by Damien Lake
“You should rest while you can. You’ve been through the hells’ own grinder.”
“I am alive,” Dietrik wheezed. “Which is better than I expected.”
The Red Man slid the shard back into his coat. “He gains in strength.”
“He’ll live,” Marik agreed. “Tell me why I should trust you with that thing.”
“Marik Railson. You are a man of achievement surpassing your contemporaries. Yet the taint on the obsidian would corrupt any man who touched it with full knowledge of its origin.”
“And not you? What makes you so special?”
The Red Man raised his clawed hand, displaying his scaled arm. “I am unquestionably other than a man. We have progressed enough that I might spare the energy. Forging the way will prove the less cumbersome…”
He trailed off. Marik watched. The Red Man’s face screwed in concentration. Sweat slicked his red hair. His pupils dilated from the effort.
Slowly, the scaled flesh at his shoulder shrank. As it did so, the red scales diminished until smooth, human flesh replaced it. The change moved toward his elbow. An inch behind the reforming flesh, the red silk shirt and coat re-grew as well. Threads seemed to spin from nowhere off the torn fabric ends.
Or…not from nowhere. Marik stared, barely able to see the thin threads unspooling out from the soft skin. The change continued until the ten-inch claws retracted to ordinary fingernails. Soon a wine-colored glove covered his hand as before.
He stroked his face, which remained scaled. “A necessity…to wait…I fear,” he commented from where he knelt. Heaving breaths wracked him. “The energy expenditure is considerable.”
Marik struggled for words. At last, the only ones that came sounded appallingly inadequate. “Nice…camouflage.”
The Red Man fingered his cuff. “Indeed, is it not? Nothing to be done regarding color. It is outside my ability to determine.”
“Well…”
What could he say to that?
“We must depart soonest, Marik Railson. An escape from this forest is our pressing concern.”
“Why? Xenos is gone. The forest is safe enough.”
“Rovasii Forest is inundated. It has been hyper-saturated.”
“Meaning?”
“Use your mage eyes to study life force in its flows.”
Marik opened his magesight. The forest burned with etheric power. Before, the Euvea trees had been bright. Now they seared his mind.
And not them alone. Forest grasses, shrubs, even the worms chewing their way through the ground. Birds in the air. Squirrels in the trees. They all glowed with too much life force.
“As did the man become a creature, so too will the forest. Plant along with animal will change owing to a state of hyper-saturation.”
“Screaming— You mean the whole damned forest is going to be twisted like…like he was?”
“Not twisted. Twisting. Study, for example, this lichen patch with care most astute.”
Marik shifted until his eye was inches from the moss growing on the tree root. At first he saw nothing amiss. No freakish appearance or coloring.
The movement was so mild he felt uncertain he saw it at first. But it was there. While he watched, the moss grew. Grew fast enough that he could see it spreading.
“Soon will this forest become uninhabitable.”
“We have to race the gods damned forest! What else can go wrong?”
“Best to avoid posing such questions to the gods.”
Marik scowled at the smile on the Red Man’s face. “Hey Jide! It’s time to move! Get your big stupid body over here and be useful!”
* * * * *
The small group emerged from the trees six days later. Marik could see where the forest ended…or once had ended. Tall trees formed the line. Stretching for miles ahead of them, fresh growth had sprung up. Bushes, tall grasses, young saplings.
Before long, the Rovasii Forest would begin retaking lost ground. The fringe towns were in for the hells’ own shock.
Dietrik stood on his own. He still lacked a great deal of strength. Their way would be slow going. The journey from the Euvea had been considerably harder than going in.
Another unforeseen consequence of draining the reservoir had been the shattering of every other seal within the trees. Creatures long contained in secluded environments were suddenly free to roam and intermingle.
And fight.
“On your own, that is how,” Dietrik replied when Marik mused aloud how they would ever report it all to King Raymond. “Do not expect me to walk into another rabid wolf pack at your side.”
