by Mark Eller
Shrugging, Gerd pulled his shirt together. “Close enough,” he admitted. “You sound like you’ve been there yourself.”
“You are controlled by evil, but I control it,” Jolson said. “Your blood runs hot where mine is cold. We are different, but we are the same because our lives are ruled by foul designs and perverse pleasures.” He gestured to the woods and the sky around them, frowning. “The world offers you nothing better than what you already own. You have no hope for more.”
Lowering his eyes, he studied the hook attached to his arm. Black depression flooded through him. Life and circumstances had gifted him with a foul soul and a dark heart. Courage and curiosity had driven him to replace his hand with a hook of damned metal so he could free himself from Hell.
Roland started crying again. Looking down on the child, Jolson allowed his dark mood an outlet. He gestured toward Gerd.
“He is yours,” Jolson said. The invading worms crawling through his brain demanded truth. “I give him to you,” he added, “for now.”
“For always,” Gerd answered. “All of them are mine. I’ll kill him, and then I’ll kill you, and your hook can be damned.”
“It already is,” Jolson warned, but his words were ignored for Gerd was completing his change.
Gerd’s face elongated. A muzzle poked forth. Hair grew, and Jolson watched with dispassionate interest as clothing absorbed into a body suddenly grown twice as large. Hungry drool ran from the beast’s rat mouth.
Roland began screaming in earnest. When Gerd took a step toward them, Roland sprang erect, tried to run, but was stopped by Jolson’s hand on his shoulder.
“There is no escape,” Jolson said. A flicker of something strange ran through him. Emotion? “You are for the beast.” With a jerk of his arm, he flung Roland away.
The screeching boy hit the ground at Gerd‘s feet. He tried to scramble away. Clawed feet pinned him to the earth. Roland shrieked once more, and then he quieted, shaking.
Gerd looked down at the boy, chuckling deep in his throat. He turned his gaze back to Jolson, still chuckling. “I like the suffering best,” he said roughly. “I like to hear them scream.”
“I know,” Jolson said truthfully. “If I thought you understood mercy I wouldn’t have brought the boy with me.”
Lowering its head, Gerd slowly sank his fangs into Roland’s shoulder. Roland stopped screaming. Instead, his mouth opened in silent shock. His neck arched as teeth ground deeper into his flesh. The shriek Roland finally released tore at the worms creeping near Jolson’s heart.
Releasing its hold on Roland’s shoulder, Gerd raised his grinning mouth. Blood stained his jet black lips, glistened on his tongue. “She struck me there,” Gerd said conversationally. “In my shoulder. She tried to kill me with her ax.” He laughed again, lowered his head to lick with a forked tongue at the blood streaming from Roland's wound.
Jolson smiled tiredly because the handyman had just sealed his fate. Hearing the laughter, Gerd raised his head to look at him suspiciously.
“It’s over,” Jolson said..
Grunting, Gerd rose to lunge, paused, and released his own howl of rage and pain. Jolson moved forward, closing the distance between them. Gerd reared on his hind legs, swung a huge forepaw at Jolson, but Jolson casually ducked beneath its slow swing and grabbed the boy. Then Gerd screamed again. His flesh shifted, flowed, and it fell to the ground as Jolson pulled Roland away from his reach.
The boy whimpered as Jolson bent to lay the child on the ground. He stood erect to see what he had wrought.
The cursed changed beast was no more. Interposed parts twisted throughout the whole. The remaining thing was neither beast nor human. Gerd tried to rise, but his crippled human leg was too weak for the weight it now supported. He glared at Jolson with eyes that were puzzled and enraged and confused.
“How?” Gerd growled while trying to pull himself toward Jolson, drawing close enough to swing a massive arm. The tips of his human fingers brushed across the fabric of Jolson‘s shirt.
Jolson smiled a practiced, meaningless smile which moved no further than his lips. He stepped back two paces. The hook flickered to life, glowed briefly, dimmed. Jolson’s voice was flat, without emotion or care. “Evil feeds on evil. I touched the boy’s food once each day with my hook’s tip. My evil filled him. You drank his evil. His blood’s effect should last most of today.”
