The guard began to turn back to the path, the infantries leading the way. Mel and July gathered their things quickly. An elk-rider offered a hand, hoisting them one by one onto their saddles, where they and the captain made up the company’s rear.
“Visitors in Shribe,” Mercury pondered, more to herself than anyone else. “Times are strange indeed.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The village of Shribe was not a fairy tale marvel, as July expected; more like a haphazard fusion of nature and architecture. Its buildings were quite simple––sequestered spaces, nestled between the stalks of the chitin trees, paneled in discarded wood and stone. In places, the hyphae of the shrooms covered walls like ivy. July, chewing her lip idly and watching the small village from the apothecary window, wondered if this was a structural feature or happy coincidence. In the end, she supposed that most things started as the latter and became the former.
Behind her, Mel’s voice lectured an audience of three students; a young forager, a fisherman, and the former apothecarian’s niece. They were all quick studies, particularly the forager, who was already familiar with many of the species of fungi located in the Chitinwood. At first, July also paid attention to the lecture, but before long she was lost in technical wordplay and returned to her strengths––people-watching and wool-gathering.
From the apothecary window, July could see a small plaza, from which several paths spiraled outwards through the trees. It served as the town’s epicenter, and so most of the villagers July had seen converged here. In the town’s better light, she noted a few more things about the folk of the Chitinwood; their skin took a pale-green tinge, as if lightly dusted with spores, and their eyes ran hollow and gaunt in their faces. According to Mel, this was to do with the limitations of their diet. July thought the way most of the town’s light was filtered through spores or cast by a handful of rare fires didn’t do them any favors.
Chitinwood burns, she realized, watching the bonfire that marked the plaza’s center. It throws a pathetic yellow-green light, but it burns.
July felt the overpowering urge to see the fire up close. She stood up quietly, as to not disturb the students, and made eye contact with Mel, gesturing towards the door with her head. Mel, distracted, nodded and returned to her sermon on the medicinal properties of riverbed clay-rot.
Passing through the open door, July took to the dirt path, scraped free of moss. She passed between two ramshackle houses, slightly uneasy about the impossible angles at which they leaned, humming a tune from home. She couldn’t place the original song, but it soothed the touch of homesickness that had settled in her stomach.
As she grew closer to the bonfire, she observed that the men standing by it all wore the same garb––thick trousers and nearly bare upper halves, a short narrow-tipped spear in hand. There were several more spears next to the fire, the points of which were buried deeply into what seemed to be some relative of the crab, dangling over the fire appreciably. The smell of cooked fish wafted on the breeze, tickling July’s nose and waking her stomach, which was empty save Mel’s gourmet bread. She picked up her pace.
“Hey,” She called at the men, “Where’d you get the crab?” The three spearmen turned to look at her, their skeletal faces cast in darkness by the fire at their backs.
“A visitor,” One noted in unexpectedly soft tones. July became suddenly aware of how out of place she looked, dressed in a traveler’s tan jacket. Seemingly, the man thought the same, his eyes flicking over her foreign dress.
“I haven’t had a good meal since leaving San Della,” July continued. “Can you help me?”
The spearmen glanced at each other, and the eldest shook his head. They pulled their spears from their grooves in the earth and walked away wordlessly. July began to call after them, wounded by their rudeness, but realized it was pointless––there was no hospitality in a village without visitors. She began to turn back to the apothecary when a voice spoke up from the other side of the bonfire.
“I can help you,” It said. July stopped, looking back at the fire and the voice’s owner. A child trotted across the plaza towards her, wrapped in a loose billowing fabric and wearing a flat, round mushroom cap like a mask. The child’s eyes burned brightly from two holes in the cap-mask, spots of golden paint on a chitinous canvas.
“You can?” July asked, hesitant. The child was unsettling behind that mask, to say the least.
In response, the child pulled a short spear from the bonfire’s perimeter, holding it out for July. “I know a good pond––a secret one. Follow, putna.”