“Not for a while, at any rate.” He faced Jide and the Red Man. Jide had been despondent during the trip. His friend’s death hit him hard. “You’re taking him off home, are you?”
“It will be best for him to return soonest,” the Red Man replied. “Much work lays along the future pathways. Roots delve deeper the longer they are free to grow unhindered.”
“Safe journey, then” Dietrik called. “Don’t get seasick and drown while you are leaning over the rail.”
“I shall see to it there is little chance of such an occurrence. Water is scarce along the route I plan.”
“Oh?”
The Red Man nodded his head and turned.
“One last thing,” Marik called. He’d had time to think during the escape, to review memories considerably jumbled until he hardly recalled the order they occurred in. His curiosity ate at him, demanding he ask the question. “You and Xenos were arguing during the fight. You said a name. Oto-something. I’m pretty certain I heard you say that name in Thoenar when we first met.”
A blank look preceded a slight smile. “Otos Trine.”
“That’s the one. What was that about? Who is he?”
“A man befriended by me in my youth. At an age when youths are wont to disregard the wishes and the wisdom of their elders.”
“So why,” Dietrik pressed, “was Xenos hacked off at him?”
“Otos once destroyed a statue his sect held dear. He is not in favor with the green-robed priests of the Earth God.”
Without a further word, the Red Man departed with Jide at his side.
“What are we to make of that, then?” Dietrik asked.
“Nothing. No doubt it will seem like a dream tomorrow. Next year, we won’t believe half of what we’ve been through.”
They started walking northeast. Dietrik leaned heavily on Marik. Their progress was excruciatingly slow since Marik also dragged Rail’s sword along as well. “Let’s find a ferry going up the Varmeese. I’d rather not chance running into the knight-marshal’s worshipers before we return to the capitol.”
“No coin,” Marik reminded him. “No packs, no spare clothing, no blankets and a pocketful of berries.” Their bandages were strips torn from their tunics. Marik’s only other possession was a leather eye-patch Jide had produced and offered the mercenary. It rested beneath Marik’s small berry hoard for the time when his wound healed enough to wear it.
“A long, hard journey with naught but hard questions to look forward to at the end.” Dietrik sighed mightily.
“More than that,” Marik disagreed. “Raymond owes us. He owes us a king’s ransom worth!”
“Coin is nice, but a warm bed is nicer.”
“A thousand things are nicer. We can demand anything at all from him. Anything that belongs to the crown. I’m not about to let a chance like this slip away from me.”
“You have ideas in your head as usual, mate. I would have thought you had learned better by this late date.”
“They’ve brought me this far.”
“What do you have in mind? You had best be careful what you demand of a king. You’re apt to end up with iron chains rather than gold. And a work gang’s shovel rather than a scepter.”
Marik laughed. “Wait and see, my friend. You just wait and see.”
Epilogue
Several Tullainian youths loitered outside the door to the Golden Roads. They were pebble-spotting,
the girls winning over the boys three times to one. The girls were not shy about letting them know it. Each of the boys’ pebbles knocked from the grid by a precisely flung stone from the girls elicited groans and superior smugness alike.
The sun shone warmly along the Southern Road in summer. It was dry enough that hooves kicked up dust if the horses wandered off the hard-pack road center. Commerce had increased again despite the stalemate with Nolier further to the east. Galemar’s forces had chased the invaders back across the Tenpencia River. Both sides glared hotly at the other from their side of the Hollister Bridge.
Only one serious skirmish had transpired in the Second Nolier War. If war it could be called. Nolier still bled from the first conflict a few years previous. No Nolier detachment had made a stand against the Galemarans who found them. Retreats were immediate unless the invaders cornered and the issue forced.
Galemar rarely forced a fight. They too were still recovering from the epic Battle at the Hollister. Their wounds were no less deep than their neighbor’s.
