Mark of the Witchwyrm

by Steve Van Samson

  Mannis Morgrig swallowed the saliva that had been gathering in his mouth. He sat upon his blood bay stallion, utterly stupefied. His purpose, forgotten. His once burning desire for revenge, now as intact as a handful of snow.

  After another flick of its tongue, the top half of the witchwyrm slammed down to the earth. Then, in a strange serpentine run, the hag used all four limbs to carry it over the Veld like some frenzied jungle cat whose spine bent the wrong way. And by whatever gods remained, it wailed as it came. Whether in fury or out of hunger, none dared guess, but all recognized the eager face of their own personal death.

  Less than two hundred feet away, Morgrig stared, still paralyzed in awe. His brain worked furiously, trying to make sense of the signals it was receiving. Two horses raced straight toward him, galloping like the devil himself were at their heels. Only this was no devil; here came the witch. It was real, more terrible than all the tales, and it was coming straight for him.

  The rider who pulled in front was an imposing highwayman type who Morgrig did not recognize. He was big and so was the horse that carried him and the pair of axes in his hands. But the stranger didn't matter. Morgrig was more concerned with the man riding just behind. The bastard who had been stupid enough to attack a band of wolves in their own den. The fucking Rose man.

  With fresh rage, Morgrig turned and began shouting."This is it, boys. Weapons up! Set those teeth in a clench and keep 'em sharp!"

  Unfortunately, the words came too late to do any good. Like a blast of wind from a hurricane, the highwayman thundered between the dumbstruck bandits, making straight for the one with the blowing horn. Scheepers, who was also brandishing a well-bent bow, loosed an arrow. The shaft sped through the air, its well-aimed trajectory sending it straight for the center mass of the massive highwayman.

  PING! The sound came less than a second before a much louder CRACK!!

  The speeding arrow deflected harmlessly off the broad side of a Graelian axe. Then, that same axe was turned--made to strike. Scheepers had managed to lift the bow but it was promptly split in half, both sides falling uselessly though still connected via string. Absorbing most of the tremendous blow, the one-eyed horn blower reeled back limply. Somehow the man was still in his saddle, but now his hands gripped only air. The highwayman, showing remarkable mastery of the animal that bore him, turned in a great cloud of snow and dirt, sheathed one axe and began galloping once more. With one hand he held up the stolen blowing horn, before looping the strap around his neck. The final insult to this injury came from the rose man himself. As the bastard galloped past by in a second gust of sound and air, he flashed a lopsided grin. Morgrig watched all of this as if watching a dream. Of all the myriad ways he had seen this playing out...

  With a guttural roar of hate and frustration, Morgrig rounded his blood bay and took off after the riders.

  "Yaahh!" Bellowed the Red Wolf, jabbing his heels into the ribs of his mount. Leaning in to his horse, he did everything in his power to push the animal faster and farther away from the nightmare thing behind.

  Morgrig had never believed the tales. The warning of a terrible Witch-Beast who was said to have ruled the High Veld for nearly a decade. The stories had been too fantastic to be real. Only now could he finally comprehend why a man like Henric Galttauer would slam shut his doors. And why bandits had been allowed to creep into the Roonik woods that had once been patrolled so staunchly. But Morgrig had to put the beast out of his mind. Just ahead, was the man who had caused all of this, galloping away on a silver mare. He unsheathed his long blade with a hateful sneer. Morgrig was gaining on his enemy. His blood bay was the faster horse.

  The rose man looked behind. Then, from one of his saddle bags, he produced a strange object. Something that looked like a large letter X. The man looked at the object, then back to Morgrig as if he were working through some internal conflict. Then, after a slow shake of his head, the bastard tossed the thing--not aggressively, but the way one throws a ball to their dog.

  "Catch!"

  Without a thought, Morgrig snatched the thing out of the air. His eyes alternated between it and the road ahead. It was a strange, handmade looking thing--two ribbed cylinders, each roughly a foot long. They had been joined in the middle to make a cross. The four ends had been sealed with candle wax, and from the center extended a long black string. A fuse, Morgrig's instincts told him. He looked up from the unlikely thing, utterly dumbfounded.