She took the spear and followed the child, who resumed trotting down a steep path July hadn’t noticed until that point. It twisted and turned, and at one point disappeared altogether, before opening up at the edge of a small but deep well of water. The child reached into the hollow of a fallen chitin tree and produced a spear of their own, its handle wrapped in a ribbon––like the captain of the guard, July recalled.
“You never told me your name,” She said.
“Mana,” They said simply. The child wrapped the ribbon around their wrist, leaving a long length slack.
“July,” She responded.
Mana turned to the pond, their spear held like a javelin. “Banta, July. Spearfishing is easy. The crab is lighter than the dirt around it; you spot the crab, you throw.” As if in demonstration, they whipped their arm in a practiced motion, sending the spear effortlessly through the air like a hawk in flight, where it pierced the water’s surface with hardly a splash. The child grabbed the ribbon, still wrapped around their wrist, and began to reel the spear in.
July nodded, raising her ribbon-less spear and peering into the pond’s murky body. She scanned the bed of the pond, looking for ridges out of place or different shades of brown. It was difficult, as a shaft of light broke the canopy and aimed itself directly at the pond, giving the water a shimmering quality.
Movement caught July’s eye, and her arm flicked instinctively, launching the spear into the water. The arc was somewhat less graceful than Mana’s, and cast large ripples as it broke the surface, finding its home in the squishy soil. When the water finally settled, she could see the head of the spear––crab-less. July frowned.
She slipped out of her shoes and stuck a foot in the water, reaching out and yanking the spear from the suction of the dirt.
Mana shook their head. “You have never handled a spear.”
“Spears aren’t really my thing,” July retorted, aiming at the pond once more. “I’m more of a swordfighter.”
Mana settled on a large rock, sticking the shaft of their spear in the soil and sitting. “I know. You rely on reflexes. There are no reflexes in crab-fishing. Only patience.”
July launched once more, and stabbed nothing but some sort of underwater bush. She sighed. “Explains why I’m no good at it.”
“Take up the spear one more time,” Mana commanded. “But do not rush. If the crab does not move, you will not see it. Wait for it to reveal itself. The crab is its own undoing.”
“Sage words for a ten-year-old,” July mumbled, but did as she was told, taking the spear in her hand once more. She breathed deeply, her feet settling into the dirt, eyes on the water. Her muscles flared, impatient, but she held them back. She looked for any semblance of patience that existed in her reckless fiber.
Clear your mind, and see yourself in a wide, open field. Lin’s words drifted forward in her mind, and with them the image she had constructed; the forest’s deep greens turning light and gentle, and the wilted, sharp grass perking up and swelling into wide, golden sunflowers, swaying in the warm air. The water was no longer dark and impenetrable; the sun was over her shoulder, illuminating the depths. July, utterly relaxed, watched the dirt shift as a crab burrowed its way to the surface, throwing soil off its back. It teetered this way and that, before settling to chew on the misshapen underwater foliage.
July raised the spear, and spiraled it perfectly through the air, as if she had thrown spe
ars all her life. There was a sharp crack and a soft thump as the spear penetrated the crab’s brittle hide and buried itself in the pond’s bed.
Mana nodded, and July could see a smile in their eyes, obscured as their other features were. “Not bad, putna. You would not die immediately in the Chitinwood.”
“I suppose that’s a compliment,” July said, but she smiled too, pulling her spear from the water a third time, delicious crustacean and all. “What does putna mean?”
Mana pointed to the crab.
July snorted laughter. “You’ve been calling me a crab?”
“Sort of. Putna are lazy, and slow, and easy prey…” They trailed off, smiling secretly once more, as they jumped up from the rock.
“That’s not very nice for someone your age,” She scolded.
Mana led them down a different path back to the village, talking over their shoulder. “You grow up fast in the Chitinwood. Besides, my aunt Mercury taught me closely.”
“Mercury is your aunt, then,” July confirmed.
“Yes. My parents died when I was only young. It’s not…” The child stopped.