The only stand made had been at the gold mine. No doubt on orders from Nolier’s delusional king, they had fought to hold it. Both sides lost three-hundred men apiece, but Galemar’s force had been twice as large. A rout ensued.
Soldiers at the bridge stopped all traffic. The merchants complained loudly in every forum they could raise their voices in. Their indignation echoed hollowly, alone in the masses.
Still, with the Nolier presence forcibly expunged, it was safer to move about the kingdom’s eastern reaches. Smaller, local merchants visited the Forest of Green Reaches to buy dyes of a unique reddish-brown color from heellaberries, which no one had ever found growing anywhere else. The mines along the southern Cliffsdains were producing raw materials in demand by Spirrattan crafters, and the sulfur springs could be farmed once more. Also, matching the rest of the traffic combined, the granite quarries along the Tenpencia River were carting stone blocks, tiles and slabs to shipping points along the Southern Road where the Spine and Varmeese Rivers crossed.
Two riders approached the Golden Roads Inn through the caressing sunlight. They might have been taken for merchants themselves. Their mounts were impressive, their clothing cut to fit from sturdy weaves. New leather boots swung in the stirrups when they halted their horses.
A girl who had moments before scored three points off her older brother’s stone trotted to meet them. Her Galemaran was heavy with the accent of her homeland, though she had lived in her adopted kingdom long enough that she spoke the language well.
“Welcome to Golden Roads, travelers. Will you be staying the evening?”
The men smiled at the rehearsed line. “I believe the idea has merit, lass. Have the stable hands bung our boys into a pair of private stalls for the night, and we will have a look-see around.”
She nodded eagerly and whistled at the group she had left. Two of the largest boys came forward to take the reins. “And will you be wanting your bags taken to your rooms for you?”
“That would be kind of you. Yes, why not?”
The girl came closer to accept a travel pack from the man she spoke to…and hesitated when she neared. From a closer view, these men looked worrisome. Dangerous.
Merchants did not usually have leather caps covering the stump where a hand had gone missing. The silver necklace he wore with three curving fangs longer than her fingers was also intimidating.
Nor, as she studied the other fellow, did merchants wear eye-patches that seemed designed to draw attention to the missing eye. And, oddly, a golden bracelet sparkled in the sunlight off the one-eyed man’s wrist. She could see a single metal charm hanging from it. It was a sword, although a strangely shaped one. She had seen enough carried by countless travelers to recognize that. That charm sword’s handle was long and round, the blade extra long and far too wide.
“It could be a mite heavy for you,” the one-handed man said warmly, “but I am certain you will do a fine job of it.”
She found a ten-copper coin pressed into her hand during the transfer of the pack to her smaller arms. The man smiled like a favorite uncle, and she could not help but return the expression. Her sister took the one-eyed man’s pack. Together they vanished into the building.
* * * * *
“Well,” Marik announced, “let’s have a look at Kerwin’s dream-come-true.”
He and Dietrik entered the Golden Roads Inn. They found that the door gave onto a vestibule covered in reed mats that would scrape any outside muck off the boots before a traveler could bring the majority into the common room. Through the door in the opposite wall, they entered Kerwin’s main floor.
A massive countertop bar ran along the far end, shaped like a horseshoe with fifteen-foot wings running to the walls ninety degrees off from the feet. Thirty round tables populated the space, with a massive fireplace in the west wall, which also happened to be the building’s outer wall. Six tables were occupied by travelers.
“Not as mad as I expected,” Dietrik mused.
“Let’s say hello.”
Behind the bar at the top curve of the horseshoe, Kerwin was shouting at two Tullainian workers who were moving an impressively large sheet of flat glass. Landon sat on a stool watching the proceedings with interest until Marik slapped him on the back.
“Lazing about while everyone else labors? You’ve gone soft!”
“This is a surprise,” the archer observed. “I expected we would not see you until winter. Assuming the best.”
“He received a lighter sentence in lieu of cooperation,” Dietrik quipped while he sat at the bar. “An official demotion and an unofficial pat on the back.”
