“That thing was in my house, the Black Wynch was in my house,” Walter said, wrapping his arms tighter around his body.
“I’m afraid so,” Baylan said, squatting and investigating the empty, small chest in the cavity. It was a masterfully detailed piece, despite the chunks of dirt attached in some spots. Mounted on the lid was a dragon figurine in an apparent duel with an identically sized phoenix. The corners were marked with clawed feet like that of a dragon. The chest’s face was vertically bisected by the carving of a thick waving chain that branched at the top to wrap around that edge on all sides. Flanking the chain on the face were two engraved images, one of a dragon on its hindquarters blasting fire towards the chain, the other of a phoenix in flight engulfed in the dragon’s flames.
“It’s gorgeous,” Walter said. He carefully pulled it out of the ground, grunting from its surprising heft. “Heavy little bastard.”
Baylan squinted and moved his shield closer to the chest, illuminating its finer details.
“This certainly doesn’t seem to be an ordinary chest. What is it doing here?” Walter said.
Baylan’s lips moved as he read the nearly indecipherable script under the lid. He suddenly sputtered and backed away, placing his hand protectively before his chest.
“No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” Baylan said, wild eyes intent on the chest.
“What? What is it?”
“There was a weapon of incalculable power in this chest… called Bonesnapper, The Sundering Chains of Shattered Dreams, the only weapon known to be able to slay Asebor, also–” He paused, taking a breath. “Also called in other times, The Chains of the North, forged in the black furnace of The Nether.”
Walter stood. “What? So in addition to my mother and me being able to use the power of the Dragon, the weapon of all weapons was just sitting in my cellar?” Walter said.
“The evidence of these glyphs indicates it was once here, yes.”
Walter narrowed his eyes. “Now, the Cerumal have it.”
Baylan bowed his head. “This is not good. Your parents must have had a very colorful past – they hadn’t told you any stories that seemed a bit, perhaps, embellished?”
Walter rubbed his chin. “They did, but nothing that struck me as strange at the time.”
“Well, if it wasn’t them, then someone in your family must have had quite the tale to tell regarding the acquisition of this artifact.”
“My grandfather, Tomkin. He always had outlandish stories, but we wrote them off as symptoms of aging.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead,” Walter said flatly.
Baylan sighed and nodded. “Most likely one of Asebor’s generals was responsible. I have a suspicion who. Asebor can’t be strong enough yet to have pulled off something like this – I hope.”
“How? Who? What are you saying?”
“It’s a long story for another time. If it is who I think it is, she goes by Darkthorne now, but has gone by other names… in other times.” Baylan paced in a circle around the chest.
Walter inhaled sharply. I should gut you where you stand for speaking to me like that. When I ask, you answer. Walter shook off the thoughts that emerged from the bowels of his mind. Get a hold of yourself, man!
“Other times? OK, now you’ve lost me, Baylan. We need to have a long chat soon,” Walter said, furrowing his brow. Walter’s eyes glowed a disturbing bright green in the reflection of Baylan’s blue phoenix-powered shield.
Baylan started towards the steps, allowing his shield to wink out as they came into the main hallway. Walter led the way to the study and plopped himself down, sinking into a fluffy feather-filled love seat. Baylan sat on a squeaky chair, hands steepled in front of his chin.
“Walter, the raid – this is why they came. This is why they are no longer here. They got what they wanted.” Walter nodded imperceptibly, eyes glazing over with exhaustion. Baylan continued. “There is only one way for Bonesnapper to be detectable to them, to those wretches.”
“And that is?” Walter asked distantly.
“Bonesnapper needs to be within the proximity of a wizard who can use both the dragon and the phoenix power, and that is you, my dear friend.”
Chapter 18 – Departures
“Dispel the walls of light and peace such that my soul may reign.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness
Walter awoke the following morning to the strangely familiar sounds of booming from the first floor. What was that? A hammer – yes, a hammer pounding nails. Dad must be fixing something down – no. No, your father is gone, and so is your mother. And so is your friend Lillian and so many others. Let go. If you’re going to make it through this you must be hard, much harder. You must become iron.
