The stallion shook its head, causing the bridle to whip and jingle. Magnus was an exotic sight in all lands save the Black River region, where once he had dropped unceremoniously to the ground--an ungainly foal, blinking in the midday sun.
Belmorn rushed down the stairs and attempted to cross the street, but found himself mobbed. Having heard the man's name, the Pershten appeared from all sides. All grey and hairless and wearing grins.
"Witch Rider!" they shouted. "Witch Rider! Witch Rider!"
Belmorn's gaze darted from one approaching group to another. The trolls rushed to him like the surface of a lake moving to fill the space where a rock has been thrown. In waves, they reached him. Their faces beaming with adoration as they pawed at his shoulders--all with a single chant upon their lips.
"Witch Rider! Witch Rider! Witch Rider!"
"That's enough!" ordered Bror. "Back now! Give space!"
An immediate hush fell upon the crowd as every Pershten stopped where they were. Belmorn's heart pounded, sending adrenaline through every vein. His arms felt hard and ready, triggered by the crowd's reaction as if it had been the start of some new battle. This was ludicrous he knew, but then, Rander Belmorn was a simple man. He had most definitely never been worshiped before.
His gaze turned to Rivka, who was bracing herself against his leg. As she looked up, laughter bubbled up and out of her, warming the man. The sensation was fleeting, but he was glad for it.
17 - 3
"Belmorn!"
The crowd parted to permit two individuals--their Chieftain and Tenebrus Kro.
The alchemist wore a furry cloak of earthen hues, matching those of the Pershten. The pelt possessed no hood but hung long, nearly touching the ground. His black hair, long and unkempt, billowed in the passing breeze.
"Kro." Belmorn felt relief at the sight of the man. The upper portion of his face was all that showed over the scarf. The cloth looked much closer to red in the light of day, though dark enough to hide the fleshy ruins beneath.
After so much hardship, both men stood in failure. And yet, the faces around them held only joy and adoration. The Pershten were free to return home, back to Mount Einder. They could tend their goats and their underground lake of ugly, eyeless fish. That was good, Belmorn knew. But was it enough?
"It is good to see you," the blackfoot spoke the words awkwardly, wishing he had come up with something better.
"What's left of me, you mean." Kro stepped forward and slapped a hand on the taller man's shoulder. "Blue hell, you need to lighten up, riverman."
"Yeah. I... yeah." The ghost of a smile twitched at Belmorn's lips. "You sound like my wife."
Kro chuckled and bowed his head. "I'll take that as a high compliment." He might have said something more, but the eyes of the blackfoot looked beyond him.
The Pershten chief was leading the adamandray. Magnus whickered and pulled free to greet his oldest friend.
"Whoa there, Old Man!" Belmorn reached out with a high heart and a smile on his lips. He patted the animal's cheek and let him nuzzle his face. "How is this possible? The witch--I saw it happen! Saw what she did to you." He slid his hand up and down the neck expecting gaping wounds, but finding only what looked like, but could not possibly be very old scars.
Magnus stretched his neck out and demanded scratches as if he only had bug bites.
"Your animal is strong. He has recovered well," said Bror. "The wyrm's kiss is a curious thing, no? It's power to heal and to mend flesh is impressive. Because the horse is so big, we were able to take out some venom. Otherwise, this Old Man here would sleep for another day or two." Patting the mossy substance on his own shoulder, Bror smiled before continuing. "He has been fed, watered, and is well enough to ride. We have retrieved and packed your weapons, filled your bags with food and drink. Enough for many days. But this, all of this..." The troll hung his head. "Is a poor reward."
"No." Belmorn smiled, patting Magnus on the shoulder. "It is not." He reached out a hand.
For a moment, Bror looked at the limb like he didn't know what to do. Then he mirrored the gesture, tentatively shaking the man's hand.
"Bror," said Belmorn. "You have done much. You and your people. More than I could--" The man's voice faltered. He turned from one side to the other, scanning the sea of expectant faces. They might never remember the name of Rander Belmorn over another moniker.
"Witch Rider," said a small voice.
Surprised, Belmorn saw a Pershten child clinging to its mother's leg. Boy or girl he couldn't tell, though it appeared to be no older than four or five. He lowered himself to a knee, so that he was at a height with the child.
