"Some say," her voice was quiet but held resolve. "... the sickness came from across the big water. That it blew in just for us, because the other towns, they were all fine. I still remember the day I left. I had been trying to wake Mum for a long time because I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and the sun was already starting to go down. Dad hadn't gotten out of bed in a long time either. Even longer than Mum. And I was afraid to leave the house because everyone was supposed to stay inside, away from the bad air that was making people sick." The girl paused, looking not at the floor, but through it. She bit down on her bottom lip. "I heard the knocking," she went on, "But I didn't want them to come in and see Mum and Dad because then they would know."
Belmorn leaned forward a little. "What would they know, child?"
"That Mum wasn't sleeping. That she hadn't been for almost three days." her voice hitched. "Anyway, it didn't matter. The door didn't keep them out for long."
"I don't understand." Belmorn's voice felt very small in his throat. "Who was at the door?"
"I already told you. The bird-men!" she met Belmorn's eye with an edged look, but only for an instant. "There were three, I think. I heard them talking, but only one came inside. By then, I was hiding in the closet, but the door wasn't closed all the way. I had left it open, just enough to see. The bird-man was tall and skinny but he stepped hard like a horse. His body was wrapped all in black except for his ugly beak face. That was white--or almost white. Something like the color of old bones. It was like he had no skin there." The child paused, but briefly. When she spoke again, her tone was indignant. "I'm not a kid anymore. And I'm not stupid. I know they weren't really bird-men. Only the regular kind of men. Just doctors wearing masks. But they couldn't help us. Not Mum or Dad or anybody else because they all died anyway."
Silence hung in the wagon for some time. It was eventually broken by a rustle as the girl began sifting through a small wicker basket of cloth. She held up what looked like a skirt--dark blue with a line of small goats embroidered along the bottom. Considering this for a moment, Rivka frowned and kept looking until she discovered something that finally made her grin. The fabric was frayed at the edges, but quite supple. It was a deep, dark green, like forest leaves on a moonless night.
"Kro said I could have anything in this basket. I don't think these were all his. Some of them are girl-clothes. Here." she leaned forward, tying the fabric around the man's head.
When she pulled back, Belmorn reached up to inspect her work. The cloth bulged considerably to one side--but he smiled at her nonetheless. "My people call this a haresh. For us, it is very important. The cloth protects our heads from the hot sun out on the river."
"Really?"
"Really." He winked. "But that is not how you tie one." After removing the cloth, he folded it properly, pulling the frayed corners into a knot at the base of his skull. Then he pressed the leather headband to his forehead, fastening the clasp around the massive knot.
For the first time in a day and a half, Rander Belmorn stood up, tassels of dark green tapering down his back.
"So? How does it feel?"
"Very good. Thank you." Belmorn smiled again. "Tell me, Rivka... where is your uncle now?"
"Doesn't matter. It's just me now. Been that way for over a year. Once they kicked me out of the room we were living in, I tried to leave. I wanted to go back to Jayce. I tried to. I really did. But the gates... They never open anymore."
Belmorn took a knee and spread his arms wide. Without a second's hesitation, the girl shot forward. Wrapping both arms around his neck and squeezing until the man could hardly breathe. After that she sobbed into his shoulder--fully and without restraint.
The heat of holding the girl was poison that eroded Belmorn's cardinal rule. The primal, dauntless fury of love had him, and there was nothing that could be done. No argument, however pragmatic, would circumvent his fate.
Now, like it or not... Lord Belmorn had two children to save.
PART NINE
A PRICKLY RESPITE
9 - 1
The door to the tented wagon opened with a slow, wooden whine, and Rander Belmorn stepped outside. At a gust of mountain wind, he straightened his highwayman's collar, pulling the two halves closer together. With a shiver, he knew he had been right to locate his coat and bear pelt before stepping outside.
Kro's hollow looked very different in the light.
