Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  "Not likely--" Kro interrupted himself with a gasp. A terrible shard stuck out of the unmoving child like the blade of a hilt-less dagger. He composed himself enough to explain further and perhaps lessen the panicked worry in his tall companion's eye. "Henric won't dare leave his people. Not even to protect them."

  Kro cast another look at the child. His mind trying to estimate the extent of the injury, how long they might be able to ride. This small patient needed immediate attention, but Kro was no doctor.

  As the hooded-man looked at the child in Belmorn's arms, the wind caught the edge of his hood just right and blew it back. The man's face was gaunt, weathered. It was the face of one who had lived not one lifetime but many, none of which looked to have been easy.

  Even in the low light, as he looked upon that face, Belmorn felt the distinct spark of recognition. He knew that nose, those high cheekbones, that curve of jaw. By Rinh, he did.

  The hooded man pulled at his reins--slowing the mare down to a trot, then a stop. In a flourish of cloak he dismounted and held up a finger.

  "Don't move." The man lifted his hood. "I'll be right back."

  With that, he disappeared into the shadows between the trees. Seconds stretched into minutes and the adamandray snorted a cloud of hot, impatient air.

  "It's alright, Old Man." Belmorn patted the horse's neck, scanning the woods on either side. Darkness prickled his skin along with the cold.

  It would be morning soon. And despite their dramatic escape, dawn might yet be bringing death. Reluctantly, his eyes settled upon the metal shard protruding from the unconscious child whose name he did not know. An urge rose then--in his chest and in his fingers. He wanted to grip that piece of broken sword and pull. He lifted a hand to do so.

  "Don't," said the man in the hood, stepping back onto the path without as much as a rustling footfall. "That shard could be on an artery. Here. Let me." Kro extended both arms into which Belmorn lowered the child.

  Kneeling, Kro gently lay the precious bundle upon a patch of earth where the coating of snow was thinnest. Then he hunched over the body. His posture and long dark cloak obscured his work from the man on the horse.

  Belmorn dismounted, approached, and then froze as the clang of metal shattered the near-perfect silence. He looked down at the bloody shard on the ground. It was long--unthinkably long. Ten inches at least and on one end, he could see a distinct blemish--pure black. Scoring from where the pistol ball had hit.

  As he stared at the unlikely thing, snow began to gently fall. And where the flakes fell upon the shard, they turned from white to pink before going full red.

  "One of the guards tried to shoot me from behind. But this child warned me just in time. I turned and... The shot hit the sword, perfectly. And it exploded."

  "Well... you're in luck," said Kro without looking away from his patient. "Missed all the important bits."

  Belmorn exhaled. It was strange. He hadn't meant to hold his breath. "Good," he managed to say. "That's very good." He took another step forward to see what was happening. The man called Kro was kneading something in the palm of his right hand while the left applied pressure to the wound. A sharp smell scratched his nostrils. Like fresh cut pine but mixed with something else.

  Lemons?

  "The bandana," barked the man in the hood. "Give it here."

  Stunned, but only for a moment, Belmorn removed his leather headband and then the dark, marbled haresh he had so recently recovered. Strands of hair fell to the sides of the man's face, but he was too cold to feel them.

  Kro pressed and worked whatever he had been kneading into the wound. Blood leaked out in a single gush, but was quickly stanched.

  "What is that?" Belmorn stood there feeling useless. "Tree sap?"

  "From the northern pine." The hooded man slowly transitioned from pressing with his palms to just his thumbs. "Should stop the bleeding. Bandana!" He thrust out a filthy hand, snatched the cloth, began to wrap it around the limp form of the child, under one armpit and around the opposite side of the neck.

  "Damn it," grumbled Kro. "This is one hell of an inconvenient place to get run through. An arm or a leg I can dress. This?" He shook his head. "Listen... Belmont was it?"

  "Bel-morn." He spoke slowly.

  "Right. Well, I won't lie. This wound... is bad. Ugly. The shard has left slivers behind. I found two, but there's likely more inside. I've done all I can here, but if we don't get those slivers out..."