  The Rose Man nodded. With his free hand, he pointed back to the witchwyrm. Then, after making a brief fist, he opened the hand again, splaying five fingers wide.

  The gesture's meaning was not lost on the Red Wolf, though he could not understand why his enemy would have just handed over a bomb. With another look behind, Morgrig saw the beast. It was coming fast, bounding in that bizarre slithering gait. It released more of those guttural barks. Then it pounced for the nearest horse--a painted mare with two riders--hind claws spreading like the talons of an eagle.

  Morgrig didn't have time to look away. A rear leg sliced open the horses flank with three scythe-like claws. The mare screamed as it fell forward and down. And when it hit the ground, the animal's weight and momentum forced its head back the wrong way. After that, the only screaming was coming from the men whose names Morgrig had never learned.

  The neck of the witchwyrm pulled back, arching like that of a swan. Then, flashing a pair of curved, ivory fangs, the head shot forward with the force of a cannon blast. The first man was bitten, then thrown high into the air. Straight up, he soared farther and farther from the ground.

  Wasting no time, the beast fired again, snatching the second man in her mouth and swinging him round to meet the barbed tip of her tail. That follow up strike was marked by a loud scream that was cut suddenly short. For as soon as the barb touched that man, he became the first of many to vanish. Winking out of existence and without a trace, as if he had never been there at all.

  Morgrig hadn't blinked, hadn't looked away at the wrong moment. His man was simply no longer there. Seeing this, the bandit commander felt the full, crushing weight of his folly. Not only was the damned witch-beast real, so too were her talents.

  "Witchcraft," Morgrig hissed under his breath as he watched the first man careen back toward the ground.

  As if it had been her intention all along, the witch caught the man she had thrown. And when she touched the tip of her tail to the body in her mouth, he too disappeared.

  The witch reared up again and moved on two legs. Using its heavy, barbed tail as a counterweight, it leaned forward as it ran, neck and head parallel to the ground. It stalked over to its next closest victim. Sprawled and unconscious, the man called Scheepers, had not recovered from the highwayman's blow.

  Morgrig swore under his breath. Even with the distance he had put between himself and the fairytale nightmare, he didn't have long. The deaths of his men had bought seconds, nothing more.

  Ahead, the hooded man and his tall companion were racing down a well-travelled road that led to a dense forest and, eventually, the ancient city of Roon.

  The blood bay stallion was foaming at the mouth. The animal wasn't used to such a breakneck pace, and malnourished as it was, couldn't maintain it for much longer.

  Morgrig looked down to the strange cross-like object in his hand. "Dirk!" he roared to the man who was riding at his side. "Torch!"

  The idiot looked over with wild, bloodshot eyes. Though scared out of his mind, he knew better than to ignore a command.

  When the horses were an arm's length apart, Morgrig looked back to see the wyrm was again on his tail. Running on two legs, it came like some undeniable force of nature. A tornado, a bolt of lightning. One hundred feet back... ninety... eighty. He could see its eyes now. Seventy feet. They glowed like green embers. Sixty. Morgrig thrust out the cross, fuse facing out. Idiot or not, Dirk understood enough. The man touched the flame of his torch to the bouncing length of fuse and by whatever Gods remained, it began to spark.

  Reeling
back, Morgrig gathered every ounce of his concentration and hurled the sizzling thing at his enemy. The cross flew, spinning end over end, splitting the air. As it did, the man who had thrown it pictured the rose man's hand and the violent reaction it had promised.

  With light and a loud whooshing hiss, geysers of sparks erupted from the four ends of the cross propelling it faster and faster until.

  Mannis Morgrig had seen bombs go off before, had witnessed the explosive rage and devastation of mortar shells.

  This was nothing like that.

  Not a single punching BOOM, but a series of crackling, snapping bursts of light and startling color spun with screaming fury. The cross narrowly missed the head of the beast and bounced off of its chest before whirling away.

  In the end, seeing that no great damage had been dealt, Morgrig swore. The wyrm's ember-green eyes flashed with something that might have been pain or terror. Then they focused on a new target: the little man who had dared assault it.

