Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  The Goddamned witch had to die.

  Above, amongst the falling snow, a dissonant choir was gathering again. He had forgotten about the damn birds. Soon enough, their hideous racket would be at its previous volume.

  Kro sneered at the vine of the vampire rose. The severed tendril that had gripped him for so many hours was slowly shriveling--retracting. It coiled into small loops as it shrank closer to the old oak which served as its host. He could still feel the thing creeping up his arm, closer and closer to his throat.

  A conspicuous green pod caught his eye, secured to the tree by a growing number of tendril-vines. As he watched the thing, Kro saw it pulse. Just once, like an unborn babe kicking at the inside of its mother's belly. Even now the timber crow was alive as hollow thorns drained what remained of its life's blood. A pitiable fate to be sure. One which Kro had cheated only by the intervention of a stranger.

  The man who had just been turned to stone for his troubles.

  With a sigh, Kro pressed his thumb and forefinger into his temple and rubbed. He knew he couldn't leave the stranger as he lay. Not even he had grown that callused. The effects of the gorgon dust weren't permanent, but that fact hardly mattered to the hungry murder of timber crows circling overhead.

  "Damn it." He unleashed a defeated sigh.

  Kro gripped tighter the knife in his hand. Then he stalked over to a crow which lay in a bloody mess on the forest floor. It had been cleaved, probably by one of the stranger's axes. Kro's first cut severed the bird's legs; the second opened its belly. He proceeded to extract every inch of ropy pink intestines. He cut again, wincing at the sharp, fecal smell. Working as fast as he could, he wrapped the intestines around the severed legs, securing them in place with a knot.

  After a moment's inspection, Kro placed the grisly thing upon the stranger's chest. He thrust the cleaner of his hands into his cloak. Careful fingers explored pockets before emerging with a steel pin. That was when he froze.

  "Wolves..." His mind raced. Shifting between justification and objection. "No. Don't be thick. There haven't been wolves--actual wolves--in these woods since..."

  He stopped, feeling a sudden wave of panic. His girls. What would they say if they knew? If they could see him right now? His hand red with guilt and shame. Even now he could see them. The cheeks of his youngest were rosy--chapped as ever by the unkind northern winds. But when the lips of the girl parted, her voice was a biting caw.

  The sound grated against the man's bones, harshly ripping him back to reality.

  Throwing anxious looks into the dark spaces between the trees, Kro sighed. With an audible huff, he stormed toward the tree line and began rifling through the brush there. The so-called herb-of-grace wasn't especially rare in these parts, but summer was two weeks gone. As such, it was almost fifteen minutes before he found one that still possessed open blooms. The bright yellow flowers possessed their own unique aroma. Taking care not to let the blossoms touch his skin, the alchemist plucked the flowers, stem and all. After quickly wrapping these with the rest of his makeshift talisman, he placed the tiny bundle upon the chest of his unconscious savior, fastening it in place with a pin.

  "There." He frowned, only sparing a partial glance for the man. "Waste of time though. There aren't any damn wolves, but that should keep the crows away."

  He felt like a villain. Why had he reacted so badly? Throwing the dust without cause or consideration? The stranger had been warning him of the obvious. To track down Morgrig by himself would indeed be a very bad idea. The irony was plain. For the coming work, Kro was going to need as many hands as possible. And if they could wield axes, those hands might prove especially useful. Invaluable even.

  Part of Kro wanted to deliver a swift kick to his own be-cloaked ass. He looked down at the stranger's face, at the copper hue of his skin.

  What sort of business might call a black riverman here to this forsaken edge of the world? He wondered, already knowing the answer. The sort that is not easily put aside.

  "I told you..." The alchemist's voice was low--solemn. "People this far north are a cold lot. Cold as the wind. Whatever you're seeking in Roon... I hope you find it."

  2 - 2

  Few men had traveled farther, searched deeper or tracked down as many hidden quarries as Tenebrus Kro. He was always a seeker of hidden things and rare ingredients, but for the last seven years he had taken this mission abroad. Crossing oceans and lands untold--all to answer a single, brain-cracking riddle.