July caught up, beginning to apologize for bringing up such a sensitive matter, but stepped past Mana as the trail ahead came into view.
In the path stood a young woman. Her black hair was matted with blood and covered most of her face. Her shirt was also thick with blood and stuck to her body. She swayed dangerously on her feet. Her eyes began to close, and knowing what came next, July rushed forward to catch her. The woman fell unconscious into her arms, but not before she could whisper into July’s ear, her voice husky and strained.
“I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE APOTHECARY. MISPLACED.
The apothecary’s study, which doubled as an examination room, housed an unusual party that day; July, pacing back and forth outside the door; the captain, Mercury, watching the affair with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed in scrutiny; Mana, perched bizarrely on the desk, their tiny fingers probing its contents; Amelia, bent over the woman on the examination table, secluded in the calmness that accompanied her work; and, of course, the young black-haired woman herself.
Mel went through the motions––checking for pulse, regular breathing, and so on. The results were weak, but not dishearteningly so; Mel suspected shock was setting in. She turned to the woman’s more severe injuries.
The woman had a gash on her head and a nasty-looking cut on her left hip. Gently probing the gash with her fingers and dabbing it with a wet cloth, she noted that it was mostly superficial. She shifted to look at the hip, carefully peeling the blood-stuck clothing away. Mel made an effort to keep the woman modest in a room full of onlookers as she got a good look at the wound, but found that one excluded the other.
“Can I get some privacy here?” Mel directed over her shoulder. The pacing stopped, and July sighed.
“Okay,” She said. “I think I heard something outside anyway. I’ll be back soon.” The footsteps resumed, and then grew quieter as they left the room, signaling July’s exit. However, the captain and Mana remained unmoved. Apparently bedside manner is a cultural value, Mel thought, forcing a bubble of irritation back into her stomach. She turned to look at the pair.
“I can’t leave,” Mercury said, still watching the woman with an intense distrust. “She does not belong. If she has damaged the Chitinwood, she will answer to me.” Mel, knowing what it was like to have to levy one life against another, said nothing, turning instead to the young child.
“What about her?” Mel said.
“Them,” Mercury corrected. “Mana will stay too. They found the body; if nothing else, they may be able to answer any questions you have.”
For the second time, Mel felt a flash of irritation at the way the captain referred to this woman as ‘the body’––as if she were already written off for dead. Again, she said nothing, turning back to the woman’s hip and fishing the wet cloth from the bowl at her side. After sponging off the blood and spores, which gave the wound a sick green discoloration, it looked much less severe. It was straight and deep, leading Mel to assume there was very little struggling; the injury was fast and likely intentional. The only question was who intended it.
As it turned out, Mana asked the questions instead of answering them. “What’s the symbol on her clothing?” As she fished a phial of alcohol disinfectant from her knapsack, Mel glanced at the tunic. On the breast, a small golden emblem of a three-headed lizard stood out against the dark grey fabric. “Is it a dragon?”
“Close,” Mel responded. “It’s the Lhordwyrm, from an old Aslatan myth. They say it was the first Lhord of the Empire.”
“Man grew too lazy in his comfort, and the Lhordwyrm came up from the depths of the sea to purge him from the land,” Mercury added. Mel was surprised that the myth had reached such an isolated village, but shrugged inwardly and took the time to prepare her suture. “The old empire burned, and in its smoking ruins, the first Lhord settled in the mountains. Eventually, the dirt overcame its slumbering form, and it became a mountain itself––and on it, they built the city of Lhord Historia.”
Something must have flickered on Mel’s face, because Mana giggled. “You don’t think so, Amelia Saul?”
“Plague.” Mel stated simply. “If there was a devastation of any sort, that’d be my guess.”
“There are things in this world you wouldn’t believe,” Mana said cryptically.
Mel risked a small smile and began to suture. “It’s more about what the Lhordwyrm represents––a powerful leader.”
