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On the Road
After ten days on the road with three people, the Thief had learned something about himself that he’d always suspected—he was not a people person. He’d always lived alone, and his work, for the most part, was of a solitary nature. Even when seeking a crowd, what he sought was anonymity rather than comfort and conversation. The fishmonger—what did he know besides fish? The bricklayer knew bricks and little else, and the blacksmith could shoe a horse and increase one’s knowledge of Durnish curse words, but he and his contemporaries possessed a rather simplistic world view, their opinions based on limited knowledge and steeped in ignorance. Not that the upper class was any better—they wore their education on their sleeve, when they had any, and preferred to believe that their station in life was due to their own merits rather than a fortuitous birth. Now there was a sommelier at the Angry Bear whom the Thief enjoyed chatting with, yet their friendship was more a business relationship, for he spent a great deal of money with the man. As for women, he tended to meet them in brothels, where his money compensated for his frightful appearance and his thief’s brand.
The personalities of his company did not help matters. The raven-haired barbarian Josun was solemn and taciturn, as though the very idea of mirth was ridiculous and a waste of time. The Thief had made a few jokes at his expense, though he said them under his breath, for Josun was huge and carried a gigantic ax that looked well-used, and the Thief had learned very long ago that it was best to make fun of huge men when they were not aware of it. Fergal Dunn was the opposite in disposition, amiable and conversational to a fault. Having lived for hundreds of years, Fergal was full of ancient languages, fables, and mythical histories, and was quite eager to share this knowledge, despite his tendency to mangle the telling of most of what he knew, his memory having become convoluted and incapable of retaining dates. As for Cassilda, her every remark was tinged with sarcasm, though there was seldom any maliciousness in her voice.
It took them ten days to travel through the Mawlden Forest. They stuck mostly to the main road, with Fergal suggesting detours when applicable so that they avoided bandit-infested areas or the hunting grounds of predatory animals. Relying on the Aiv’s excellent vision and keen sense of hearing, they often traveled during the night, which suited the Thief just fine, being a night creature himself. He was planning on ditching the group as soon as an opportunity presented itself, yet there was no point in absconding with the Heart when he was in the middle of a vast, unfamiliar woods. They all watched him constantly, anyways—he couldn’t stop to take a piss behind a tree without feeling someone’s eyes on the back of his head—and between the three of them, there was little he could do but continue with the ridiculous ruse that they were all in this together.
What bothered him the most, though, was how well Fergal had insinuated himself into the expedition. The diminutive Aiv hadn’t even wanted to let the Thief into his home and had to be forced into coming on the journey, yet here he was dictating their course, discussing the hardships of the Wotan Veldt, asking Josun about melee combat, and trying to trick the sorceress into divulging the details of her past. The Thief found himself wondering if Fergal’s garrulousness was part of an act designed to divert the other members of the party from wondering how much he really knew about the stolen relic. He was ancient, after all, and his knowledge was apparently endless, judging from his stories. The Thief also did not forget that Fergal had tried to murder him.
On the tenth day, they reached the edge of the forest and looked out across the endless plains. The sun was setting over distant craggy mountains, painting the sky purple and pink and sending great horned shadows across the grasslands. A herd of animals congregated by a small pond, beasts with antlered heads and shaggy coats that snorted and bellowed, their voices carrying to the party waiting on the fringe. The Thief had never seen so much space, never encountered an expanse so free of shouting crowds and blanket congestion. The woods had been an alien environment, but its density had provided some familiarity, in the end, and after a while he hadn’t felt so out of place. Looking out at the sweeping veldt, he was suddenly aware of his existence as an individual, as something separate from this immense environment. The anonymity that he had craved in the city had been missing for a while, and one glance at the wind-swept currents weaving through the grassland-like tributaries made him fear that he would never get it back. I am not a Thief out here he realized, tearing his eyes away from the Plains and glancing down at the brand on his hand. The realization left him feeling empty inside.