Until a few days ago, the blackfoot had never seen snow. Had, in fact, not been completely certain it was even real. Still, based on the tales he had heard along the way, Belmorn had expected this remote land to be buried beneath a foot or two of the stuff. The reality though, proved only partially true. While everything he saw was covered in white, the snow was gathered in inches rather than feet. But that's how things went. Every tale of the fantastic was one-part truth and nine-parts steaming horse shit.
As he thought this, a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Pointing his face toward the sun, Belmorn mused on just how long he'd slept. All night and half the morning, according to the girl allegedly resting on her wall mounted cot. He breathed in deeply, holding the crisp northern air until his lungs felt as though they might burst. Exhaling produced a great cloud which dissipated into feathery wisps.
The man Kro was tending to a satchel on his newly acquired mare. As for the adamandray, Magnus didn't appear to notice the arrival of his oldest friend. The large animal's attention was set firmly on the patch of snowy grass from which he was grazing contentedly.
Stepping from the cart to the ground, Belmorn spoke in a voice that carried, "So... where did you sleep?"
"Huh?" Said Kro, without turning.
"Well, the girl had the cot and I took up most of the floor. So... where did you sleep?"
After tightening a leather strap, Kro proceeded to secure it in place. "Don't worry about it." He said at last.
Belmorn plopped onto the cart's lowest step and started removing his boots. The first foot slipped free in a wave of near delirious bliss. The striped sock was so threadbare, the alternating lines of grey all blended together. "Could have taken my boots off."
The hooded man snickered as he slid a second strap through a metal ring and secured it in place. "Could have spared a blanket too," he responded with a shrug. "By all means, leave your complaints with the front desk." The man's tone was difficult to decipher. "Is the girl resting?"
"Probably not." Belmorn took off his other boot, hoping to distract himself from the weight of his mood. "Poor kid has been through a lot. Too much."
"Haven't we all." Kro gave a slow nod. "This morning, when I brought her a lavish breakfast of water and salted fish, I was able to pry free her name. But not much else. She seems quite interested in you, Belmorn--funny enough. I think you've got yourself a fan."
The blackfoot frowned gloomily. "Well, she's alive, and that sure as hell isn't because of me. I don't know how someone could survive such a wound, let alone be up and about the morning after. It's you she should be endeared to, Kro."
The other man shook his head and bent to collect a series of strange objects at his feet. Three pale crosses, each over a foot across and constructed from the cylindrical stalks of some strange plant. The arms were all equal in length and, most bizarrely, ribbed. Belmorn could not imagine their function.
Kro lifted the flap of his saddle bag--carefully inserting the objects, one at a time. "You're wrong about that, my friend." He gave a soft huff. "The lodestone cleaned the wound, but there was a sliver of metal resting directly on a vein, pinching it. When that came loose, blood came with it. Quite a lot, in fact." Kro's voice was strained as he picked up the silver mare's hoof to clean. "I shouted for you, Belmorn. Against my own best judgement, I yelled at the top of my damn lungs." He sighed. "I didn't know you were caught in the troll sleep."
As he listened, Belmorn's mind raced to picture the wagon's interior. To his recollection, there had been no traces of such a gruesome surgery. No lingering smells. Then he rem
embered what the girl had said earlier.
"He had to throw it in the fishing hole. Anything with blood."
"No," Grunted Kro, stepping away from the horse. "That girl doesn't owe me a thing."
"Rinh." The name of his river spirit was the only response Belmorn gave for many minutes as he once again relived the last night he'd been awake.
"Out there walks death. All our deaths." That's what the leader troll had said.
Belmorn scanned the glade again. The ground was uneven, covered in jutting, snow laden rocks and mounds of grass which shifted lazily in the breeze. "Kro. Where are they?" he asked. "The trolls. Where did they go?"
"The only place they can go." Kro smirked. "Open your eyes, Blackfoot. Look."
The perimeter of the glade was lined not with snowy grass but pelts, almost indistinguishable from the ground. Upon closer inspection, Belmorn could also see that slowly, subtly--the surfaces of these mounds rose and fell. His eyes bulged, transfixed on the patchwork of earthen-colored fur that concealed who knew how many of them. The trolls.