  The statement hung in the air, incomplete and yet fully understood.

  "I have a place. A safe place." Kro lifted the child, setting it back into the waiting arms of Belmorn. "Maybe five miles from here. In the thorns. If she lives that long, I'll do what I can."

  Belmorn's eyes were wide as saucers. "She?"

  PART SIX

  INTO THE THORNS

  6 - 1

  Beneath a waxing September moon, two riders tore out into open country. The dense woodland had given way to a sprawling darkness that rolled away on all sides.

  The terrain of the low Veld contrasted starkly from the forest but details were hard to discern. More than anything, Rander Belmorn was aware of a vast openness. For the first time in days, it felt like he could actually breathe.

  Belmorn's eyes strained to adjust to the sudden increase in light, but slowly, blurry forms took shape. He could see strange, wedge-like protrusions, dozens of them--jutting up from the ground at angles that gave pause. As a blackfoot, Belmorn's thoughts went straight to the wellbeing of the horses. About the potential calamity that could be wrought by a single misplaced hoof.

  "We have to slow down!" His voice boomed over the sound of galloping horse feet.

  Kro turned his head in time to see the adamandray slow to a brisk jog. And though he urged his silver mare to do the same, the alchemist did not look happy about it.

  "That girl..." His voice was slightly muffled by a dark red cloth that was covering his nose and mouth. "She doesn't have long, Belmorn. You must know that. If you want her to have a chance, we must move fast. As fast as we possibly can."

  "We are." Said the blackfoot, in a tone that welcomed no argument. "The light is bad and I don't like the look of those rocks."

  "We call them giant's teeth," shouted Kro, pointing at a cluster of the ugly stone protrusions. "The crows peck at lichens that grow mostly on one side. Gives them that slanting shape."

  "Good for the crows," Said Belmorn. "Bad for us. I won't put the horses in danger, and we've already pushed them too hard, getting away from that damned city. Right now, this is as fast as we go."

  Hearing the logic and hating that he was unable to argue with it, Kro relaxed his seat, softened his posture.

  "Have it your way, then. We're close enough anyway I suppose. Maybe another two miles. Ten or fifteen minutes at this pace providing we don't stop again."

  "Good." Said Belmorn slowly riding past the man. "So what are you complaining about?"

  Ahead, the road shot across about a mile of this hard, rock-laden country before swelling into a hill--the slope of which was only visible by its slight, moonlit edge.

  As the breeze lessened on his cheek, Belmorn looked down to the small child who fit so well in the crook of his arm. She couldn't have been much older than his own son. Perhaps nine or ten. In the low light, it would be easy to mistake her lack of consciousness for sleep--to hope that she was dreaming of better things than those he had given her.

  What had she been doing? The question burned. Why had she not run away when the fighting began?

  Still holding the reins, Belmorn adjusted the tourniquet with his thumb and forefinger. His marbled black haresh was still tight around her body and the flow of blood had not resumed. Small reliefs, but they would do. For reliefs were in short supply.

  This child, this little girl... Belmorn knew right then that he would do anything to save her. But he could not forget his true purpose.

  In a great, frustrated cloud, the man expelled the combined weight of too many bur
dens. He slid a gloved hand over the top of his head. Without the haresh, his hair had gone stiff, frosted and freezing into slivers of black ice. Once again he regretted not spending a little more on a better cloak. Specifically, one with a hood. With this thought, he turned to regard the man riding beside him.

  "Why'd you do it?" His voice was flat but not unfriendly.

  The other rider turned. In the stark moonlight, his face was lost in the shadows of his hood.

  "Good lord, Belmorn, you really do know how to start a conversation. Do what?"

  "Why did you risk your own life?" asked Belmorn. The storm in his voice was audible but restrained. "Freeing a man from prison--from a death sentence. A man you already left for the crows?"

  "Ha," Kro scoffed in a tone that held no mirth. "I didn't leave you for the crows, Belmorn." His voice was low. "I just left you."

  "Is there a difference?"

  "Of course there is a difference! I made you a talisman, didn't I?" Kro looked for a response.

