Tomorrow Man – Part XIV

 A hot fire roared in the dark stone hearth of Granny Hark’s Hovel as the old witch slept in front of it. The afternoon sun streamed through the small circular windows and scattered off the stone floor. Across the single room Zoyelle stood amidst a nest of bottles and jars in wooden racks, Granny’s iron cauldron set in front of her. As she ran her finger around the rim she recalled the long summer years ago before her ascendency to the sisterhood. She had spent countless hours in Gallowsbane’s forge with the smith. At her direction he had carefully engraved the outer skin, and she had spent the nights weaving enchantments through them. When she had finally presented it to Gladdis her mentor had scolded her for creating it. It brought a smile to her face to see it hovering in place before her, its interior stained from years of use.

She heard Yolder stomp across from the door, a barrel of water from the well outside in his thick stone arms. Serren followed the golem as he carefully tipped the water into the cauldron and placed the barrel next to her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her purity stone. She ran her fingers over the rough etchings in the small pebble’s surface and dropped it into the cauldron. It dropped through the water and came to rest a few inches from the bottom. The ripples on the surface died amidst the slight tremble of the water. After a few seconds she held her hand over the cauldron and the stone leapt from the water into it. Her fingers gripped tightly around the thin dry skin of dirt and grime that now covered the stone. She dropped it into the barrel where, amidst the remaining water, the skin of dirt burst and dissolved. The stone again leapt into her hand, dry and clean, and she placed it back in her pocket. The golem lifted the barrel and took it back outside as she whispered her gratitude. Serren remained behind her as she opened one of Granny’s larger potions books.

“You can read that?” The wizard asked as she ran her finger over the nonsensical scrawl.

“There’s a trick to deciphering it.” She replied as she placed the book down on a shelf beside her. She gazed into the crystal clear water in the cauldron. A pure medium was the bedrock of any potion, the slightest impurity could render an entire batch useless or worse. She activated some of the cauldron’s enchantments. The outer skin of the dull iron glowed as the engravings began to emit light. A ring of burning orange encircled the base and illuminated the floor, whilst softer yellow markings wound around the belly of the cauldron. The skin of the water distorted into two counter-rotating vortices, slightly disturbed at the centre of the cauldron by the rising column of heat.

“The art of potions is sadly not one the towers embrace.” Serren said. “Would you mind if I observed the process?”

“Not at all.” She replied. “But I will need to concentrate, this potion is very difficult to create.”

“What are you brewing?”

“Witherfang.”

“The vampire cure?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Only by reference. It’s supposed to be very rare. You can create it?”

“The method is Granny’s, I merely perfected the technique.” She reached out her hand and a jar of tiny white flakes drifted from a shelf to her hand. “The ingredients are hard to locate, but she’s always had a talent for finding elusive things.”

“Still, a single vial can fetch double its weight in silver. To be able to craft it is a rare skill.”

“It has no use outside treating the victims of vampirism.” She remarked as a small orb of white flakes rose from the open jar. She closed the jar and returned it to the shelf as the suspended flakes flattened into a disc over the surface of the water. The flakes dropped into the cauldron and dissolved as they mixed. The clear water began to glow with a living iridescent green.

“I have always found potioncraft fascinating.” Serren said as he peered into the swirling green.

“The first step in any brew is to create an elixir. It’s an infusion of the raw shardal energies with the medium. The rest is merely a case of manipulating those energies to serve a specific purpose.”

“Not unlike enchantment.”

“I suppose it is similar, in its own way.” She replied as half a dozen containers rose from the shelves around her. They emptied portions of their contents into the air and returned to where they had sat. A crimson powder and a cluster of small blue crystal fragments merged into a single swirling cloud that hung in the air. Pieces of green and purple leaves dropped into a granite bowl where a small sphere rolled across them and crushed them together. Shimmering droplets of clear white liquid glinted like stars and a piece of pure silver drifted as it divided in half over and over again.

