He’d been so engaged in this conversation, he’d forgotten about the twinkling stars emerging one by one as the sky shifted into a clear black sphere above him, as if he were also trapped under glass and the stars were laughing at his misfortune. As much as he hated it, he’d have to look this time. If they offered a beneficial answer tonight, he shouldn’t miss it.

  Squeezing his eyes closed, he lifted his chin and opened them one at a time. He turned around to survey the whole picture, and acid oozed into his mouth.

  “Oh, dear Creator. No!”

  He dropped the sphere and gasped at his stupidity. Falling to hands and knees, he groped around to find it. The prickly thistle leaves scratched his hands and grabbed his hair. His trembling, sweaty hands fumbled the sphere off the thick grass upon which it landed. He checked the surface for damage anyway, not that he’d see any against the perfect black contents within.

  The sand sound rushed louder than ever. Better start walking.

  Before Norr became visible over the hill, another mile of fields and thickets dotted the landscape. The stars, mocking him after his revelation, pointed him deep into one of those skirting forests. A dense, cobweb-riddled area embraced him, a rotten place with moss-covered junk and ruins from an age before the Norrian war.

  His feet sank deep into the rotten leaves hiding the soft, damp earth. So many webs stretched across his path. No matter which way he took, he couldn’t traverse around them. He’d always encounter another. Using difficult paths like this might be the reason Dorhen had evaded him all these years.

  Visible through the tree canopy, the stars winked at him as if gloating. Daghahen struggled on.

  “Damn you, Wik!”

  A moldy old mansion appeared along his path, dark and desolate from the outside. Surely Lambelhen wouldn’t hide out in a place like this. Maybe Dorhen did.

  Dorhen’s shoulders were about to rip from their sockets as he hung from his wrists, exhausted after a whole night spent shackled in a cell. The burn mark on his side flared with each brush against his shirt. The wound ripped in his stretched position.

  “No, no, no,” Lamrhath said to the artist who sat on a stool, sketching Dorhen’s face from the other side of the bars, “make him smile. He’s happy and healthy, look at him! Dorhen, help the man out and smile.”

  Smiling was the last thing he could do.

  “Come now.”

  He peeled his lips apart as best as he could to show his teeth. They trembled with the effort.

  “Oh, kill me, his teeth are crooked. We could file that one down to make them look more symmetrical. Draw him smiling with his mouth closed.”

  Dorhen took Lamrhath’s order as permission to abort the effort. The artist used a cloth to rub the smeared shapes on the vellum-covered panel, then returned to scratching a small lump of charcoal over the surface. He sat stiff-backed with that horrible elf leaning over his shoulder from his own stool. Lamrhath kept his arms crossed as he watched, often firing a scowl at Dorhen.

  It would be nice to ask why his face was being drawn, but asking questions made things worse. Questions weren’t worth the trouble anymore. Whenever he did as they ordered, his life improved. His questions weren’t the reason he hung in chains, though. Yesterday, he had refused to hit a servant girl in training, one of Kalea’s fellow convent novices, who had spilled his tea as he was made to sit beside Lamrhath and listen to a sorcerer talk, saying a lot of big words he didn’t understand. He had not only refused to hit her, he reflexively threw his arms around her and took the hit on himself from a sorcerer. Lamrhath hadn’t liked that.

  The kingsorcerer slapped the back of the artist’s head with a sparkling, ringed hand. The man stifled a grunt. “I thought you’d know already not to include his puffy left eye. Make it match the right eye, you idiot.”

  When the artist finished, the picture showed a happy, idealized image of Dorhen’s face, so bizarre he hardly recognized himself when he stole a glance as the drawing changed hands. He’d never seen himself smiling like that in his reflection on the water’s surface.

  Lamrhath studied the vellum-covered panel hard. He’d begun nodding in approval when the door flung open and a white-robed sorcerer entered.

  “My lord, we have an intruder.”

  “An intruder?” Lamrhath said, turning his attention away from the drawing. “Who found this place?”

  The white robe swallowed. “A…well, a special intruder, my lord. You’ll want to see him.”

  Lamrhath handed the drawing back to the artist and followed the white robe.

  “Hey,” Dorhen said to the artist. The man flashed him terrified, wide eyes and shook his head. “Listen.”

  “No!” He hurried to gather his tools, loading up his arms.

  Dorhen persisted, “Please listen! Together, we should…”

  The artist whipped out the door, almost closing it on his loose tabard, leaving Dorhen alone in its slamming echo.

  “Drink it in, you fools,” Daghahen yelled at the gawking sorcerers who’d dragged him into the mansion. Oh Creator, the stench: mold, sulfur, and various other oddities. Indeed, the sorcerers had established a hideout here in the old mansion. The dilapidated façade on the outside made for the perfect disguise. He’d left Ilbith far behind him when he had escaped all those years ago, but here he was again—this outpost might as well be the mighty tower itself. An old sense of loathing and dread flooded back even though he’d never actually been in this building. It was a new addition to the faction’s grasping reach across the land.