“For a minute, I thought it was all just a bad dream,” he said to himself from within the confines of his bed. The familiar surroundings of his bedroom felt like he was peering into someone else’s personal life. This wasn’t home anymore. The ghosts of memories would always inhabit this room, but this would never be home again, just a place where he and his parents had once lived.
He threw the covers aside, confirming the brutal reality of his armored prison. “This is just great,” he mumbled. He came down the stairs to find Baylan setting the last nail in the repaired hinges of the front door.
“Not bad for a guy with a missing hand, wouldn’t you say?” said Baylan.
“Carpentry isn’t your strong suit.”
“Well, good morning to you, sunshine.”
Walter smiled. “Sorry, it’s been a rough time, with the armor and all. Well, it’s really wearing on me. I have to get this thing off,” he said, tugging on the chest plate.
“I understand,” Baylan said, exhaling, meeting his eyes.
“But you really could use a plumb bob…”
Baylan eyed him quizzically. Walter yawned, and strode into the kitchen, the clinking armor echoing in the main hall. “Wow, Baylan, thank you so much for… for cleaning this. I couldn’t have done it. I…” The kitchen had been washed clean of red and bodies disposed of. If it weren’t for the boarded-up windows, everything would have looked normal.
Baylan entered the kitchen, and Walter started a fire with a thin jet of flame from his fingertip in an ornate stove pit for the morning elixir. “The door won’t close,” Baylan said.
“Yes, the plumb bob should help,” Walter smiled.
“Where is it? Hmm, what I mean to ask is what exactly is a plumb bob?”
“It’s OK, it’s time to go, Baylan. Thank you, for everything you’ve done.”
Baylan nodded, examining his work with his hand on his hip.
“Lillian… Hassan said she fought bravely, without her help there would have been tremendous casualties.” Walter put a hand on Baylan’s shoulder.
Baylan grew dark. Walter continued, “She was a warrior, and died with the honor of a warrior’s death.”
“Yes, she would have wanted it that way,” Baylan said. He wiped wetness from his eye. “Let’s get going, then, shall we?” he said, pulling himself together.
**
They arrived at Nyset’s house by mid-morning, both on Marie. Nyset limped from her doorway before they could knock. “Baylan.” She nodded towards him and then kissed Walter’s cheek. She had briefly met Baylan in the town square before she started working on the Death Adder tea, and was looking forward to getting to know him. She had a feeling they had much to share, both having penchants for scholarship.
Walter’s cheeks turned red at the sight of the bony Mrs. Camfield walking to the door. “Take good care of her,” she yelled from the entryway.
Mr. Camfield wiped dirt from his hands as he strode in from the garden. He offered his hand to Walter, sun-kissed eyes smiling. “You’re a good lad, Walt, I thank you for what you’ve done for us. I know t’wasn’t easy.” He regarded Baylan. “And you, too – what’s your name, foreigner?”
“Baylan, sir.”
“Baylan, I saw you a
nd yer wife fight in the square, you fought well for us. I thank you, sir, you’re always welcome here.”
“She wasn’t my–” he stopped. “Yes, she did fight bravely.”
Mr. Camfield smiled and nodded. “I know you’re going to the Tower… please watch over my child, son,” he said, putting his hand behind Baylan’s neck.
Baylan nodded gravely, eyes closed.
“Don’t forget about our struggles,” Mrs. Camfield reminded her daughter.
How could she? All those nights where they had to skip dinner to save money to pay their debts – the pain of hunger wasn’t one you quickly forgot. No, she would not forget their struggle.
They stopped by Juzo’s dilapidated house on their way back towards Breden Square. When Walter knocked, the door swung open of its own volition. Walter looked back towards Baylan and Nyset, who were in enthusiastic conversation about plants, waiting beside the jet-black horse, Marie. “Plants,” Walter muttered to himself.