“The heart of Witherfang is in two parts.” She said as she directed the numerous ingredients around her. “One is an affliction that disturbs the life energies. The other is a remedy that hardens the body’s resolve. The victim receives both whilst only the affliction is passed along the vampiric link.”

“Thus poisoning the well from which the vampire drinks.” Serren replied. “There are similar spells held within the Order of the Aether, however it requires a mastery to maintain the balance.”

“The balance is crucial here also. Too much of the affliction…”

“…and the person dies.”

“Too much of the remedy and the affliction is purged too quickly. Even in perfect balance the two elements need to be kept together yet separate, else they counteract each other.”

“I can see why it is so difficult to create.”

“Granny Hark developed a binding that holds the two together and ensures an equal balance. Without it the Witherfang can be useless as easily as it can be deadly.”

The droplets and particles of silver spiralled down towards the cauldron. A few feet above the surface of the elixir they crossed, spatters of light dancing from where silver passed through liquid. Each stream plunged into the heart of a different vortex and below the water they spun and were drawn into the column of rising heat. As they mixed the glow of the Aether within the elixir grew faint until it was barely discernible against the refraction of natural light.

“I added a draft of Dreamsikle to her method to encourage a painless sleep.” She said. “As the effects of the potion can be uncomfortable.”

“So complex a magic to be distilled into a physical form. I only fear that it will not work.” The wizard replied. “Against a vampire it is surely an effective draft, but the Vampire’s Kiss is an enchantment, an act of will rather than the bite of a mindless beast. A mage powerful enough to cast it once, let alone a hundred times, would know an affliction if it passed down from a victim. The caster can break the kiss with a thought, almost always at the cost of the victim’s life.”

“That’s why I am going to have to be creative.” She said as the pattern of mixing in the cauldron changed to that of a large central vortex with three smaller counter-rotating vortices moving slowly around it. “I intend to weaken the potion, lessen its effects.”

The cloud of crimson and blue dropped into the cauldron and vanished into the mixing. The liquid changed to a deep purple for a few seconds before shifting back to green.

“A weaker draft will be harder for the mage to detect. But the effects of the affliction should combine.”

“So you intend to give the weaker draft to many of the victims?”

“Yes. Enough to present whoever is doing this with a significant weakening. With luck they will not know from which of the children the curse flows.”

“He could just break more kisses until he had severed enough.”

“With so many, by doing so he would likely weaken himself even more than the affliction alone. It might not help us find him, but it would make him less of a threat when we eventually do.”

“I’m starting to see what she was saying about you, Madame Zoyelle. You have a mind many wizards would envy.”

“As much as I love your compliments, I need to concentrate.”

Serren nodded and watched in silence as she drew more containers from around her. As she mixed and combined powders, crystals and liquids the day wore on and the only other sound was Yolder tending carefully to the garden outside.

***

The One-Armed Knight tore another piece of fish bread with his teeth and cast his eye over the docks. The city of Artella may have been the match of any other for size, but that was all it seemed to have going for it. The aromas of shit and spoiled fish mixed in his nostrils. He wasn’t sure if the smell was worse than the taste of the malformed crust in his hand. Labourers’ food, he knew it well regardless of the taste. He sat alone on a wooden bench, one of many huddled around a rocky shack that doled out fish bread and steaming fish broth to the dock workers in the afternoon sun. He looked down across the flat stone bay and watched as a wide barge was loaded with blocks of rothstone. The proportions of the vessel alone marked it as one of the Mountain Kingdom’s, the mountain folk hastily overseeing the loading of its cargo simply made it obvious. Horses wheeled carts in pairs, each cart bore a single block. They moved slowly in a queue as blocks were loaded individually into the barge’s massive hold. A team of ten men operated one of the inelegant wooden cranes that littered the band between stone city and murky water. They bound a block and guided it carefully to the ship. Alongside a team of six mountain folk lifted an identical stone and walked it up a wide gang plank. The One-Armed Knight laughed.

They’re short gits but by the Gods are they strong.