  This was why he hadn’t kept the sword: not only to shake that crazed man’s pursuit from his heels, but to wind up here amidst the swarm.

  Though they’d hauled him inside after he knocked on the door, they didn’t tie his hands. Instead, they had cast a slew of spells on the entrance since he came in. No matter for Daghahen; he knew his old faction’s tricks. Now they all gawked at him.

  “Who are you?” a bystanding white robe demanded.

  Daghahen threw his hands out.

  “You mean they never told you the story of the legendary Ibex?” He clicked his tongue and threw off his mercy hood.

  “He’s an elf!” someone shouted.

  “He’s not just any elf,” an older one growled. “How did you find this place, old elf?”

  “Because I’m one of you.”

  The white robes stood back, but some red robes ventured closer, sneering.

  “Well?” Daghahen asked. “Is he here?”

  The most prominent so
rcerer crossed his arms. “Who?”

  Daghahen snorted and threw up his hands. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll follow the smell of bodily fluids and find him on my own.”

  He strolled into a dark little corridor off the big fireplace room. The group followed, murmuring to each other the whole way. Daghahen smiled, listening to the fools.

  In another dark alcove, the sounds of a servant girl moaning with a sorcerer’s thrusts rang out, a common thing to run into at any Ilbith hideout.

  “Stop that!” Daghahen shouted in their direction, though he didn’t stop walking. “Don’t you know the Creator is watching you?”

  A shove rocked him from behind, and he stumbled. He’d finally annoyed them enough.

  “We don’t believe such nonsense,” the dark-eyed sorcerer said as he grabbed Daghahen’s lapel and jerked him closer.

  “Not my problem.” He ended with a brash smile.

  “It’s time you answered some questions, mercyman. Who are you?”

  “I’ll give you three guesses.”

  The man responded with a heavy, open-palmed slap to the center of his face. Daghahen went down.

  “Now, now,” he said, staggering to his feet, “if you break my nose any more than it has been, you’ll never guess who I am. Take a good look and guess. You’ve gotta look past the wrinkles, though.”

  “Dog’s piss—he looks like the kingsorcerer.” the youngest one said.

  “Bullshit,” another white robe said. “He’s way too old to look like the kingsorcerer.”

  “The kingsorcerer, you say?” Daghahen asked. “I always knew he’d get there, but not quite so fast.”

  The older, dark-eyed sorcerer crossed his arms again. “You must be the twin he’s mentioned. You here to see him?”

  “Oh no, don’t disturb his fornications on account of me showing up.”

  A young white robe came running. “The kingsorcerer says to take him to the inner practice chamber.” He stopped and panted as Daghahen was seized and dragged forward.

  “Lambelhen,” Daghahen said from his kneeling position on the floor, his face throbbing in several places after the initial beating. Deep breaths seared his ribs with pain. The white robes were shooed away as soon as they dragged Daghahen into this room, empty save for a wardrobe with a few candles dripping down its sides. He knelt upon old dried bloodstains; the fresh blood spatter was his. Three high-level red robes and one purple robe had entered with them.

  “You don’t listen! My name is Lamrhath now,” he hissed, turning back around, steaming in the cold air.

  “Lam-rhath,” Daghahen said. “You mean our mother was kind enough to give you the name Lam-bel-hen—the one who ‘stands strong and alone,’ and you’d dash her gift in exchange for being the ‘alone dreamer?’”

  “You forgot the ‘er,’ you idiot—Lam-er-hath.”

  Daghahen nodded. “Oh yes, the word saehgahn aren’t supposed to say.”

  “Your mother named me wrong.”

  “The dirtiest word in the Norrian language,” Daghahen continued, “the one which implies desire. And I suppose you forgot: she gave birth to us both. She’s your mother too.”

  “I want you to learn my real name so you can scream it on your dying breath.”

  Daghahen clicked his tongue. “Oh, I see what you did there. The ‘er’ word is smuggled in. You snuck it in there so that it exists, but people won’t even realize they’re saying it. Clever.” He cleared his throat. “Well then, Lonely Dirty Dreamer, are you ready to talk?”

  “No, there won’t be any talking.” Lamrhath opened his robe, revealing a scabbard on his belt from which he unsheathed an old iron fireplace poker, the same poker Daghahen had swapped with the sword twenty-two years ago. Lamrhath had saved it. “Your madness impedes any fruitful talk.” He tapped the hooked end of the poker on Daghahen’s shoulder and grazed the cold metal against his throat.

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

  “No. But you’ve made my task easy. I’ve been looking for you for sixteen years.”

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  “How did you get through all the camouflage barriers?” Lamrhath played the tip of the poker under Daghahen’s eye as if he would shove it into the socket.