“Hello? Anyone home?” he shouted through the doorway. Silence. He wanted to reassure them that they would find Juzo. He walked through the doorway, feeling amiss. On the side of the mudroom wall was a note scrawled with charcoal. He read it and nodded, unsurprised. The note said they had left searching for their son, and for Juzo to stay here if he returned. Shit. We never told them he might be in the Tigerian Bluffs, but we don’t know that for sure… but it’s the best lead we have. He left, leaving the note undisturbed.
Walter and Nyset rode upon Ashes, and Baylan rode Marie. At Breden Square they dismounted and sauntered around, buying a few water skins, bread, and hard cheeses for the journey to Midgaard. Walter found himself frequently rubbing Juzo’s book. Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness. I need to find time to read this, need to understand what Juzo found in it. Breden Square was, unsurprisingly, sparsely populated this morning. The morning after an attack by an unknown, terrifying enemy wasn’t a particularly inviting time.
As they came upon the Coastal Road gate to head due north, there was a small crowd of people surrounding the exit, half of whom appeared to be members of the guard. “What is this?” Walter asked of no one in particular. He scratched at an itch on the back of his neck.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” Nyset said. The crowd stopped murmuring as they approached and started clapping, one by one, as the three were noticed. Walter turned to Baylan, who was smiling, and found himself inadvertently beaming. Walter gushed with unexpected joy at the warm greeting from the crowd. He found Nyset beaming when he met her eyes.
Hassan stepped out from the crowd, nodding and producing a bassy clap with his thick hands. “Our town heroes!” he shouted. Other members of the crowd cheered and whooped in response, some clapping and others punching fists into the air. Someone handed Walter an overflowing mug of ale which he quickly slurped to prevent it from spilling over Ashes. “We wanted to see you off and had heard from the Camfields you were departing today,” Hassan bellowed.
“We’re not heroes, you’re the heroes,” Walter yelled to the small group. “You, who continue fighting, those of you who have endured tragic losses with so much in need of repair, continuing to carry on.” The group grew quiet and a warm gust whipped through them. “The guard, the bakers, the farmers. You who consistently work in spite of attack by an unknown evil. Your sense of duty to your fellow man, to fight for one another, to die for one another. You are the heroes!”
They cheered with renewed vigor. One man yelled, “We will always fight!”
“Impressive speech, hero,” Nyset whispered in his ear from behind.
“Thank you. I had been planning that speech for a number of years.”
“Really?”
“No, not really, you’re way too easy,” Walter chided.
Nyset licked the tip of her index finger and stuck it in Walter’s ear. He squirmed in his saddle. “Hey! Stop that,” he laughed.
Baylan nodded towards him, eyes squinting inquisitively.
“What?” Walter said to Baylan.
“Oh, nothing.” He smiled. A short woman in a beige farm dress walked up to Baylan, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “Thank you for fighting for us, for saving my baby.”
“Of course, of course, you’re quite welcome,” he said.
“I have something for the lot of you,” Hassan said, taking a cloth roll from another city guard. The sun reflected brightly from his bald head. Walter chugged his brown ale, and then opened his arms in acceptance and unwrapped the thick brown cloth. Hassan went on, “You’re all honorary guards now.” He handed a similarly sized roll to Baylan, and a smaller one to Nyset.
“You didn’t have to, thank you, sir,” Nyset said.
Within Walter’s roll was a beautifully polished Breden city guard long sword and scabbard. “I know you’ve got your lash there, so I thought a proper sword would be an appropriate side arm, if you will.” Walter unsheathed the gleaming sword, admiring the Breden sigil stamped on the hilt – a slanted “B” in cursive font.
“It’s incredible, I am honored,” Walter said, bowing his head.
“Aye, sir, many thanks,” Baylan said, awkwardly mounting his Breden long sword onto the same hip as his short, curved blade.
Nyset hefted the short sword she was given. “Wow, this is neat. I guess one of you can teach me how to use this?” She grinned.
“Don’t cut your fingers off, now,” Hassan said.