Gerd laughed bitterly. “You can‘t kill me. This flesh is immortal. It will never die.”
“The beast,” Jolson said loudly because the second object of his calling drew near, “is immortal. The human is not.” In the distance, running footsteps crunched on crisp snow and dead leaves.
The brat lay still, his soul connected to his body by only a tenuous thread attached to his mangled flesh. Jolson started to leave, paused, and then he cast a curse toward Athos. Roland’s wounds were beast made. His death would be beast wrought, and Jolson was bound by his soul sealed oath to Valerai.
Sighing wearily, he knelt to shove the hook’s glowing point deep inside Roland‘s wound. Pulses of evil energy coursed through his arm, down through the hook, and into Roland’s body. Foul hook and beast saliva met, intermingled, combined. The boy shook. His shoulder twisted. Jerked. Flesh pulled itself together, sealed as Jolson lifted the jade green point free. Roland’s eyes rolled back into his head, and then they closed.
When the boy slowly reopened his eyes, dark shadows roiled within. A small, contented smile formed across his lips.
Harvale stood by Jolson’s side. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Tears ran freely, cutting through the tired furrows on his wind chaffed cheeks. Leaning down, Harvale touched tentative fingers to his son’s healed wound. His face was a study of exhaustion and relief and grief held too long in abeyance. He straightened, eyes wondering.
Jolson gave Harvale a nod and gestured toward Gerd.
“I understand,” Harvale said mistakenly. “The god who allows you to heal forbids your taking life or breaking a vow.” His gaze drifted meaningfully toward the discarded ax. “This is my chore.”
Abruptly turning, Jolson walked away before the man thanked him once again. Jolson did not want those thanks. Harvale’s life was forever changed. His once loving wife was now a bitter harridan. His last living son would become something dark and passionately evil until time and care and growth washed the evil from him.
“Har! Wait! You don’t understand! He’s the one who—”
Jolson walked, and as he walked, viral worms of faint remorse wiggled their way through new-made cracks in his almost human heart.
Thunk
“Harrrr!”
Thunk
Jolson was not pleased..
Chapter 8-- Dark Promises
Fox woke in comfortable bed after suffering an uncomfortable dream. She cursed her unsettled mind. It seemed like an eternity since she had last slept on anything which did not move, was not hard, lumpy, or smelly. After being chased through a forest filled with both named and unnamed creatures, bitten by ravenous bugs, attacked by both rain and snow, as well as trying to figure out which direction Dakar actually wanted her to go, she felt this was a well deserved rest even if her troubled brain did think it odd there were so few people around.
Blinking her blurry eyes, she tried to regain sleep, but failed as her mind churned. Not only the inn seemed strangely deserted; the town also appeared underpopulated. The barren, dusty place was called Golden Leaves, but she wasn’t sure why. The nearby forest was dead and smelled rotted; maybe the place was prettier in spring. So far, she had only met three Golden Leaves’ people; the inn keeper, his daughter, and another patron staying in the room across from hers. There should be more…right? It only stood to reason; the town was too big for only three people. According to the signs on the buildings she passed on the way to the inn, there was a food stuffs store, a blacksmith’s shop, a tailor, a small bakery, a shoe shop, and the inn, which had twelve rooms as well as a large commons area. All of the businesses
were closed except the inn, which she found eerie and too quiet.
Where were all the occupants, the travelers…anyone?
It apparently bothered her enough to wake her from her sleep but not enough that she refused to stay at the inn. For the first time in weeks Fox was clean and dry, warm, and well fed. Better yet, Dakar assured her she was near her destination’s end. Just a short ten miles outside of town she would arrive at her god’s forgotten temple.
Closing her eyes, Fox fought to regain sleep, but memories of strange dreams of another world drifted through her mind. One remembered dream had metal birds and metal carriages moving so fast everything she passed was a blur. Huge buildings, so tall they disappeared into the clouds, were everywhere. Strange people, in even stranger clothing, passed her on gray surfaced walkways, and bright lights lit the night with hues of red, blue, pink, and green. When her troubled mind stirred her awake she had a headache from the chaotic visions.