  How do you kill a witch?

  As far as Kro was concerned, it was the last question, the only question. And for seven long years it seemed to him the only endeavor worthy of his attention. Tonight however, all of that changed. The moment he made the acquaintance of a man called Mannis Morgrig.

  Kro had been ensnared by the vampire rose for the better part of an hour when he first heard the sound. Sliding through the perfect silence of the woods at dusk, it was a long, bone chilling howl. The sound was so startling, it nearly caused Kro to lose the footing he was fighting so hard to keep.

  "Over here!" a voice shouted through the trees. "This way. Someone's there!"

  At first, the voices were sweet music. After all, Kro had little hope of being rescued from his predicament. The hour was late and even the closest road hadn't been well travelled in years. On top of all that, no one was searching. Not for him.

  Even as he'd struggled and pulled and battled at the end of the thorny tether, about all Kro dared hope for was a quick death. The vampire rose had him, and it was not letting go. With every twist and tug, the vine crept a little more up his arm.

  Again came the howl. Longer and louder than before. And this time, it brought more than cold dread for the man's stomach. This time, it brought crows. Dozens at first, then more. All of them, greedily cawing and croaking and filling the air and branches above.

  Kro swore into the cacophonous night. Why the hell hadn't he brought a torch? He possessed the materials. A bit of rag, a drop of oil... they were in his saddle bags and his horse wasn't far. Kro had secured the animal to a tree--his standard practice when foraging for things liable to bite back. He could have been there and back with the materials within half an hour... maybe less. He was in a forest; there were sticks everywhere. Why the hell hadn't he listened to his gut instead of rushing in like some brainless novice?

  "Must be the rider," came another voice, slightly more jovial than the first. "We'll have to thank him for all these fine gifts."

  A familiar whinny was quickly drowned out by cruel sounding laughter. Every ounce of hope that had risen in the rose's victim plummeted. Worst of all, his horse was screaming. Hearing that, Kro's heart gave a painful throb.

  He really liked that horse.

  "Just through there!"

  To the west, Kro could make out movement through the trees. A few seconds later, a man with wide eyes stumbled into the glade. When he saw Kro, he thrust out a finger.

  "Just like I said, Mannis! If that's not the rider, I'll eat my boots."

  A group of no less than fifteen men poured out of the same entry point into the glade. One, he noticed, held a blowing horn not far from his lips. They were, each clad in a random assortment of leather and armored plates--the sort worn by Roon's guard. Tarnished silver but incomplete--a gauntlet here, a spaulder or a helmet there. Most wore a smear of red paint--across the nose, under an eye.

  Bizarrely, one was wearing a plague mask--the sort used by doctors. The thing was a filthy shade of pale. That man was holding two swords like long butcher knives. He had ropes of long black hair and stared directly at the alchemist.

  Kro, feeling a crawling like spiders up his spine, suppressed a shiver.

  The final pair of brigands crashed in after the rest. Each holding a short length of rope attached to a chestnut mare with a fully white face that looked as if it had been painted. The animal fought for all it was worth--rearing, bucking, lashing out with its front hooves. Kro recognized the wildness in its eyes as one of the m
ore primal breeds of fear.

  "Let her go!" Kro fired the demand. His voice was raw with emotion.

  The crowd stopped what they were doing and turned to look--all of them blinking dumbly. After a few long seconds, it became obvious that someone from the back was pushing their way through.

  "Oye! You hear that boys?" This new voice was deeply unpalatable to Kro's ears. Equal parts gravel and slime with a low caste, country accent. "The man wants his filly back. P'raps we should offer him a bite, aye?"

  The resulting laughter hit Kro like a wave of pure, sadistic glee. He watched as the brigands parted to reveal a bearded man with long red hair pulled back into a horsetail; both sides of his head were shaved. Kro had seen men wearing that style years ago in the west, amidst the remote hinterland townships beyond the Karaggash Ridge. The man was vast, with hands large enough to strangle a bear. His motley, silver-white ensemble was more complete than the rest. Both legs sported grieves, while his right shoulder carried an ornate, wolf-faced pauldron. The chest plate he wore did cover most of the man's chest but was open in the center. Inexplicably, the metal flared outward in dangerous edges. To Kro's eyes the piece looked as if it had been ripped open by unthinkable claws.