“Oh dear, must we hear another sermon?” interrupted Cassilda. “And to think that I thought you a rather cheery little dwarf when we first met.”
“I am not a dwarf! They are but a myth, like so much else you humans believe! Really, it is astounding the breadth of your ignorance, seeing how you have spread like locusts over the surface of the earth. I have heard people speak of elves and gnomes, giants and ogres, basilisks and dragons…”
“King Wotan killed the dragon Gorgan,” said Josun.
“There are no dragons, I’m afraid. In all my years, I have never seen one, and I have never heard of any of my kinsmen encountering such creatures. If they existed, perhaps Gorgan was the last. Old as I am, I am not ancient enough to have lived through Wotan’s time,” said Fergal.
“What can we trust if not the old tales?” asked Josun. “My people abandoned the old values centuries ago, yet we still tell the elder stories. Were it not for the legends, I would not know how far the Roslagen have fallen.”
“Let the past die,” said the Thief. “You can’t bring back the old days. Your people are who they are: a lot of pirates and murderers.”
“Leave it to the Thief to point out the sins of others,” said Cassilda. “History has no meaning to you, does it? It is only occasionally useful when you’re attempting to fence something old.”
“I am tired of the barbarian and his legends. He clings to them like a child to a bedtime story.”
“Had you any honor you would not so readily discard the history of your ancestors,” replied Josun, giving the Thief a hostile glare.
“What ancestors? A roving Zanj mercenary and a bar wench? I know nothing of Zanj, and Zanj knows nothing of me. Bar wenches have a complicated history that knows no borders and is blind to the prejudiced nature of man. The son of a bar wench is a son of the world. Now a dead man is a dead man, and if he wishes to tell me stories from beyond the grave, he’ll have to wait till I commission a séance. I won’t go telling his stories for him, and I refuse to lay claim to a particular group of dead men. If you wish to tell the history of the dead, Josun, be my guest, but don’t expect me to applaud you for it.”
“He makes less sense the more he speaks,” said Cassilda. “What a terrible, cynical bore he is. You could have been a great wizard, Thief. They hate things just as much as you do.”
“I am not a hater, sorceress. I just loathe my present circumstances.”
“I know that you only pretend to love wine and women to fill the emptiness of your life. You steal because you are simple and cannot imagine another alternative. That’s the problem with you cynical men. You have no imagination. Money is all you yearn for, and once you have it, you don’t know what to do with it.”
“I know exactly what to do with money, especially the coin you owe me. I’m going to use it to purchase more vintage wine and enjoy women of considerably less vintage.”
“Well, we should be off,” interrupted Fergal, leaving the forest’s edge and marching into the plain. The others followed, though the Thief lingered in the rear, desiring to separate himself from any further conversation. The grasses of the golden plain were tall, encompassing the small form of Fergal, who wove through the shimmering sea like a dolphin, creating his own current, leaving the company to travel in his wake. They walked like this for some time, the sun rising higher in the sky, casting heat to beat upon their backs. Sweat formed on their necks and began to drip down their brows; Josun acquired a small following of gnats, which buzzed around him in a small cloud, though the barbarian paid them no heed. Cassilda looked miserable, hunched over, her beautiful face a weary, hoary mask.
“The heat,” said Fergal, raising his voice to pontificate to the company, “is the reason why there is no civilization left in the Wotan Veldt. This is not good land for growing, though cattle can be raised here, if they are of the tough, lean sort. Water holes are riddled with predators, particularly large crocodilians and kayrek. The gnus are hunted by hyenas and giant cats, which in turn occasionally kill sentient beings such as us when they can. The animals, of course, deal with the heat because they have no choice, yet humans prefer a more temperate environment to live in. The Mawlden Forest beckoned to Wotan’s people, with its canopy to provide shade and its rich soil to give sustenance. When they left, the highways that led through the Veldt were abandoned and faded away. No one remembers now, even though they were a considerable empire with a rich artistic tradition. The pottery of Wotan’s people was prized even among my own kind. Can you imagine the barbarians making ornate, fine pottery? Can you imagine them living out here, laboring among their cattle in the shadow of a towering ziggurat? The cornerstone of their religion and the seat of their empire was the pyramid of Glaeze. We may chance upon the remnants of its foundations if we are lucky.”