  Digging his heels in, Morgrig pushed his horse for all it was worth. The ground sloped into a slow incline. Three riders rode ahead of him: the rose man, the tall stranger, and his butcher. They were already near the top of the hill, exactly where he needed to be.

  Morgrig had chosen his blood bay by the same logic that governed all of his decisions since taking up his current identity. It fit the brand. It had the right look. It was the biggest and strongest. Unfortunately, as he now learned, that particular horse was not the fastest.

  Who are you? Morgrig thought. Someone who runs? Someone who flees with tail between their legs like some common cur? Oh yes, I remember him. I just thought you were someone else now. Someone who clawed their way up from the muck and the mire to to become a king. No, not a king...

  Baring his teeth in a snarl, Morgrig brandished his good, long sword and pulled up the reins. He would run no more because he knew exactly who and what he was. Among other things, Mannis Morgrig was a wolf. And even at the bitter end, a wolf still has its teeth.

  PART ELEVEN

  BLOOD FOR THE ROSE

  11 - 1

  Rivka pressed closer into the blackfoot's back as she heard men screaming over the sounds of hoofbeats. Her heart dove from her stomach to her throat when the big man leaned back as they descended the other side of the hill. After a breath, she looked up and over to the man Kro who mirrored her action and nodded. Then he patted the saddle bags and did his best impression of a smile.

  "It's a bàozhú cross." Kro shouted--clearly referring to the handmade thing that had just exploded in the witchwyrm's face. "Call it... a secret of the Orient. More importantly, we can't stay on this road. She has our scent. She'll follow us straight to Roon!"

  Rivka's ears were sharp. In spite of the galloping racket, they managed to pick up most of what was being said.

  "Agreed," Barked Belmorn. "Any ideas?"

  "Maybe," A crooked grin lifted the edge of Kro's mouth. "Maybe a way we... kill two birds... one stone." He glanced at the two riders with a wild brightness in his eyes. Kro's hood was flapping against his back, but the blood red scarf was up and over his nose and mouth. That combined with his flickering hair gave the man an entirely different aspect.

  "Maybe?!" Belmorn did not sound happy.

  "Hey, best I got." Said Kro. "Listen! The wyrm... if she gets close, don't you dare attack her, Belmorn! Just give her space! Let her pass! She needs to follow me. That's what matters. Understand? Come to think of it, you better give me that horn."

  Belmorn looked momentarily confused, then remembered the blowing horn he had taken off Morgrig's man. Slipping one arm out through the strap, he tossed the thing.

  Catching it with one hand, Kro lifted the horn to his lips and blew. Though the initial sound was a pathetic squeak, his second attempt fared better. The howling carried out over the lower veld--rolling over land and rock and the hill behind. Looking quite pleased, Kro set his attention back on the road, barely managing to avoid a triangular rock. The first of the giant's teeth was small, but there would be larger specimens soon enough. Much larger.

  "Come get us, you hag!" Shouted Kro, his hair flickering like a black flame. "Hey Belmorn... mind the rocks!"

  "I see them."

  Once clear, Magnus was veered to the left--following Kro down the hill and away from the clear path that they had previously taken. As for Rivka, she did not remember that path. She had been on death's door when her two companions had followed it through the dense woods on their harrowed flight from Roon.

  As the adamandray rounded a larger, more threatening rock, something made Rivka look to the side. It was then that her eyes fell upon a rider not far behind. A rider who having already crested the hill, was gaining on them. But that wasn't the worst part. For this rider was wearing a pale mask--not pure white, but something close. A color like sunbaked bones. This rider, he was one of them--one of those bastards who had come for her mother and father, to declare officially what she was too afraid to say out loud.

  "Bird man." Rivka whispered as a tear streamed from the corner of one eye.

  The rider, and those others, walked like men but there was something off about them. Something inhuman. The ones who called themselves "doctors"--had worn hats and coats with high collars, anything to prevent the sickness from getting inside. But this one appeared to be unconcerned with such matters. Aside from the mask, the man was ill-dressed for the region. Tight wrappings covered most of his arms, but bits of brown skin showed--like Rander's, only much, much darker.