“I can hear the promise of an interesting story in the making.”
“I said careful,” Kerwin shouted. He looked decidedly odd in a server’s apron, Marik thought. “This already cost me a fortune to make and have carted halfway across the damned kingdom!”
“Is this the man who could empty any purse for miles around?” Marik teased.
Kerwin cast him a sour glare, but kept his verbal abuse for the Tullainians. Landon sipped his wine with amusement.
Marik’s eye wandered the setting. Along the curving wall above Kerwin, he could see signs that were mostly pictography rather than writing. The gambler must have paid nicely for the artwork. A brimming ale tankard had three copper coins connected to it by a black line. Red and white wine glasses were priced with a five-copper. Five different food plates enticed his appetite with their realistic quality, fairly priced for the quantity.
The food signs were divided to either side of a longer, twenty foot banner that contained the only words in the lot. Across the top, in colorful letters, Marik read, ‘Festival At The Bar’. Beneath the words were a dozen different pictures. Marik recognized the first. It showed a tall, tapered glass filled with water. Several coins rested at the bottom. A disembodied hand hovered over the top, a recently released coin about to plunge into the glass.
It was a game they had encountered during the Arm of Galemar tournament. Two people dropped coins into the glass until the water finally overflowed. Whoever spilled the water lost, and the wet coins went to the winner.
He scanned the banner. Most of the icons were unfamiliar. He could not puzzle out their meaning. A ring spinning on its edge. Two coins side by side, one face up, the other tails. Wine bottles balanced atop their corks. A candle burning in a bottle, the wax dripping down one side. And…a rat?
One thing was obvious. These were small-change games. Any coins won or lost would be mere coppers. That sounded nothing at all like Kerwin. Marik searched the common room until…yes. Above a wide door in the east wall he found a second banner. On it were arrows pointing at the door, flanking a large pair of dice, fanned playing cards and a tube filled with trident sticks.
That would be Kerwin’s main gaming room. These attractions at the bar were simply to provide amusement for the local farmers. Make the inn a more interesting place to gather after dark. Bar games little dif
ferent from the brain teasers at Walsh’s Swan’s Down Inn located in Thoenar.
“You two have been through the grinder,” Kerwin finally addressed when the glass was at last set to his satisfaction. He looked at Dietrik’s missing hand. “What did you want to go and do that for?”
“I wanted a challenge,” Dietrik shot back. “I found that life was going far too easily with both my hands.”
“That’s a nice fashion statement. Why not go for a hook over a simple cap?”
“Do I look like a bloody pirate to you?”
Kerwin shrugged. He tugged the ends of his tooled vest out from behind his apron to display it while he mentioned, “There is a good leatherworker in Cedars. She can design you a set that look nice, instead of like a sawed-off boot toe.”
“What is that all about?” Marik asked. He gestured with his chin at the glass sheet.
“Aha! I am glad you asked! Let me show you!” And he ran through a swinging set of half-doors into his kitchen.
“He has not changed,” Dietrik sighed in contentment.
“Not the slightest bit,” Landon agreed.
“But what is that?” Marik pressed. The glass hung at eye-level on the wall just under the signs. It covered five long shelves that continued without breaks along the entire length of the horseshoe. There were only six inches worth of space between each shelf, both from top to bottom and from glass to the wood-paneled back.
“It is a run,” the archer revealed. “You can see it runs from the west end to the east. Along the straight, around the corner, along the horseshoe to where it finishes at the end of the second straight.”
“A run for what?”
“For these beauties,” Kerwin answered. He returned with a small cage containing a black rat.
“You’re going to hold ratting fights?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Kerwin scoffed. “Blood sports aren’t where it’s at! This darling is Earlene!”
“Why would anybody wish to name a rat?” Dietrik sounded scathingly sarcastic.
“Because she’s a noble little lady who will be raking in the gold for me! Her and a dozen others!”