“What luck would that be, to stumble over fallen stones?” asked the Thief. “It is bad luck to travel through graveyards, haunted as they are, and a ruin is just another place for the restless dead.”
“Only children and simpletons fear ghosts. There are no such things,” said Josun.
“Really, barbarian? Is that how you console your conscience? None of the lives that you have taken have returned to bother you, I take it?”
“You cannot return from death. Even the Roslagen, who live by superstition, do not believe so. They say that Prax, eater of the dead, devours the souls of the slain. They kill for him so that his hunger will be temporarily sated, thus prolonging their own lives.”
“Prax has changed much over the years, it would seem,” said Fergal. “I remember him being a trickster, a god of the harvest, a friend to thieves and drunkards.”
“Interesting that a fun-loving trickster god has transformed over time into a blood-thirsty diner of souls,” mused Cassilda. “Perhaps that was his final trick. After all, drunks are only blessed until their livers die, and thieves have a habit of hanging from the scaffold.”
“Only the lousy ones,” retorted the Thief.
Ahead of them rose a pile of stacked-stones. Fergal emerged from the tall grass and deftly climbed atop the mound to survey the area. Light was fading rapidly, and there were miles of plain remaining. The mound provided an elevated spot to camp, and he could see no better place in the general vicinity. Setting down his pack, he motioned for the others to join him.
“No better spot with nightfall so close. Let us sit and rest. Would you provide a fire, Josun? There are no raiders in this wilderness, and the light will keep the beasts at bay.”
Josun removed kindling and a small log from his pack along with a piece of flint, and soon a small fire burned. The travelers sat around it, leaning on their packs, staring into the flames, light dancing on their faces, revealing tired dispositions. None of them were accustomed to the amount of traveling they had endured. The Thief was sure that he had walked more the past week than he had done his entire life, judging by his aching feet and exhausted energy reserves. Usually the onset of night resulted in his revitalization—the white light of the moon, the stretching shadows, the decrease in temperature—but lately, despite his vague intentions of escaping, he just couldn’t shake the heavy feeling of fatigue. The feeling must have been mutual, since no one had commented on Fergal’s decision to stop and rest for the night. But no one wants to risk questioning the little troll, he thought. He was broken out of his brief reverie by Cassilda’s sudden clearing of her throat.
“How are you feeling, Thief?” she asked. “Weary and drawn-out, like too little jam scraped over a dry biscuit?”
“I’m as tired as anyone else and desirous of sleep. Leave me be.”
“You know how I came upon that periapt you are keeping for me in your pocket? I was at a party thrown by the Proctress of Dortmund, one of those extravagant affairs where the rich flaunt their wealth without an ounce of shame. Other than ogling the beautiful women (of which I was one), there wasn’t much fun to be had for a man such as yourself, who would undoubtedly prefer a noisy tavern full of boisterous drunkards and bar wenches that don’t yell for security when they are groped. Of course, noblewomen are free from pinches and unwanted kisses, but courtesans are kept around for just such abuse. One of the many perks of being a magician is that you can keep hands away from your arse with a spell that makes you too beautiful to approach. Anyway, I saw the amulet beneath a glass case next to the buffet, just another treasure sitting and collecting dust. How it matched my eyes! That fact alone made it irresistible, and I decided on the spot that I must possess it. The proctor had rigged the usual enchantments, but she had not counted on a courtesan catching the eye of one of her teachers. He saw me staring at the periapt, and began to tell its history, and I learned that it once belonged to Vyrmyth, an almost mythical sorcerer from the dawn of civilization. The wizard said that it amplifies the natural talents of its wearer, and in the case of a magician, it strengthens his or her powers doubly. Yet this comes at a cost, for it slowly takes a bit of your life every day. Now a magician can simply diminish this effect through elixirs and spellcraft, but a regular man will feel the toll that the amulet takes on his body. He may feel his desire to do anything disappear, and what once would have aroused him only results in impotency and sloth.”