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree with the lads on this." Red beard looked directly at Kro, scarred lips twisting into a lopsided grin. "Besides, it's not like you're in a position to be making demands, now are ya?"

  Kro frowned, seething beneath his hood.

  "Either way," shrugged the big man. "It's not as if a company of wolves is likely to relinquish its supper, now is it?" As the crowd agreed, their leader's grin widened.

  "Wolves?" Hissed the alchemist through clenched teeth, again yanking at the unyielding vine. "Wolves?"

  Why hadn't he just gone back for that damned torch? He would be halfway to the moat by now.

  "Why yes, wolves! Of course!" said Red Beard with an exaggerated flourish. "What's the matter? Did the howls not give it away?"

  Once more, the men erupted in laughter.

  "I see no wolves here," Kro sneered. "Just some very lost rats." Against all good sense, a mad smile formed on the alchemist's lips. "Filthy ones, by the smell."

  Red Beard stopped--folded his arms. Suddenly, he looked the way one does when recalling the punchline to a filthy joke in church.

  "The tongues of damned men are looser than their bowels on hangin' day.' My mum said that once. Right to my old dad. Right before the hangman sent him kicking."

  "Hmph," grunted Kro, pulling still tighter on the vine. "Charming."

  Red Beard raised an eyebrow--adopting an expression that was difficult to read. "We had our moments. But... if I were in your position..." He stepped slowly, carefully judging the distance between the predatory plant and himself. "I would consider my next move very carefully, friend. From my vantage, it looks like you've stepped in something."

  Again, laughter roared from the crowd. The sound was so oppressive, Kro could practically feel the force of it pressing against his skin.

  "Never saw the point of flowers," Red Beard was circling the old oak that supported the tangled mass of hungry vines. He shrugged. "But the vampire rose gots my respect. Lethal as any wolf, that one. And what she catches, she holds tight... at least 'till she's had her fill."

  Just then, came a combination of sounds that drew all eyes back to the horse. It was on the ground, writhing on one side. Bellowing not from fear but agony. Kro twisted to see the men who had been leading it along were cursing in frustration. Then, one of them hauled off and kicked the animal right in the neck.

  The eyes of the alchemist lit up with rage. He pulled furiously at his bonds--desperate to fire off the steaming tirade of profanity which was now lodged firmly in his craw. But no words came. Only a bellow of such primal intensity, hunters a mile away might have thought it the anguished wail of some unlucky beast caught in a snare.

  Which is exactly what it was.

  "Kill me." Kro knew damn well these men could offer him little better. And what was a knife in the back compared to what waited for him at the end of this damned rope? "You hear me, you filthy parasite?"

  "Kill ya?" said Red Beard, feigning offense. "After you provided us with such a feast?"

  In answer, the crowd cheered, sounding almost lustful. Ravenous maybe. The two men holding the horse ropes forced the animal's head to the ground and began to laugh. Kro shouted unintelligibly and pulled harder than ever. Even as the green ropes bit into his skin he could not feel them. Inside the alchemist raged a fierce conflagration--as out of control as it was impotent.

  "I know who you are, Red Wolf. Word of your plague has reached as far as Fengaal. They say Mannis Morgig and his rats never leave survivors."

  The look on the Morgig's face was a serious one, but it did little to faze the alchemist.

  "So," Kro had adopted a smug expression. "Why don't we get on with it, you putrid sack of dog shit! Pay me the same price for my horse as if you had found me riding it."

  Clearly sobered, Morgrig said nothing. For almost a full minute he simply continued his trek around the old oak.

  "Fengaal you say?" The large man spoke quietly, though there were no other sounds to pose a challenge. "That's pretty damn far."

  Gone was the low country accent. The man sounded almost like an entirely different person. Having taken great care with his footfalls, Morgrig faced the hooded man's back.