He took another bite and turned his attention to the street around him. Behind him he heard two men talking in whispers, their voices drowned by the shouts of the workmen further away. An old woman hobbled towards him, wrapped head to toe in dark soiled rags and carrying a bundle.

“Iron penny for the baby?” She asked with a hoarse voice. He shook his head and she limped on towards another group. She was the third beggar he had refused since he passed through the gate. It didn’t surprise him, steel armour and a dragon-steel blade were out of place, especially here. His left shoulder tingled at the thought. He looked over to his left as he placed the fish bread on the empty barrel in front of him.

Where is she?

Maereen had not returned the previous night. With time against them he had pressed on to the city alone. She would find him, he had confidence in that, but every moment until then brought increased concern. He got to his feet and pocketed the last of the fish bread. He moved away from the docks and past a man scraping waste off the cobblestones. He passed between two large stone buildings into an alley partially blocked by decaying wooden crates. He sensed movement behind him. He turned, his right hand reached for his sword but the dark shape was upon him. A powerful arm locked his hand behind him and another flashed to his throat where he felt the cold of steel. Beside him a bundle of rags rolled to a stop. A black hood moved close to his ear and he heard a hoarse whisper.

“Three years ago we stood on Mount Sau. You picked a flower for me. What kind of flower?”

The figure spoke in fluent Saudian. She was here after all.

“We’ve never stood on Mount Sau together.” He replied in Asamorian.

“Speak the Island tongue.” The woman replied, again in Saudian. “In case we’re overheard.” She dragged him behind a pile of crates before she dropped him roughly to the ground. As he got to his feet she lowered her hood to reveal Maereen’s angular face.

“You were supposed to meet us back at the forest.” He said in Saudian.

“Had to take care of a couple of things.” She replied.

“Like what?”

“A way in, for starters.” She said as she produced a sealed scroll tube from beneath her cloak.

“A magic scroll?” He asked. “How is that going to get us through rothstone. Mole said it was impossible.”

“It’s a gateway scroll.” She said as she hid it once more. “Should get us straight into the castle’s heart.”

“You met up with the Mole yet?”

“Once. He’s working the underground.”

“We need to talk some place quiet, organise our plan.”

“I’ll take you to him. He’s near the castle.”

The knight took a step up the hill. Maereen held him back with a hand on his right shoulder. He turned back and she pointed him to a heap of rags. He reluctantly picked it up and saw it was a cloak.

“You don’t think someone might recognise Sir Tallus Storoth?” She asked.

He threw the cloak over his shoulders and fastened it. As they began walking he threw the hood over his head. As they wandered towards the castle they continued to speak in the unfamiliar language.

“Tell me, what have you learned since you arrived?” Tallus asked.

“The only way into and out of the castle is the front gate. The scroll will get us in, we will need to get out by ourselves.”

“Infiltration is our best option. Acquire the guise of guards and work our way around the inside, we need to steal them away into the night. The fewer who come in pursuit the better.”

“Recent developments have rendered that option ill-advised, Sir. The King’s bannermen are at most a day from the city.”

“Who commands them?”

“Sir Grannel of Stigen’s Point.”

“Damn. That ass would follow us to the ends of the world for the sport of it.”

“He’s almost certainly sent a messenger ahead. He will likely arrive by nightfall.”

“At which point the castle and the city close their gates. Infiltration would take too long.”

“There is worse news.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this, do I?”

“The scroll, it was given to me by the Wanderer.”

“He’s here? In this city?”

“He’s in the castle.”

The Wanderer was little more than a legend to most, a master of magic who called no place his home. Mothers would tell tales of him to scare their children, of how he would appear and what would follow in his wake. His name was a curse, and not one used lightly. The stories mattered little to Tallus, the Wanderer had crossed his path once before. The skin around his missing arm grew cold at the thought.

“Then this work is of his hand.”

“What will happen? What shall we do?” She asked.

“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that we will follow the King’s command.”

She nodded. “Then we will use the gateway?”