"Yes?"
"You look sad."
Belmorn looked up to the mother's face but found no concern there. He inhaled deeply, held his breath. "I do?"
"Ja."
"Oh... I was just thinking about my boy. About how much I want to see him again."
"But," asked the child, "why does this make you sad?"
"Oh... because," Belmorn paused, considering how to answer. "I'm going home now, but by the time I arrive, I don't know if he will still be there."
The troll child stepped forward but kept one hand on its mother's thigh. "Does he have to leave home?"
Belmorn smiled. "I hoped not. That's why I came here. I was trying to find a way to make him stay." He looked at Kro, and though there was no scorn in his gaze, the alchemist turned away.
"Did you?" asked the child. "Find a way?"
Another smile formed on Belmorn's lips. This one forced out a tear. The tiny bead fell, tracing the hard lines of his cheek before disappearing into the coarse hair of his beard. "I did. The only way. I... just couldn't hold onto it."
"Oh." The child broke from its mother to walk within an arm's length of the man. "I hate when I lose things."
Before dropping the last of his smile, Belmorn winked. "I think we all do, kid."
"Well, you could stay here with us. Herr Krähe said he would stay to... help us get back on our feet." The child leaned forward to whisper, "Strange thing to say. All of us can stand just fine."
Belmorn stared in awe at the child. Boy or girl, it was far too thin--surely from who knew how many years spent moving, hiding, surviving. Home. Could this young one possibly remember what that meant?
For that matter, could an old blackfoot?
"I'm sorry," Belmorn rose, turning for his horse. "I have been away long enough. I don't know if my Sasha will still be there, but I have to try. I have been five months away, but the return will be faster. Perhaps Rinh will grant me this one thing at least. After all, the purple sickness travels slowly."
The young Pershten was looking up with eyes full of questions, but also empathy.
"Witch Rider?" The cautious question came from a Pershten woman with a tawny shawl wrapped around her head and neck, the mother of the child he had been talking to. "Your boy... He is very sick?"
Belmorn sighed. "Yes."
"Oh, this is not good." her accent was thicker than the rest. "So sorry. So sorry to hear." The mother approached the man and his horse. "Please. This sickness... does it..." Unable to find the right words, the woman raised her wrist. Touched it to her forehead. "Is hot? Here?"
Belmorn turned. "A fever? No. This is not that kind of sickness."
"Ja." The mother's shoulders fell. "Schratmoss is good medicine." she brushed some of the mossy substance growing on the back of her arm. "Good for heat, for fever. And good for..." she gestured to the scar on the man's lip, the two halves which had been mysteriously made whole.
"Good, yes." Kro stepped in. "But not without its limits."
"Herr Krähe must know of another." It was the child speaking again. "He is wise. All Pershten know."
Kro and Belmorn exchanged a world-weary glance.
"Wise?" Kro laughed softly in his throat. "Knowledgeable and wise aren't the same thing, I'm afraid." He looked down at the confused child, and with a pat, sent it into its mother's arms. Kro's eyes were
glazing over. When his voice came again, it trembled. "We almost had it though. In this very street. All I needed was a few drops."
Kro started as a jolt shot through him. He realized there was a hand on his shoulder.
"Excuse." Arms wrapped around her young one, the mother spoke again. "Drops? What few drops?" her face lit up. Releasing her child, the Pershten woman lurched forward, closing the gap between her and Belmorn. She was pointing to her teeth. "The--? The--? Vergiften!" she blurted out in frustrated excitement. "Few drops? Is medicine for your boy?!"
"The witch's venom. Yes," answered Belmorn, raising one eyebrow. "But... it's gone now."
"No! Not gone!" she backed away, not taking her burning gaze off of Belmorn. "Drops! Drops!" she grabbed the arm of Bror and spoke in their language to him.
"My friends." Bror spoke with an urgency. "This sickness that grips your boy, can it truly be cured by the wyrm's bite?"
"Yes," said Kro. "I've done it before. When prepared properly, a few drops can cure almost anything--even the purple sickness. Absolutely. Why? What are you getting at?"