“Are you claiming that this thing will make me into a eunuch?” asked the Thief.
“I don’t know. How much libido do you have to spare?”
“My libido is fine,” said the Thief, giving her a rakish smile, “though I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.”
“No doubt truer words were never spoken! You can go bugger yourself. Keep that amulet out of spite, if you must, but realize that you may need my help someday, and I might not be able to give it. Now be quiet, all of you, for I would like to get some rest.”
“The lady’s wish is my command,” said the Thief, letting out a rolling belch that reverberated through the night like the roar of a lion.
“I will have first watch,” volunteered Josun. The wavering light of the fire danced across his hard features, accentuating their edges, making his visage appear as though it were carved out of granite.
“That is three nights in a row that you have had first watch. Perhaps you should get some rest…” started Fergal.
“No,” said Josun, shaking his head. The Aiv shrugged and settled down, his head on his pack, his body curling into the fetal position. Shimmering night sounds of locusts and far away bullfrogs filled the air. Not far away something began a repetitive series of barks and huffs that continued for about five minutes before ending suddenly with a shrill scream. The Thief found it difficult to sleep. He kept approaching the event horizon only to be spurred awake by yet another bestial vocalization that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to raise. With the Heart thumping loudly in his chest, he found himself vowing to never sleep beneath the stars at the conclusion of this journey. Lady Luck give me a roof and a bottle of wine and the company of no one he whispered. A white ball streaked across the sky, leaving a dusty trail of fire in its wake. Though he was staring right at the comet, the Thief did not see it.
In the dream he walked below the earth, through subterranean capillaries, blindly groping his way through the darkness like a mole rat following faint whispers, hands extended like star-shaped proboscises. Suddenly the darkness gave way to light, and he stood in a massive cavern, a strange emerald city looming ahead, its walls stretching into infinity, its towers spiraling like the coils of a snake. A door appeared in front of him, disconnected from anything, and against his will he opened it and gazed into an abyss. The darkness churned in the abyss; horrid shapes came together only to decay moments later, leaving behind silhouetted abominations of triangular teeth, elongated claws, and misplaced eyes. Thief said a voice from the void. He backed away from the door, shaking his head, the brand on his hand burning like fire. A limb shot out of the ether, a stalk-like protrusion ending in a squirming mass of feeler tentacles. The cavern rumbled with a groan, the infinite walls of the alien city vibrating like an illusion on the horizon. The thing was still trying to get through the door—two more arachnoid stalks wriggled on the outside, trying to gain traction—but it seemed to be too bulky to easily pass through. The Thief wanted to flee, but his feet refused to move. In the distance, something launched itself from a spiraling tower, a winged monstrosity that glided through the volcanic air, growing larger as it approached. It’s mine, not theirs whispered a woman. He turned and saw the sorceress at his side, her hair auburn, eyes as green as the emerald city. Don’t look, you’ll go insane. A slime-coated tongue slid past the stalks, feeling its way across the earth, leaving a trail of mucus in its wake. I must have it. Do you not understand revenge? He has won; he has taken everything from me. Death is the only retort I can give. Without revenge I have no meaning. Without the Heart, I have no revenge.
A shadow fell, enveloping all in darkness. As he looked above, he felt a sudden wind beat upon him like a hurricane. Cowering on his belly, hands wrapped around his head, the Thief saw great bat wings stretched across the cavern ceiling, their motion titanic, pummeling the air as though they were the appendages of a god. A skeletal head lolled downward, hot breath billowing from its opened maw, and he knew that in a moment there would be nothing left of him or the sorceress, for nothing could withstand the incinerating heat of a dying star. Give it to me she said. It is your only hope.