“Aye, we’ll strike when the darkness shrouds us. Go straight for the children and then for the gate. With luck we will be done before they know us. Do you have time to prepare your weapons?”

“I have all the materials I need. I require only space to prepare them.”

“Remember our orders.”

“I know.”

After a few minutes of silence they arrived at an unassuming block of stone huddled in the shadow of the castle that towered above. “He’s in here.” She said as she knocked loudly on the weathered wooden door. Tallus heard a rummaging inside and moments later the door opened inwards, the round and scarred face of the Mole peered through the gap.

“You’re late.”

“Just let us in!” Tallus snapped. The Mole pulled the door open and they moved inside. It was a house, a large room and a staircase leading up to the floor above. The furniture had been moved aside exposing bare stone in the centre of the room. As Tallus looked around the Mole closed the door behind them.

“I hope you remembered the King’s instructions.” Tallus remarked.

“Relax, boss, the place belongs to some old sea captain, no family. His ship went out yesterday, won’t be back until we’re long gone.”

“Are your preparations complete?”

“Everything is done, the tunnel leads from here and out beyond the walls.”

“Good. Maereen and I will make our move at nightfall.”

“Bring the children here, I will wait for your signal.” The Mole replied. “With no magi in their ranks I doubt they will be able to follow us, but I have planned for the possibility.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need to resort to drastic measures. I will not have us break our oath to the King.”

“You take your oath too seriously, Tallus.” The Mole said as he placed his mask over his face. “You of all people should know that death is unavoidable.”

He sank into the stone floor.

“Where are you going?” Maereen asked.

“If you are making your move tonight then I have more work to do. You’re going to need my help once you get outside the castle. You’ll just have to do without until then.” He said as he vanished beneath the floor, the stone rippling back to solidity above him. The woman shrugged her shoulders and wandered to the stove. As she lifted pieces of firewood from a basket into the stove Tallus moved to the centre of the room and eased his sword from its sheath. The rays of daylight that found their way through the shuttered windows glinted from the faultless blade and danced in the contours of the raskor-horn hilt inlaid with silver. The last gift from his King, in honour of his service, the blade felt weightless in his hand. It had been forged and enchanted especially for him, the magic made it easier to wield but it was no replacement for his sword-arm. He moved his remaining limbs in a slow dance, each move planting the blade with grace and precision. As he sliced the air around him he silently hoped he would not need to use it.

***

Krasten Wetherhall forced his eyes open as the voice of Revered Olgarth Tull flowed, an unchanging river of words. Books and stacks of scrolls littered the large circular table at which he, three scribes, the Master of Scrolls and the Harbour Master sat. It was the second day of these meetings, at which Olgarth listed what sounded to Krasten as the entire contents of the realm. The only thing that plagued his mind more was the incessant scratching of the scribes.

“Martek Remel,” Olgarth spoke in an autonomous drone. “Landholder of some three hundred and twenty reaches of farming land, sub-divided into twenty-five holdings, totalling six hundred thirty nine workers. Also holder of two quarries, one rothstone and granite, the other rothstone alone. Two hundred and ninety four stone workers, sixty eight horse and cart workers. Please, my Lord, pay attention.”

Krasten sat upright in his seat. “I’m sorry, Scrollmaster. Quiet hours are few on the water, we take our rest when we can. It’s a difficult habit to break.”

“It is not beyond understanding, my Lord. Your heart beats to the rhythm of conflict, a little rapid for those of us who work with pen and ink. I can only imagine I would fare little better on the deck of your ship.”

Krasten chuckled at the thought. “Perhaps. It’s hard to find interest in quarries and farms.”

“That as it may be, Lord Miteus appointed you to serve in his stead. The duties of the realm fall to you, the matters of taxation are important. The realm owes it due to the crown, the men of the Realmsguard, city guard, repairs and ships must all be paid for. The burdens must be finely balanced and carried to the landholders so they can prepare their own accounts.”

“I’ll never understand how my nephew withstands this.”