  The man's hair was long and black, growing from his head in stiff ropes that bounced and slapped as he came. She had never seen hair like that before. And, though her mind might have been playing tricks, Rivka thought could see feathers, long and black, sprouting from between those ropes.

  "Go away!!" Rivka shouted at the rider, hating herself for it. She wanted to be brave. She had to be a grown-up now, not some stupid, scared kid. Rivka was twelve, and if there were any gods left to look down, they would know she had survived more hardship than most adults. And that she was too old to be afraid of some stupid mask.

  Just look away, she told herself. But she could not look away. Even as the wind burned her face, Rivka Pesch held fast.

  Noticing the girl at last, the man turned his long face. As he did, light reflected off glass, turning the mask's lenses into twin moons. Rivka tried to breathe, but the sight of those glowing, circular eyes had a paralyzing effect. Unreasonable terror clawed at her chest--had turned her lungs into useless wooden things. In fact, the only part of her that still worked was her hand. She knew this because it had already moved to the dagger in her belt. Mr. Kro had told her to leave it there until she was ready to use it, but the curved handle seemed to be pulling at her fingers. It felt good when she gripped it.

  "Rander!" the girl bellowed, tightening her grip all the more. "Oh come on--Rander!" Urgency in her throat, Rivka leaned closer. In frustration she reached up and tugged at the man's whipping green headscarf. Finally, the blackfoot turned to look back.

  "Look!" Furiously she tapped his arm on the side the bird man was approaching. Once certain that Belmorn indeed was seeing what she was, the girl re-gripped his middle and squeezed.

  Belmorn narrowed his eyes. The man in the plague mask rode hard. In his hand, an ugly sword was drawn and poised.

  Over the years, Belmorn had done much from his saddle--battling eels and other horrors on the brackish course. But now that saddle was not his alone. Unfortunately, the girl behind him wasn't just holding on for dear life, she was hindering his arm's range of motion. Wielding his axe in that direction would be impossible. There was only one course of action: They needed to go faster.

  Belmorn put a gloved hand on the neck of his oldest friend. He was already asking too much, pushing Magnus harder than he ever had before--and with an extra rider. As the pale horse closed in, Belmorn steeled himself. The masked rider turned his curved, beak-like face locking eyes with the riverman. It was only a fleeting moment, but
for the two warriors it was enough.

  "Yah!" The masked rider's voice was deep and loud. He leaned lower and dug his heels into the ribs of his mount. The pale horse moved past the adamandray in a cloud of dirt and snow and indifference.

  Bewildered, Belmorn glanced back at the girl. "Rivka! Are you okay?"

  "Okay!" her voice conveyed similar surprise. He felt her nod against his back.

  Then he noticed the direction the masked rider and horse were headed. He looked ahead at his hooded companion just as another blast from Morgrig's horn filled the sky.

  "Kro!!" Belmorn shouted as loud as he could, unsure if the other man could even hear him. The masked rider was moving too fast. That pale horse of his, all wire and sinew, seemed to have been designed for this very task. In a matter of seconds, he would be in striking distance of his true target, and there wasn't a damn thing Rander Belmorn could do about it.

  11 - 2

  The mind of Tenebrus Kro was only half on the road ahead. It was also searching. Remembering. Hoping he really saw what he thought he had seen during his last visit to Morgrig's camp.

  Upon reaching the clearing, before everything had gone to smoke and chaos, he had smelled it--the Veld. It had been too dark to see for certain, but if he was right, the brigand camp had been raised on the very edge of the tree line. And judging by how long it had taken Kro to walk from there to Roon, it couldn't have been very far from where they were now.

  No need to hide if there's no one looking. Eh, Mannis? Kro shook his head. Musing on the brash success of the man who called himself a wolf.

  It was then that a nauseating contemplation occurred. Even if Kro could find Morgrig's camp again, his insane plan would only work if the witch was following them. From what he had uncovered, the species was fiercely territorial. Usually only claiming an area of a few square miles, or the size of a small city. It was the real reason Galttauer's people were still alive. Because if she really wanted what was inside, doors weren't going to stop her. Even sturdy ones with big iron locks.