As her hand fell into a routine, Amelia began to think about the woman more closely. Her skin was rich, and her hair dark––both typical Aslatan traits. She certainly wasn’t from here, based on Mercury’s reaction. A traveler, Mel concluded, like us. But something doesn’t feel right about that… Her eyes fell on the tunic. It wasn’t exactly the travelling type; linen, more like something you’d see on a farm. On an impulse, Mel checked the girl’s hands. The fingers were wide and flat, and bore the thick calluses of physical labor.
What’s a farmer doing all the way out here?
“She stirs,” Mercury growled.
The woman did in fact stir. Her eyes slowly took in the room, her expression still muddled with sleep. When she registered the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, waking came more quickly, and she attempted to sit up. Mel, alarmed, put a hand on her side and forced her back down.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, but you can’t move yet––your stitches will break,” Mel spoke softly but urgently, looking the woman directly in the eye. Her breathing picked up, coming in uneven hitches, and her eyes somehow grew even wider. She tried to speak, but could only stutter. Mel tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shoved it away, making a visible effort to gain some poise and tell her message. Twice, she started and stopped, before finally getting through her words.
“Bad men in the f-forest,” She managed. “They want the doctor.”
There was a moment of perfect silence. Mercury’s gaze slid from the woman to Mel, and she could see a barely contained fury, a reflection of Mel’s own horror.
“How many?” Mercury addressed the woman through gritted teeth, not taking her eyes off Amelia.
“B-Blindfolded,” She stuttered. “Saw ten. Heard m-more.” Mercury’s hand dropped to her blade, still holstered at her waist, when a loud thunderous noise invaded the small room, accompanied by a chorus of panicked screams.
“Mana, stay here and watch her with Saul.” Mercury gestured to the injured woman. “I will rouse the company.” She turned to Mel, and a little of that fury slipped into her voice. “Do not move.” Mel, holding her gnawing fear in check with an icy composure, nodded. Then the captain was off, shaking the door with the force of her exit.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
July was beginning to finally feel some of her worry ease when a cacophonous noise shook the village. She shrieked, jumping to her feet and takin
g a defensive stance, eyes darting around for the origin of the noise. She saw nothing but the thick forestry of the Chitinwood, and a crowd of people running away from the gate of the village.
That’s a good start, she decided. She moved in the opposite direction of the terrified villagers, eyes fixed on the crooked gate that marked the town’s entrance. Remembering her experience in San Della, she stuck to the sides of the crowd until their numbers began to thin, then sprinted down the winding path.
With no bodies to obscure the gate, the threat became very apparent; five men with torches blocked the path to the Chitinwood, setting trees alight and pouring buckets of a dark fluid on buildings. There were even more men on the horizon. They were all decked in thick brown coats, but in the sickly light of the growing flames, red metal flashed in the cracks and openings––the plate of the Lhord’s Army.
July touched the hilt of her sword, feeling woefully naked without any sort of armor or shield. Scanning her immediate vicinity and finding nothing, she mentally took inventory of her knapsack, and settled on the mushroom cap bowl she had carved in the Chitinwood. It would only withstand a few blows, but one clean strike was enough to end her, so it was a comfort nonetheless. She ripped a long vine from a nearby tree and did her best to fasten the wide, flat cap to her chest.
She pulled a sizeable rock from the ground with her off hand, and whipped it through the air, much in the same way she had thrown the spear earlier that day. She knew her best shot was luring them away one by one––if they exerted the number advantage, she’d have no chance. It whistled along a shallow arc and struck the nearest soldier right between the eyes, knocking him flat on his back, unconscious.
“Not really my intent,” July shrugged, but I’ll take it.”
Hearing the man crumple, a few soldiers turned around and spotted July. They broke off from the group towards her, axes glinting in the greenish light.
“You shouldn’t make trouble, kid,” One called. Another sneered, holding up his torch. July plucked another rock from the ground and flicked it at them. It soared over the first man’s shoulder, but he flinched and picked up his pace. She turned and ran.
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