“With about as much complaint. May I continue?”

Krasen raised his hand in capitulation and sat back in his seat. Olgarth Tull turned his gaze back to the scroll before him and began to read again. As the words slowly bled together into the numbing droll he found his mind falling back into sleep. The sound of iron against oak as the door opened reached his ear and the world returned to his mind like a thunderclap. He was already on his feet when one of the squires approached from the door.

“Forgive my intrusion, my Lord.”

“What is it?” Krasten asked.

“A rider at the gate, my Lord. A messenger under Sir Grannel.”

“Grannel is a King’s man.” Olgarth remarked. “We are quite far from his domain.”

“I will receive him in the throne room.” Krasten replied. “Have him sent through at once.”

The large doors to the throne room opened and the castle guard filed in. They took up their places around the wooden throne as Krasten strode towards it. As he sat his mind summoned memories of his father sitting in this very seat so many years before. He remembered the ascension ceremony, the day his elder brother took the seat from their ageing father. The hall had been crowded, decorated with the family colours. It was empty now, except for those who had just entered.

Two guards entered flanking the messenger. His hands were raised, empty and showing a single silver ring on his right middle finger. His arms raised his cloak to show his simple yet elegant clothing and no weapons. He was small and thin, he lacked the build of a fighter. As he reached the edge of the dias he knelt and placed his hands on the floor. The guard closed the doors.

“You may stand.” Krasten announced.

“Thank you, my Lord.” The messenger replied as he rose. “I am Telleth of house Rensmith, squire and message-bearer to Sir Mahis Grannel, Bannerman to King Piscius. I have been sent with the written command of the King.”

Telleth took a scroll tube from his belt and presented it to Krasten as he stood. As he took it he cast his eye over it, sealed with the royal crest. “I think this is meant for my nephew.”

“It is intended for the whomever commands the realm in Lord Miteus’ absence.”

Krasten broke the wax seal and pulled the scroll from within the tube. As he unfurled it the signature of the King and the stamp of the crown caught his attention. The hall fermented in silence as his eyes scanned the scrawl. His eyes hardened as he looked back to the messenger.

“This is a trick.” He said as he rolled the parchment in his tightening fists.

“The King’s command is genuine, my master assures you. I have been sent to discuss terms.”

“Terms?” Krasten said as he crushed the scroll in his hand. His other hand felt for the hilt of his sword. “There will be no terms!” He screamed. Telleth took a step back as he advanced.

“You can tell your master this: If he wants my nephew’s children, he will have to crawl over the stones of this city and the bones of every man able to wield a sword!”

“Sir Grannel rides with two hundred men and the King’s blessing at his back. He advises you to yield to the King’s commands.”

Krasten’s hand ripped his sword from its sheath and struck the messenger across the jaw in a single motion. As Telleth fell back to the floor the steel blade sliced silently through the air and came to rest against his throat.

“If your master seeks weakness he will not find it here.” Krasten said. “We do not yield. He will need a thousand times two hundred men to have a hope of taking these walls.”

“Pl… please…” Telleth sputtered. “You wouldn’t kill me, I am a message-bearer, you would bring war!”

Krasten took the blade away from the boy’s throat but kept it visible. “You’ve brought the war. Go, run back to your master and tell him that he will have my sword before he has my family.”

Telleth opened his mouth to speak.

“Go!” Krasten blasted. The messenger scrambled to his feet and ran towards the door. Krasten fixed the two guards who had flanked him with a commanding glare.

“Follow him, let him pass the city walls then have them sealed!”

The guards nodded and turned. Krasten pointed his sword toward other guards in succession.

“Seal the castle gate, none pass without my word.”

“Go to the docks, Commander Sellas sleeps aboard Sea Dragon. Wake him, tell him the city is under threat.”

“Find Vigard and Alexia, double their guard.”

The men shouted their consent and dashed from the hall as Krasten sheathed his sword. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, the notion of battle had awoken him.

Part XIII | Contents | Part XV

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