  Daghahen kept his back stiff. Lammy wouldn’t allow him too much fidgeting; any wrong move could prompt another beating. “I know more sorcery tricks than you’d like to think.”

  Lamrhath reared back and stabbed the poker into his shoulder. Daghahen growled and curled over after the shockwave of pain ran down his arm. There would soon be a deep tissue bruise to cause pain at every movement, the first taste of what tonight would entail. Lamrhath might not even decide to kill him tonight. This could go on for weeks before the killing blow arrived at last.

  “Feel better yet?” Daghahen asked.

  “You really do want to die, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do!”

  Lamrhath stepped back, lowered the poker, and smirked.

  “You think I would’ve come here if I could come up with any more reasons to go on? Creator, all I need is a little assistance to help me go.”

  “You won’t find death so easily here.”

  “I’m aware. Maybe I deserve some suffering.”

  “Now you’re playing mind games with me.”

  “Am I?”

  Lamrhath turned around. “Tch.” He whipped the poker through the air like a sword. Whooph! “You’re hiding something. What are you hiding, you conniving lizard?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” He whirled around and swung the poker.

  Daghahen twisted, and it connected with his back. “Ahh! Dear Creator!” What a long mark that would leave. His cheek was pressed to the floor now, his hands tied behind him. “No need for violence. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Is there something I’ll want to know?”

  He worked his way back to his knees. “I don’t know.”

  “Or is it you’re trying to annoy me so I’ll kill you faster?”

  “Well, I do need to die, of course.”

  “You won’t have it. But you will get a lot of pain.”

  Daghahen grinned and chuckled until it shifted into a bloody cough. “I don’t care anymore. Do what you want to me. My guilt for the few things I’ve done weighs far heavier than the many things you don’t feel guilty about.”

  “I have no guilt because I don’t do things that are wrong, I do things that are necessary.”

  “Like beat a tied-up saehgahn with a piece of iron?”

  “Yes.” He slammed it atop Daghahen’s thigh.

  Daghahen roared, falling to his side while the shockwave endured. He tried his leg. His femur was still intact. After he finished moaning, he groaned, “Would you like to make a trade?”

  The yellow fire flared in Lamrhath’s eyes, and his fingers fidgeted around the poker handle. “Are you trading for your life or for your death?”

  Daghahen’s muscles were weakening, the ache persisting in all the places he’d been hit. Bile flooded into his mouth and stomach convulsions began. Nonetheless, he worked his way back to sitting on his knees, spine straight, swallowing the bile.

  “I want to see my wife!” He paused to swallow. “Let me see her! Is she alive? How has she fared? For the love of mercy, what have you done to her all these years? Where have you hidden her?” He stopped yelling before his trembling jaw caused his shouts to trail into inarticulate gibberish.

  Lamrhath stood glaring. His fist tightened around the poker. His knuckles turned white. Daghahen sucked in a few controlled breaths to calm himself. Keeping calm was imperative.

  “Your wife?” He stepped closer. “You want to see…your wife?” He raised the poker and laid it along Daghahen’s cheekbone.

  He whispered, “Did you kill her or not?”

  “You’ll find out when you meet her in hell.” Lamrhath cocked the poker back, high above his head. He swung. The poker whistled towar
d Daghahen’s cheekbone as aimed.

  “I have Wik.”

  The poker stopped at a thumb’s length from his head. Only the wind it created caressed cold across his hot skin.

  “What did you say?”

  He was still alive. Daghahen cocked his head and raised his eyes. “I…have…Wik.”

  “What do you mean you have Wik?”

  Daghahen eased his mind into a mask of peace. “Wik. One of the little pettygods you make offerings to. You wanna see him?”

  Lamrhath lowered the poker. “Explain.”

  “What’s to explain? I have Wik. I have him in my possession.”

  “How?”

  “He’s resting in a holding sphere. Would you like to have it?”

  “How did you get it?”

  “How do you think? I took it off a witch who had hoarded it for years.”

  Of course Lamrhath would be interested in this offer. His brother had tried and failed to contact Wik while Daghahen still participated in the faction. But old dim Dag wasn’t as stupid as people liked to think. He had managed to find the witch who had kept it hidden for the-Creator-knew-how-many years! The pixie’s entrapment prevented Lamrhath from making contact, and he never could have found out why unless he had bothered to do the work Daghahen had done.

  “Where is it?”

  “In a very good hiding place.”

  “And what? You’re asking to trade it for your wife back?” Lamrhath asked.

  “What an excellent trade, don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “So let me look at her. I need to know if she’s alive. Do you feed her well, at least? Even if she’s dead, let me look at her bones. Let me kiss her forehead and tell her goodnight one last time.”

  Lamrhath shook his head. “Show me Wik, and we might talk.”

  “You’ll have to untie my hands and give my belongings back.”

  Lamrhath crossed his arms. “You didn’t have anything in your belongings more special than a flask of cat piss and that stupid old button you call magical.”