He awoke suddenly, the night sky sparkling with a billion scattered stars. Clouds of breath steamed from his mouth, a sudden cold having set in, leaving frost on his face. The desire to return to sleep weighed his body down, though the disturbing vision he’d just experienced necessitated rising, no matter the level of fatigue. A sixth sense, a thief’s presentiment, crawled his skin and told him to observe before making a move. Smoldering embers were what remained of the campfire, and Josun was not on watch. No one had relieved him, however, for Fergal remained in repose, as did Cassilda. The night noises that had kept sleep away for so long had ceased, which led to his realization what the matter was. There’s an unnatural silence. No insects hummed, no birds chattered, no beasts roared. Very slowly, he slid his elbows back and arched his upper body up so that he could see below.
Josun stood at the bottom of the ruins, a strange look on his face, as though all the blood had recently been drained from it. His right hand was stretched out in front of him, fingers extended as if to caress the chin of an invisible lover, while his body remained tense, its rigidity plain in the statuesque pose it held. The Thief only knew the barbarian was alive because of the small puffs of moisture that emitted from his nostrils every few seconds. What is he looking at? For several moments the Thief saw nothing in front of the man. It was only when he paid attention to the slow movement of Josun’s fingers that he saw a mimic reflection made of faint, almost invisible light. A ragged outline floated above the earth, an ashen imprint of moonbeams as ephemeral as the frost that coated the grass. There was a music to it too, an ambient drone like the slow trickle of water in a subterranean cavern. When their fingers touched, he heard a coo emit from the specter, the soft noise of a baby. The Lady save us. He had never seen a ghost before, never believed in them despite what the sorcerers said. The coldness, the absolute cessation of life—he was not fooled by quiet sounds or meek impressions. Josun’s face, sucked dry of vigor, explained the situation. The question was, what could he do about it? Would noise frighten it away? Would Fergal know what to do? Seeing a rock lying nearby, he decided to wake him with a well-aimed throw at his enormous head. The stone glanced off the Aiv’s brow with a thud; eyelids fluttered but did not open, while a groan elicited from his mouth before tapering off into a snore. The Thief cursed under his breath and looked around for another rock. As he reached for a suitably-sized pebble, a spiderweb of ice spread on the ground beneath his hand.
Come with us, come with us, be with us forever, we do not wish to be alone, you will come with us and be with us and it will be lessened, we will feel again when you are with us, we will be more than frost on fallen leaves, we will be more than derelict memories, we will have form and function and blood and flesh and a name.
Something cold touched his shoulder, stealing warmth from his body with every second that it lingered. A soft sigh slithered through his ears, its weariness coursing through his head. He felt an infinite tiredness of being, a feeling he imagined only the ancient and the chronically-pained ever experienced. The yearning for eternal sleep, the paradoxical peace of nonexistence, pawed at his soul like a halfhearted feline. He knew it was the specter, that it wanted the life which it could never again have, yet its desire was so strong that he could do nothing but lay there comatose and wait to become a corpse. A shout rang out; briefly, he felt it turn its attention away from him and lessen its grip somewhat, yet when he tried to move, the Thief found that his legs were frozen, covered in ice. He could tilt his head still—there was Fergal, waving arms, great eyes as wide as the moon—but everything else was paralyzed by frost. As the Aiv shouted at the specter, its anger grew like water boiling in a hot spring. The coos turned to guttural howls, long, drawn out moans that cut through the heart like a scythe through wheat. He heard Fergal gasp, saw him stumble and fall as the spirit approached, its appearance having become darker and more suggestive of a decaying assembly of bones. Arms reached for him, crooked like a shepherd’s staff. “No, please, leave me be!” whimpered the small humanoid, yet the Thief knew it had no pity, for pity was an emotion for the living, and the dead knew only fear, anger, and infinite sorrow.