Making her wonder, where did all those images come from? Who were all those people, and why did her brain’s wandering during sleep seem so real?
Fox yawned. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but her aching, bruised body let her know it wasn’t long enough. Grumbling and with a curse on her lips, Fox placed her hand over Dakar’s mark; it itched and burned. He called. “And what does my pain in the ass god wish now…in the middle of the night?”
The god of the thieves stirred in her mind; an uncomfortable feeling considering his presence felt pissed. Then again, when wasn’t he pissed?
Get up…hurry…
Fox groaned. “What’s wrong now?” Sitting up, she let her feet slide clumsily out of bed. The dusty wood floor felt cold and hard. Shivering, Fox reached for the clothes she had draped over the only other piece of furniture in the room; a plain, wooden chair.
Pale moonlight drifted in through the window; the fire in the hearth was nearly gone, accounting for the air’s chill. She scanned the room, searching the darkness. “I don’t feel or see anything out of place. Why do you call me?” If it were one of those Hell things, it wouldn’t waste time hiding. It would have leapt at her already. She frowned. The thief had the distinct feeling her previously comfortable room would soon be a total waste.
Rising from bed, naked, cold, and grumpy, Fox started tugging on her leggings. She would not have time to wrap her chest to disguise her bosom. Pulling her cloak tight about her would have to suffice. Besides, who the hell was left to notice or care she wasn’t a lord? Sure as hell not Mathew Changer and his merry band of misbegotten bastards, wherever they might be.
Outside her room, on the landing, the sounds of muffled voices and poorly padded weapons drifted to her ears. Fox froze.
“Watch ‘er Ergoth…be quiet.” A man whispered, his voice low, rough, and recognizable.
No, it can’t be!Fox thought in disbelief at the realization at least two of Changer’s men were outside her door.Ergoth, and the other sounds like Tem. How on earth did those two idiots find me?
Quickly, Fox finished dressing; sure she had at least some of her clothing wrong side out. She pulled on her boots, secured her light pack to her back, and headed toward the window. Since the two she knew of were now right outside her door, apparently fumbling with the lock on the room across the hall, it behooved her to leave by another route.
Still, what in the shadows were they doing?
A stream of obscenities lay on her tongue. Curse her foul luck, which had not been foul until her involvement with Dakar. How on earth had they tracked her? Yes, Dakar had told her these two were following, but she was sure she had lost them in the forest, or at the very least hoped they had been eaten by some Hell creature or been recalled by Mathew..
Mathew. From the first she had thought the thief lord depraved…and he seemed to be growing worse. Even during their short time together on Mathew’s trek to Grace to become ‘king’ (yeah right), she had noticed his decline. The others did as well but chose to ignore it, thank the gods. If not for their lack of focus, and Matthew’s own declining stability, she might not have gotten away without killing him. Growing impatient with delays, Dakar had demanded the half-were’s blood— not something she would have enjoyed delivering or possibly not succeeded at doing. Fox was a thief. Not an assassin.
Scowling, Fox opened the window. There should have been plenty of time to complete her task, even enough time for her to have gotten the hell out of Yernden and back on a ship to Ilian before these two had gained even a whiff of her trail. Had she underestimated their skills?
Fox snorted at the thought. Naw. They were stupid, she was sure of it. There had to be something she was missing.
With a loud crack, the door across the hall gave way. Moments later she heard the two fools shouting and scuffling with the inn’s other occupant.
“For gods’ sake, they don’t even have enough brains between the two of them to break into the right room.”
A giggled escaped before she could hush it. Fighting the urge to go and enjoy what mayhem pursued from their mistake, Fox looked out the window, searching for her escape route, seeing nothing but a dark street below. No escape route down, so she would have to go up. With practiced ease, Fox slipped out onto the window ledge. Using an agility born from many a late night excursion, she grabbed the eaves and pulled herself onto the roof. The crisp night air and bright moon awoke her senses, stifled her breath a moment. She inhaled—
— and gagged.