"You should know," Kro spoke softly, "...to them, 'troll' is an ugly word. Man's word. They are called the Pershten, and they have nowhere else to go." Kro scratched the mare's neck, and then patted her on the rump. The horse bubbled a surprised whinny and meandered over to where the adamandray was still grazing.
Not all of the grass in this hidden glade is counterfeit, thought Belmorn.
"I don't know what you've heard," said Kro. "But most is probably rot and fairytale nonsense. This much I can tell you for certain: The species is peaceful, nocturnal, and, fortunately for that girl in there, they possess a knack for healing that far surpasses my own,"
Belmorn stared at the sea of pelts. The man-sized mounds huddled together, lining the ground like a great slumbering quilt. "Last night--the last thing I remember is one of them touching my arm."
"Yes, and then you went out like a candle." Kro looked at him, slightly bemused. "I can't tell you how the effect works, but it is definitely tactile. That was their chieftain who put you out. Bror is his name. We've met before. Years ago. Last night, he told me what happened. About how close she came."
There it was again. The she that began with a capital S. Belmorn knew now what it meant. It referred not to some cauldron-tending old woman but a monster who could make the ground quake under her very feet. Even now, he could hear her mournful howls and the barks that followed. Always three. Always in quick succession. He could still feel them punching his chest, striking his bones like the end of a hammer to a harpoon.
Last night, moments before the troll Bror had put him to sleep, Belmorn was about to do something very unwise. A cold realization clicked in his mind. "You're hunting it aren't you? This Hispidian witchwyrm."
Kro looked surprised, but only for a moment. Then he nodded. "With every ounce of will I have left."
"Why?" Belmorn frowned. "If the thing is so formidable... why you? Why does this task fall to a wandering whatever-you-are, when there are armored soldiers in Roon?"
"Soldiers do not hide like turtles in their shells!" The burst of sudden anger flashed bright but faded quickly. When Kro's voice returned, it was thin, hardly there at all. "I... am many things, Belmorn. But more than anything, I am a damned fool. And for this errand, that is something of a prerequisite." The smile of a man resigned to an unfortunate fate curled his lips. "Tell me... That night, before the troll sleep came, did you see her?"
After slipping back on the boots that were not his, Belmorn stood. "No. There were noises. Just footsteps and breath. I could hear her size and how close she was, but that was all."
Kro nodded and stared back from inside his hood. The riverman felt he was being sized-up, evaluated or at least, re-evaluated. After a moment, a genuine smile almost touched the lips of the man named Kro. Then there came an expression which Belmorn had not seen the man wear before.
It was a passing thing. Just a glimmer, a spark, but it looked an awful lot like hope.
9 - 2
"You risked a lot back there. Pulling me out of Roon," said Belmorn. "You didn't answer me last night so tell me now. Why? Why did you do that?"
Kro dismissed the question with a wave. "Don't flatter yourself. I wasn't in the city for you, Belmorn. You should know, sticking my neck out is something I lost the taste for a long time ago." He sighed. "If you think back to our clandestine meeting, back in the woods, you may recall that in addition to nearly becoming rose food, I had recently been robbed."
"I remember," Belmorn scowled. "Mannis Morgrig."
Kro nodded. "Morgrig, yes. Those bastards." A dark anger weighed on his voice. "They relieved me of much. My horse, but also the supplies that she carried. Irreplaceable things. That's why I dusted you. You may wear the trappings of a highwayman, but a life on the road has made me a talented judge of character. You are no villain, Belmorn. Quite the opposite, in fact. You were about to stop me from doing something very unwise."
Belmorn's scowl moved closer to a glare. He offered no disagreement.
"And you would have been right to do it," Kro said with resignation. "But, anger won out over sense I'm afraid. That bastard needed to pay. And I needed to make him."
"Well? Did you find them?" Belmorn asked.
"A blind man could have found them," scoffed Kro. "Morgrig has no fear of being found. He knows that in those woods he is not the hunted." Kro stopped. The absolute, epic disaster of that night pulsing in his brain. "I had a plan. A very simple plan. But sometimes, things happen that you couldn't plan for in a thousand years." He closed his eyes, pursed his lips. "In the chaos, a handful of those damned brigands died, but I recovered nothing. Accomplished nothing but a swift kick to the hornet's nest."