A bright light lit up the night like a firework, erasing the scattered stars. Little meteors fell from the sky, bringing fire and warmth. A voice like the rushing wind drowned out the specter’s howl. The ice on his legs turned to water and feeling returned to his limbs. Pulling himself to his feet, the Thief looked upon Cassilda, standing before the spirit, her body pulsing with an emerald glow, fire writhing over her fingertips. She flicked her wrist and fire encircled the specter, the flames licking at its icy, cold light. He felt the dead thing’s terror in his heart, felt it release its hold on him and the others.
“Imprint of emotion, release them and be gone! You are nothing but a shadow burned onto the earth, still clinging to the life that you lost. Nameless, forgotten, dead before your time, we give you the pity that you cannot give yourself. Be gone, for the soul has long ago fled and vanished to wherever it is dead things go. Let go of the mortal realm. I banish you for all time. Now leave!”
With her final utterance, the flames lit up high and the specter shrieked. In an instant, there was nothing, only the quiet night, the multitude of stars, and a pile of ash where the spirit had been. Cassilda approached the pile, tore a rag from her shirt, and deposited a pinch of ash onto the rag, which she then tied together and placed in her pocket. Turning to Fergal, who lay on the ground with his hands on his head, she bent down and whispered something into his ear, causing him to cease his blubbering.
“Thief,” she said, pointing down the hill, “I need your help. The barbarian is unconscious, and I don’t believe I can drag his bulk to the fire.”
“Why don’t you cast a spell…” started the Thief.
“Because magic takes effort, and I’m all spent, and really you should be more cooperative, seeing how I just saved your life.”
“The amulet is not in my pocket,” he said, suddenly noticing the lack of weight in his pocket.
“Yes, it is around my neck, where it should be. Now help!”
He did as she requested, dragging his numb legs down the hill, his obedience sudden and without further dissent. He found the barbarian splayed out on the grass like a slaughtered animal, face as pale as the moon, eyes rolled upward in their sockets. He looks dead thought the Thief, but he took hold of Josun underneath the arms, and dragged his considerable weight back up the hill towards the warmth of the fire. Setting him down a short distance from the cinders, he stepped back and watched as the sorceress rekindled the flames with a snap of the fingers. Light bathed the barbarian’s wan face; with murmured words and a sprinkling of ash mixed with a few droplets of blood, vigor returned to his visage. Cassilda lay for a long time with her ear pressed to his chest before becoming satisfied.
“It will be a while before he wakes,” she said, touching his face. “The wraith drained much of his life away and only kindling remains. We can do quite a bit with kindling, though. Like the fire that roars before you, it can be built up once more, provided fuel is available. We may have to give our blood to our companion here, until he is strong enough to live without it. You may be exempt, Fergal, for I know naught what kind of ichor runs in your veins.”
“My blood is blue,” said Fergal, staring past the sorceress’s shoulder.
“So’s mine,” said the Thief with a grin. Fergal’s stare never wavered, his eyes as distant as the moon.
“I don’t believe he is familiar with that human idiom, you fool,” said Cassilda. “A step away from death’s door, and you continue with your frivolous manner, as though that specter did not almost kill you.”
“I take back what I said about you earlier. You are quite fetching when you’re angry.”
“If you wish to see me angry, keeping speaking. Otherwise, hold out your arm and roll up your sleeve. Do you have any diseases that we should know about?”
“Other than a bout of clap that was thankfully remedied by an herbalist, I’m as healthy as any peasant-born man who makes his living through breaking and entering.”
Cassilda sighed and took his knife and drew a mark on the Thief’s arm. She put a few droplets in a vial and then cleaned the blade.
“I will give him some in a minute. The both of you can go back to sleep, if you can. I will stay with him the rest of the night.”
Neither the Thief nor Fergal found themselves able to sleep. There was a coldness that would not leave them, and despite his comment, the Thief could not bring himself to think of anything other than the piercing, thin voice of the ghost. It wasn’t until dawn that the rising sun melted the frost that had seized their hearts, and they rose fatigued, but thankful for the light of day.
Next Chapter: A Shadow over Dunfermline
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