A rank, fetid smell, assaulted her senses; reminding her of a mix between a dead body and a rotted pile of leaves. A horrible stench.
By the gods! What died up here? She covered her mouth with her hand.
Down below the sound of splintering wood drifted up to her as the two thugs broke into her room.
Fox fought to breathe…then froze in mid inhale. Sudden recognition of the smell hit her at the same time she saw the creature. Ambling across the roof, slow and clumsy, was a close cousin of the nightmare she thought had gone back into the forest to search for easier prey.
This was the same thing Matthew had battled in the woods; the diseased creature following them shortly after they left Yyles— right before Fox escaped. An ordig, she recalled, the supposed harmless protectors and unseen caretakers of Omitan’s forests. This one stood seven feet tall and seemed to have black beady eyes, although it was hard to tell even in this bright moonlight. She assumed ordigs normally looked like living trees, but the one she had seen before appeared more like death on two legs; or four the one time when it dropped to its hands and ran at Mathew.
The one she saw now struck her as even worse. Its bark textured skin was slick with green and black slime. When it opened its mouth tiny black beetles crawled out. Squinting, she made out a scorch mark on the right side of its face just below the eye.
Shit. It was the same one as before, which meant it had not only followed her, it had grown larger while doing so. Maybe she shouldn’t have helped Mathew and the others out.
“Oh, this cannot be happening,” she muttered. “First the idiots and now this?”
Fox started to move to the roof’s far edge. Releasing a bellow, the ordig’s voice sounded angry and hollow, almost as if it were yelling from inside a cave. Her breath caught in her throat. She stopped moving and then gasped as the ordig headed for her so fast she barely had time to blink. In one quick swipe, it had her by the throat and lifted her high. The ordig brought her face close to its own as Fox’s legs kicked helplessly in the air. Terrified, Fox stared into the depthless void of its eyes.
Fox began to silently pray when the ordig’s mouth twisted into a perverse smile, but Dakar didn’t seem to be paying attention because not one shadow formed around her. Waves of hatred and insanity poured from the ordig’s body in a dark miasma as its grip tightened further, threatening to snap her neck. Panicking, Fox struggled harder. She refused to die on some god forsaken continent in some backwoods hole. Gazing into the creature’s rotted face, she searched for some sign of intel
ligence and saw none. Instead, she saw a nearly empty void which held only hate for her.
Opening its mouth, the ordig hissed, releasing a green gas which drifted into her face. She suspected the gas would have been noxious if she had been able to breathe. Unfortunately, the ordig didn’t need it as a weapon. Fox already felt faint and nauseous.
It’s going to devour me body and soul. Fox’s mind twisted and turned in upon itself as she reached for Dakar’s mark, trying to get it to do something. Anything. Pouring her a fucking whiskey and getting her drunk would even do if it meant she could have one last moment of fun before the gods damned ordig ripped her head off. She mentally cursed her absent god. This couldn’t be the end. Not for her. Not like this.Please, please, let it drag me off into the forest to kill me instead of doing it here. Anything for a chance to escape.
The world around her began to dim; her mind became fuzzy. Her eyes closed.
Someone yelled. Feet thudded across the roof top. The ordig swung around, Fox still held aloft in its stick-like fingers.
“She’s ours you piece of worm food!” she heard Tem, Matthew’s other fool for hire, shout. Opening her eyes, she saw him lead the charge, his face twisted in rage, Ergoth following close behind…until Ergoth hit a slick spot on the roof’s tiles.
Boots sliding across damp shingles, dumbass one fell into the back of dumbass two. Both careened into Fox and the ordig.
Fox knew this would be one of those moments in her life she would remember forever, especially the moments before impact. As if in slow motion, the ordig’s face changed from evil victory to complete surprise; funny actually if she looked at it the right way, but then everything seemed funny and not quite real. The lack of air, she suspected. To Fox, the ordig’s expression started somewhere along the lines of ‘huh?’ and then quickly shifted to ‘oh shit!’ She knew when Dakar asked her about the incident later she would describe the collision as ‘a tangle of smelly bodies, flying swords, and foul language.’