"What about your horse?" said Belmorn.
"Already over the fire when I arrived."
"Ah."
"Yeah," said Kro. "I really liked that horse."
"Kro," Belmorn's voice was low. "You're getting away from my question."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Sorry--what was it?"
Belmorn frowned. "Back in Roon. Why did you come for me?"
"Oh yes," said Tenebrus Kro. Belmorn's original question was a relief from his current thoughts. "As I said, I wasn't there for you. I haven't set foot in that city in years. Not since..." How much was he willing to share with the strange man he hoped would be his ally? How much could he share without driving him away with the awful truth? Kro abruptly cleared his throat. "The truth is the next closest tavern is sixty miles south. In Britilpor."
"Tavern?" Belmorn raised an eyebrow. "You were in Roon to have a drink?"
"To get pissed, actually. We did not meet on a good day, Belmorn." Kro moved his head from side to side, popping out kinks from bending and tacking the mare. Awkwardly, he met the gaze of the man beside him and cursed under his breath. The still-unanswered question bored from the riverman's eyes. The alchemist continued, "The Hag's Folly. The barkeep there brews a very fine ale. Stores the stuff in barrels out in the cold, so it will be half-frozen by the time she puts it to glass. The woman calls a glass of the stuff a Witch's Teat." Kro sighed. "I tell you that is the only thing I have ever missed about that damn city."
"A witch's teat?" Belmorn almost laughed. "Shame they arrested me before I got to try one."
"One?" said Kro, laughing in his throat. "They're only served in pairs."
Both men burst out laughing. Gloriously unrestrained, the sound poured forth like flowing twin rivers. Neither Belmorn nor Kro could remember the last time such a thing had occurred. It was many minutes before the conversation continued.
"The next morning, I woke up on the street. In front of the Folly," continued Kro, once he reeled himself back in. "I didn't know where I was going after that. Truth is I wanted another drink, but the place wasn't going to open again for hours. And so I decided to go for a stroll, get some blood flowing before it froze there for good. At some point, I must have stumbled through the center of tow
n. By the statue of the Graveless, I spotted a few guards and what they were guarding. Or rather, wrestling. They were trying to remove the saddlebags and those axes from your horse, but I think you can guess who won that contest."
Magnus looked up from munching the short Veld grass and snorted a cloud of white breath. Belmorn looked proud.
"None of it made sense at the time," Kro went on slowly, as if relating the events as they were still unfolding. "I knew that sort of horse belonged in Roon about as much as I did, but my head was pounding too hard to care, so I kept walking. Eventually I heard the distinct sounds of a crowd gathering somewhere nearby. Your trial, as it happened. In my state, it was a few minutes before my head cleared enough to understand what was really going on. And as I stood there, looking up at the man who had saved my life--who's charity I had repaid so poorly--and listened as crimes that I knew to be those of another man, a motherless rat who plays at being a wolf, were pinned to his chest. Well, I suddenly found myself no longer thirsty."
For a few moments neither man said more.
"That's it?" the blackfoot folded his arms. Nodded slowly, scratching his beard. "You went through all of that because of chance? Some random flash of conscience?"
Kro shrugged. "There's no grand scheme here, Belmorn. I told you not to flatter yourself. Like it or not, you have your answer. And now I believe it's your turn. So tell me, what brings a man of your bearing to the edge of the known?"
Belmorn stepped forward as a gust of wind pulled the ends of his new green headscarf to one side. Right then, he looked like a force of nature.
"Desperation," he began grimly. "I am looking for someone. A travelling merchant whose name I do not know. For years he visited my village every spring. Just as our foals were finding their river legs. Though never to his face, the children started calling him the brushman." Belmorn cinched up his collar to block a gust that licked through the opening in the thorns. "This merchant sold horse brushes of unmatched quality, and we are people who live and die by the health of our animals, well... we must have exhausted his supplies every visit."
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 15