  Belmorn's mind raced back, finding the past few days to be a blur. He could remember trying to move. The feeling of being trapped. Of perfect helplessness. And he remembered the crows, who had surely took him for dead. How bold they had become. Bold enough to sample his face. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his lip, tracing the stitches and tasting the faint traces of moss and blood. The area was still tender, but not quite so inflamed as it had been. Another small relief, he supposed. At last, he offered,

  "What is a talisman?"

  Hearing this, Kro couldn't help but laugh. "Feet, intestines, flowers. Pinned right to your shirt, it should have kept most things away."

  The memory clicked. Belmorn had all but forgotten the strange bundle he'd found pinned to his chest upon waking from that sleep of dust. He had interpreted the thing as a further sleight. Some manner of pungent black magic.

  "A talisman." He repeated the word. "So that's what that was."

  "Think of it as forcing a skunk to notice its own reek," Said Kro. "No crow would touch you wearing that. Even added some wolfsbane, just in case... but it seems the only extant wolves in these woods do their hunting on two legs."

  As Kro went on, Belmorn drifted a bit. Again his tongue poked at the cleft in his lip. He still had no idea who had mended the wound. However unlikely it was, someone had found him out there as he lay so exposed and helpless in the snow. Someone or something. With this unsettling thought, Belmorn could once again picture the last thing his conscious mind had been able to process. An army of stars had twinkled between the trees.

  No, he thought. Not stars... eyes.

  "Your talisman..." Belmorn said at last. "It didn't work."

  "Huh? What? What do you mean it didn't work?" Kro almost sounded offended.

  "I mean if the crows noticed it, they weren't impressed. When I woke up they were sampling my face."

  "Damn," Kro said with disbelief.

  "Is that all you have to say? 'Damn'?"

  "Sorry--would you prefer: Shit?" Kro turned away, began tapping his chin with one finger. "I've used this method many times and it's always worked. Timber crows scavenge, but they can't abide the reek of their own dead. Unless..." Suddenly, he brought a fist down on his leg, hitting it hard. "The herb-of-grace--I added it for the wolves but... somehow the aromas must have crossed. Become inert. Like liver and onions." This last part was muttered under Kro's breath. "Just like liver and onions. Shit. Have to make a note of that one. When we reach the moat, I'll have to--"

  But the words trailed off into a stream of incoherent whisperings that made Belmorn wonder if Kro had forgotten he was there at all. For many minutes thereafter, the only sound was the dull clopping of hooves and the soft, unintelligible mutterings of a strange hooded man. Kro. If that really was his name. Until now, his words had been few, far between, and always a little left of direct. Consistently tinged with sarcasm and a wry edge that bordered on contempt.

  Now Belmorn glared at the back of that hooded head and shook his own. As much as it frustrated him to admit it, he needed this man. Like it or not, Kro was the child's best hope.

  As they rode on, much of Belmorn's concentration shifted to the ground. These giant's teeth came in all sizes. The blackfoot found his concern divided between the wounded child and his oldest friend. As the ground sloped upwards, Belmorn could feel the animal tense. He patted Magnus' neck, kneading his muscles as they moved up the hill. The adamandray was accustomed to resisting the punishing flow of their great, black river, but this country was a new challenge. One that called upon none of the animal's natural talents.

  "Look," Kro forced the word out. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. My actions after the crows... could have been better."

  Could have been better?! Belmorn's thoughts roared but remained unsaid. At last, he simply muttered, "Forget it. The past doesn't matter. Right now, saving this one does." He lowered an ear to the girl's face. "Her breathing... it's getting weaker. I don't know why you saved me, wizard, but I do not trust you. So help me, if you've lied about where you are leading us. If she dies..." Belmorn's threat hung in the night air, incomplete but understood. He took a deep breath, just as both riders crested the hill. "How much farther is it to your safe place?"

  Kro pointed to the landscape below. "See for yourself."

  Belmorn peered out over the sprawling, moonlit waste. Though he had to concentrate, his eyes could detect something in the darkness that was darker still. Miles long, it stretched to the east and the west, circling where he knew the mountain to be.