Walter gripped Hassan’s forearm in a handshake of gratitude, and he Walter’s. “We must be leaving.” He leaned closer to Hassan so only he could hear. “You were right to be suspicious of this armor, the blasted thing is cursed.”
Hassan nodded. “I thought it looked familiar. There was a boy of about your age who had found something like it almost four decades ago. Well, he had to be put out of his misery,” he said, crinkling his nose.
Walter turned away with a deep inhalation. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, gaze intent upon his ashen hands.
Chapter 19 – Grimbald
“Remove the rays from your heart. Abolish the territory of the senses and approach the infinite.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness
The mist covering the Denerian Cliffs to the west flitted away in the afternoon heat and a warm breeze dissipated the clouds overhead. The white tufts of waves to the west faded in and out of view between the trees of the dewy forest of the Woodland Plunge. A stream wound musically beside the path, feeding the wild flowers blossoming upon its edge. The soft beat of Ashes’ and Marie’s hooves seemed to work in time with the gurgle of the stream.
Walter gazed at the stream, taking in the peace. Us, heroes. That would have been a sight my parents would’ve liked to have seen. Time changes, life doesn’t stop. The tune of the river seemed to change while they rode. The wheel turns and turns. Something caught his eye, pulling him from the lull of the stream.
A man wearing overalls formed of pale blue light stood by a tall willow, waving towards Walter. “What – who is that?” Walter asked, concern in his voice.
“Where?” asked Nyset, following his gaze.
Walter looked back to the tree to find it empty. Baylan eyed him curiously. “What did you see?”
“I’m not sure – it was a man, except I could see through him, see beyond him.”
“I am unfamiliar with this phenomenon,” Baylan said. “However, since only you noticed it, I would surmise it is another effect of the armor, or perhaps your abilities.”
“Tell us if you see it again,” Nyset said, dismissing the flames that surrounded her hands.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Walter said, turning on her with anger twisting his face. There was a darkness that caressed his peripheral vision, occasionally creeping into his focal point. It didn’t matter how many times he washed his face or shook his head. That darkness was part of him now. I. Am. Death.
“Walter! Control yourself.” Baylan barked.
I’ll open you up and taste your flesh, outla
nder. Carrying a Breden sword… yet you let so many die, pathetic coward. Stop – no, stop. He is a good man, a friend, a friend, yes.
Walter nodded, sagging in his saddle. “I apologize, to both of you.” They spent the remainder of the ride in silence, partly enjoying the scenery, and partly distraught at Walter’s actions.
They arrived in Shipton by late afternoon. The bustle of civilization seemed to lift everyone’s spirits in spite of the waning sunlight. The dirt road became a narrow fieldstone single-arch bridge spanning the brackish water created with the melding of the fresh blue water of Lich’s Falls from the east and the brown sea water of the Bronze Coast to the west. Baylan scribbled in his notebook while they crossed the bridge.
The bridge led into the town square, where the buildings were built a story taller than those in Breden and were more densely packed. It was a small town, with no more than a hundred residents. Most of their commerce was conducted by serving the merchants who often met in the town’s square primarily to trade in furs, gems, elixir beans, tobacco, and farm animals. Beyond the town square was another fieldstone bridge headed east towards Midgaard.
Nyset and Baylan took the horses to the stables while Walter approached an older woman with the face of a dried orange, selling aromatic lamb skewers. She wore simple trousers and a white apron with a few orange stains.
“What’ll it be, son?” she drawled.
“Three skewers. Could you wrap them, please?” he smiled.
She nodded, and started delicately wrapping them in thick brown parchment.
“What’s the news?” he asked.
“Oh, well, there’s always lots of goings-on. Breden to the south, you may know… had been attacked a week ago by horned devils, I’d heard. I wouldn’t go anywhere near there, sonny, no sir.” She finished wrapping two of the skewers, and stopped on the third, putting a hand on her hip. “The devils attacked to the north too. Some are sayin’ the ol’ magic has returned.” She shook her head. “You see somethin’ that ain’t right, you just run away, I always say – kept me alive this long.”
Stormcaller (Book 1) Page 14