"This..." said Bror to Belmorn. "Last night you returned... saw us with your Old Man. You misunderstood, felt we were doing harm. We tried to explain, but your blood was too high. So, again... we put you to sleep."
"Bror." Belmorn tried to recall the moments in question, but they were blurry. "What did I misunderstand? What were you doing?"
"Trying to save the Roon man." Bror said this with regret. "His wounds were too severe for our schratmoss, but I knew that there was another way. A better medicine."
"The witch venom." Belmorn nodded despondently. "Right. Unfortunately I just rode all of that over a cliff."
"Not... all." Bror waved over a younger Pershten male. Belmorn and Kro exchanged desperate glances as the other troll handed a burlap parcel over to his chieftain. With trembling hands, Bror opened it to reveal what looked like a small amount of icy moss--the same sort growing on the backs and shoulders of all his kind.
Belmorn looked confused. "I don't understand. I thought you just said..."
"The schratmoss is not the point, Witch Rider." Bror pushed the bundle closer. "What lies inside, I drew out of your horse with my own lips. What I hoped would save the Roon man."
"Venom." Kro's voice came muffled from behind the scarf, but hit like a clap of thunder.
Bror nodded. "There wasn't much. A few drops. But maybe... I hoped, enough." He looked Kro right in the eye. "But... by the time I finished, the other man was already gone."
Belmorn accepted the frozen moss ball as if it were his own newborn son. There were tears in his eyes. "Kro?" Belmorn's voice was a thin hiss. "Will it work?"
Deeply, the alchemist inhaled. He took the bundle of troll moss into his hands and inspected it thoroughly before exhaling a visible cloud through the dark cloth that covered what was left of his face.
17 - 4
Leaving the question unanswered, Kro shouted at the trolls. "Quickly! I need a surface. There! That!" An extended finger indicated an old wooden barrel. "Turn it over! Put it right here. Here!" His voice demanded urgency.
Belmorn could only stand and watch as two of the Pershten rushed to comply. They raised the barrel, dumped out what looked like coal onto the snow-covered street, and then stood it at the feet of Tenebrus Kro.
The alchemist wasted no time getting to work. First, he spread out the moss into a thin layer. Then, after rifling through one of what Belmorn had come to understand were many unseen pockets, he produced two small metal objects. Each was about six inches in length with a slight hook at the end. Tools of an unfamiliar sort. With these as well as great care, Kro set about sifting through the schratmoss.
"There!" Kro's voice quaked with emotion as he used the metal tools to extract a sliver of milky, yellow ice. As the seconds ticked past, he painstakingly harvested a small pile of the stuff. "That's all of it."
"Rinh." Belmorn's heart pounded in his throat. "Will it be enough?"
Kro locked eyes with the man from Grael and gave a firm nod. "Plenty."
The knees of the blackfoot ached, trembling from exertion as much as the cold.
"One problem," Kro went on. "I can't very well hand you a pile of the stuff as it is, can I? Of course not, it will melt before you reach Britilpor. We'll need something glass. Something--wait!" In a mad frenzy, the alchemist began to pat his coat. "Ah!" One hand vanished into a pocket, reappearing with a small green glass bottle. Kro regarded the thing for a second or two, looking almost regretful. Then he bellowed loud enough for all to hear, "Nobody breathe."
In one swift movement, Kro removed the topper and turned the bottle upside down. All at once, the gorgon dust flowed from the bottle in a great dark cloud that quickly dispersed. Piece by piece, the alchemist dropped the frozen venom into the green bottle and replaced the topper, securing it with an extra turn for good measure. "If he can drink, give it to him in a broth, any broth. It's the venom that matters."
"And if he can't?"
"In that case," Kro didn't dare break eye contact. "You will need to get it inside him another way. With a very sharp knife, make two incisions. Here and here." He traced lines on either side of his throat, from jaw to just about the collar bone. "If he can't drink, the flesh there is going to be hard as wood but be careful. Knick the wrong spot and nothing will stop him from bleeding to death. Make sure to cut vertically and not across. Understand?"
"Yes." Belmorn nodded, taking the green bottle. He marveled at the shards inside before tucking it into a pocket in his long, highwayman's coat.