  "A wall?"

  "Yes. One that separates the low Veld from the high. Most call it The Moat." Kro's voice was grim. His head turned, scanning the area. To the west, maybe another mile off, the path they were on led to a gap. As far as Belmorn could see, it was the only way through this oddly named wall.

  "The giant's teeth are mostly behind us." Kro's voice sounded impatient, even eager. "Alright with you if we pick up the pace?"

  Following a low grunt from Magnus, Belmorn nodded.

  "Okay then," said Kro. "Follow me and mind the slope."

  Cued by their riders, both horses raced down the other side of the hill. The adamandray was more than a third larger, but his was a breed not built for racing. The mare pulled out ahead, tearing like a silver ghost. Then, to Belmorn's surprise, Kro drove his horse from the path and began moving east--across an open field and in the exact, opposite direction of the Moat's only visible gateway. As if reading the blackfoot's mind, Kro turned back and waved for Belmorn to follow.

  Wearing a fresh frown, Belmorn leaned in, holding tightly his precious cargo. And though he never heard it... the girl who's name he did not know, gasped softly.

  Eyes opened but what they saw could not be rationalized.

  A flap of shirt. A field of stars. The images came in flashes. A circle of light. Black fur.

  The girl's mind was fevered--heavy with something like sleep that wasn't sleep. She was moving. That much she could feel. And there was wind, cold wind, on her face. But the girl didn't understand. Couldn't understand.

  The sleep-that-wasn't... was calling again. Pulling her down and down.

  The last she saw of that night was a snow-covered hill shrinking in the distance. And though it might merely have been the whimsy of a grasping mind, the girl imagined someone was standing on that hill. Standing and watching her go. In her state of partial-lucidity, for just a fraction of a moment, she imagined the man was none other than the hero of her favorite story. Charon himself--the defeater of the Teng-Hu and its three terrible children. The notion brought comfort as she faded the rest of the way out of consciousness.

  Meanwhile, in the very spot Rivka had been watching, a man of dark aspect sat upon a gaunt horse. Watching the two riders with great interest, the brigand was quiet and he was patient. Once satisfied, Raigar turned his horse the other way round, then headed back down the way he had come. Straight for the ruined forest camp where an anxious Mannis Morgrig awaited his report
.

  6 - 2

  Belmorn felt undeniably exposed.

  He had never been in a place so open, yet so devoid of features. Though the darkness seemed thinner here than in the woods, there simply wasn't much to see. Hills, snow, rocks and a vast swath of open sky. Behind it all was a vague shape, ominous in its scale. The blackfoot couldn't see Mount Einder, not exactly. But the missing stars told him it was there.

  Far closer though, was Kro's strange wall, the oddly named Moat. Why they weren't heading toward the opening he'd seen irked Belmorn. He considered asking whether Kro had lost his mind or not, but that would mean breaking the silence that had grown between them. Belmorn breathed in, filling his lungs with the frigid air. Letting it out slowly, he resolved to learn as much as he could with his own eyes.

  Approaching the wall, Kro slowed his mare to a trot before dismounting in a flourish of cloak. At this distance, Belmorn could see that the moat was no solid thing but rather a tangled mass of prickle-vines. Memories of the vampiric rose flickered, but he pushed them away. In less dramatic fashion, Belmorn climbed down from his saddle, careful of the stricken child in his arms.

  The blackfoot regarded the wall. Looking left and then right he confirmed two things. The structure stretched farther than he could see in both directions and there was no apparent way through the damned thing.

  Turning around, he noticed a rather conspicuous rock directly behind them. Unlike the giant's teeth, this one was broad and flat. It was the only blemish on this particular swath of country.

  "What are we doing here?" demanded Belmorn. "The way through the thorns was back there. I could see a road from the crest of that hill."

  "I'm sure you could," Kro sounded preoccupied. "But I'm not looking for that door. I'm looking for mine."

  Belmorn waited for further explanation, but none was offered. In frustration, he grumbled something under his breath.