  "Even so close to the World's Edge, men have the ambition to survive. Sometimes that means building something. A city, an army--the thing itself is immaterial. But without the right reputation, men will not follow, and then the thing will fail. Crumble into rubble and dust. Out here most of all, reputation is everything."

  Morgrig leaned in close. His words came softly. Like insidious whispering worms.

  "Call me filthy again," said the Red Wolf. "Do it until you're blue--won't matter. Won't work. Believe it or not, friend, I am a fair bit smarter than I look." Kro couldn't see the man's face, but he could tell Morgrig was enjoying the music of his own words. "The thing is, killing you straight out would be a mercy. And, speaking as a filthy parasite, I'm afraid such things just aren't good for business. I'm sure you understand."

  A thin sound appeared. That of a blade sliding from its sheath.

  "But since I'm not entirely devoid of compassion, I'm going to give you something a whole lot better than mercy. Something rare enough in these troubling times."

  "That so," Kro spat.

  "Yes," Morgrig's whispering had turned to slime. "I'm gonna give you a sporting chance."

  Bright steel flashed beside Kro's face.

  The knife was thrown hard and true. It spun through the air, hitting the trunk with a dull wooden sound. And there it remained, roughly a foot below the mass of killer vines.

  Still struggling, still doomed, Kro couldn't have been more than ten feet from the old oak. And though he willed them not to, his eyes drifted from the knife, up to the writhing knot of thorny vines.

  Keeping himself away had been a constant struggle--a marathon-like test of strength and endurance. As time passed, the vine had increased its leverage by wrapping around itself. Resisting the constant pull had taken every shred of the alchemist's energies. But now, as exhaustion loomed, he shifted his focus back to Morgrig's knife. The first few inches of the blade had been pushed into the wood. The rest looked sharp. Very sharp.

  "Whatever slack you give, that vine is going to use against you," Morgrig spoke very seriously, in genuine warning. "Within seconds, it will loop around your neck--attempt to cut off your air. Then you'll feel them. A thousand thirsty needles, entering your arms, your chest, across your neck... even in your eyes."

  Kro felt a hand on his shoulder,

  "So what do you think, Rose Man?" More whispered words. "Think you can get to that knife? Maybe cut yourself free before that happens?" Morgrig's voice became playful "Or I could always help things along. Maybe, give a little push."

  A broad hand sl
apped Kro on the back, almost causing his footing to slip. The others, of course, found this hilarious. Kro wrenched his neck around, wanting in that instant, to tear a chunk out of Mannis Morgrig.

  The bandit leader simply stood up straight. "Well then. Looks like maybe you've got some fight left after all." These words were the last spoken in the secretive, refined voice. What came next was shouted in the heavy accent Kro had first heard the man use. "Come on, boys. We're done here. This one's got a full night of screaming planned. Best we leave him to it."

  The brigands parted, allowing their leader to pass between them. Before disappearing through the crowd, Morgrig stopped to regard the mewling, struggling mare.

  "Oye, Voss!" Morgrig shouted, sounding suddenly furious. "What'd you do? Just look at that leg. Damn thing's broken!"

  The man looked up, guiltily. He was dressed differently than the rest. Sporting a long jacket that billowed like a cloak--black with silver trim and a badly misshapen collar.

  "S--Sorry Mannis! Really!" stammered the man called Voss. "We didn't see the rock. The thing was fighting and it came right down on it. The foot slipped and--"

  The sputtering was cut short as the bandit leader raised a hand. "Shut!"

  The single word said all that was needed. The tone of it was as sharp as the dagger he had thrown.

  "Stop your whining. Get those bags off before the damned thing destroys whatever's inside--hear me?" Morgrig's voice was iron wrapped in velvet. The men wasted no time, hurriedly fumbling with buckles and straps. When the bags were off the animal's back, Kro could see that Morgrig was still not pleased.

  "Slagter," he barked. "If you will..."

  The man in the plague mask nodded. He moved swiftly, almost without a sound, lifting one of his ugly cleaver-swords high into the air.

  When the horse screamed, Kro felt the sound in his bones--as if all the marrow inside had turned to ice.