"Good." Kro nodded back as a smile entered his eyes. "Very good."
Belmorn thrust forward a hand of gratitude, which Kro gladly shook. Not hand to hand but grasping the forearm as was the custom in the black river region. The blackfoot turned to the Pershten chief. "If you knew what this means to me. To my family." Belmorn's voice faltered.
The Pershten Chief moved his head in a slow, solemn nod. "Of course we know. You saved us, Witch Rider. Purchased the life of one boy with that of thousands. Pershten, men, all the Veld knows, and if they don't, they will. My kind lives longer than yours. Hundreds of years, if the gods smile. And our memory is longer still. Believe me, Herr Belmorn, what you have done here will not be forgotten."
"You know..." Rivka's voice cut in. The girl was smiling. "You really should build a statue. A big one with Magnus and everything. Put it right on World's Edge, pointing one of those weird axes down at the water. Just in case that thing ever thinks about crawling back up."
A smile grew on the Pershten chief's stoney face. "A fine idea," he said before reaching out to cup the girl's cheek. "Tell me, child... will you help us in this work?"
The girl thought on this for a second, briefly regarding Belmorn as the green ends of his haresh were pulled by the wind to point south. The only way out of the Veld.
"I can't," she said at last. "I'm leaving with him."
Bror's head crooked to one side, forming a question.
All eyes turned to the Witch Rider. There was no surprise on his face, simply mild exhaustion. He looked down at the girl.
"Rivka." The name hung in the air for a moment. "The road to Grael is long, and I will need to take it quickly. Riding hard and sleeping little. It will not be easy."
"Can't remember a time when anything was." The girl's brow furled in thought. "You know, I've been thinking a lot about the inscription inside your headband. And about your wife."
"You have?"
"Yeah. You said she was funny."
Belmorn's heart lurched at the implied question. "Yeah well... she certainly thinks so. Though I may be sleeping in the stables for a few years."
The girl raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what that means."
"Nothing. It means nothing." He suppressed a chuckle. "But funny or not, my Malia is a good woman. And an even better..."
The word mother went unsaid, though all in earshot heard it clearly. The moment of nervous silence was broke
n by the sound of hooves on stone. Wearing a very solemn look, Kro was leading his stolen silver mare.
"Please," he said. "There is no reason to go so far on one horse. Take her."
"Really?" said Rivka, her voice brimming with disbelief.
"Of course." He nodded, rechecking the belts on the saddle. "Take her and treat her well. Maybe give her a name."
"Oh I will!" The girl shot forward and wrapped her arms around the man called Kro.
"What will you do?" Belmorn's voice was low, hidden almost completely by the wind. Kro passed his gaze over the Pershten and the buildings and the street that had not been so full in many years.
"Well, I think it's about time I grew up, for one," Kro answered with a thoughtful sigh. "When Galttauer's body is ready, I will return him to Roon. And with the help of Bror and his people, search the high veld for the bodies of his nine guardsmen. Hopefully some will still be alive. I'll tell the people of Roon what happened here and that the veld is free. That in the end, their captain died well, that he helped save the lives of many... and of a little boy. After all, had he not been here... or hung on as long as he did." Kro paused. "The witch's healing venom would surely have stayed right where she put it. In the veins of that enormous horse of yours."
Magnus shook his head, causing the metal parts of his bridle to tingle like small bells. Belmorn patted the animal's neck, then relinquished a nod. Kro mirrored this, but looked back down the street--back to where the monster had first appeared.
"I went home this morning. Before you woke." Kro's statement hung between the two men--colder than the air. "Not much left. Part of a wall. Some rubble. It makes sense the thing would have made her nest there. Right where she hatched. Right there in the room of my little Lishka." The voice of the alchemist splintered and failed. Naked pain contorted the visible portions of his face as tears fell behind the blood-red scarf. "I still have much to answer for. More than can ever be made right in the meager years I have left." Kro spoke through ragged breaths. "I know this, and so do they." he glanced at the crowd of Pershten. At the parents and children and babes still at the breast. "But... today is not a day for wallowing in past mistakes. This morning is the first to dawn on a witchless Veld, and that is no small thing, Belmorn."
Mark of the Witchwyrm Page 30