Lady of Poison (5 page)

ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ

Joining the militia seemed to be one of the best moves of Marrec’s young life. He reveled in the weapon drills, the warrior’s training, and the endless mock duels with the other young men of the village with similar hearts.

Not so Emmon. Though quick enough with his wits, Marrec’s stepbrother wasn’t too swift when it came to arms and armor. The drilling required of all those in the militia made little dent in Emmon’s inability to properly wield a sword. Emmon and Marrec were thick; Marrec helped Emmon perfect his skills, while Emmon was happy just to be around Marrec. They were friends.

When not training in the militia, Marrec and Emmon enjoyed taking short walks outside of the village, to the edges of the forest and sometimes past. The two boys made a contest of who would be the first to sight some small game animal, tree, or other interesting feature of the Wild. They had a favorite haunt near the edge of the river, where a small cave provided the perfect hide-out

from adults and the responsibilities expected of those coming of age.

The raids started around that time.

Horrible creatures out of the wild found the village, and for reasons of their own, they decided it would make an ideal target of terrorism and piracy. The raiders were a tribe of brutish, manlike ogres who called themselves the Durang, after their leader. Not interested in concessions, the Durang launched a career of attacks on the town. At first just outlying farms were hit, but it was clear that the Durang were intent on striking to the very heart of the village, and soon.

So it was time for the militia to do the job it had trained for. Defend the village. Marrec looked forward to the coming encounter with a strange, tight feeling in his stomach. He looked forward to being tested in actual battle, yet he was nervous. He didn’t let that show to his comrades, who were all outwardly afraid. Emmon put on a brave face, but Marrec knew his brother well enough to know that on the inside, Emmon was just this side of fleeing for all he was worth.

The crash on the hastily-constructed palisade wall signaled that the time for wondering was past. It was time to fight.

Another crash, and the Durang were through. Some of his fellow militiamen were stunned, thinking that the barrier should have lasted longer. No time for that. Yellow-skinned brutes with thick, warty skin boiled in through the breach. Marrec was among the few brave enough to meet the initial onslaught. He had chosen a spear, which he judged he could use more profitably against the eight-foot-tall Durang. Plus, ever since the incident with bear in the woods, Marrec simply preferred the spear.

A particularly ill-kempt brute with greasy hair charged him, brandishing a great club of splintered wood. Marrec felt fear melt away before the immediacy

of his predicament. Fear would only get in the way of the actions he must take in order to survive.

He ducked under the monster’s first swing, jumped up instantly and drove his spear into the Durang’s temple. Just like that, the creature was vanquished. Marrec yelled in jubilation, wrenching his spear free from the carcass.

“Who’s next? he wondered.

Things weren’t going nearly so well for the rest of the militiamen. Even one Durang was a match for two or three humans, and there were at least eight ogres by Marrec’s count. Over to his left, the drillmaster Rimmard stood his ground well enough, but everywhere else the Durang encroached. Not a single militiaman was uninjured, except for himself and maybe Rimmard.

His eyes found Emmon. His half-brother lay twisted, unmoving, his broken sword several feet from his splayed grip. “Emmon?” Marrec rushed to the body of his stepbrother.

Emmon was dead.

Rage took Marrec. The boy felt his own humanity splinter and fall away, as if it were snake skin. His eyes had started burning the moment the attack began. Seeing his dead brother, it felt as if the very orbs were afire. Marrec screamed, clutching his head with both hands. His head felt molten, and his eyes brimmed with the blaze inside.

Why not let the anger out? something whispered. Why not?

Marrec allowed his hands to fall away from his head. Despite the pain, his gaze was infused with a deadly clarity. As if burrowing a channel in the air with his gaze, he unleashed the fury within at the ogre nearest the fallen body of Emmon, but the ogre was not burned.

It was turned to stone.

A great hush extended from the first unmoving ogre, growing in radius like a rock dimples a pond, ever-widening as defenders and ogres alike paused to see

what had occurred. A long sigh was heard, or maybe it was a collective gasp of fear from villagers and attackers, as startled eyes alighted on Marrec then flinched quickly away.

Then the remaining raiders were running, running from his invincible gaze. He cared not. He was in a swoon of anger and loss.

Emmon still lay dead at Marrec’s feet. His gaze was spent, and the fury subsided to a dull ache deep within his head. All was silent. Villager gazes continued to scatter away from him like water on a hot skillet, afraid to commit. A murmur of astonishment grew, but more than just astonishment, there was also fear. Fear of him. The freak. The monster.

So he was. The bitter truth was apparent to all. The townspeople wanted nothing more to do with him, despite his victory over the Durang. His blood was tainted with an unknown but likely devilish power, he was told. He was outcast, even by his own family.

So it was that Marrec fled into the Wild.

Yhey sought the city of Two Stars, Elowen in the lead, the rest following after.

Marrec tried to carry Ash piggy-back, but she seemed more comfortable walking, so their pace in the lightly forested country was measured to the pace of a young child. Marrec knew that would have to change, but he was willing to allow the child her head for the moment. Perhaps later they could purchase a small horse or pony for the girl to ride upon.

Elowen was familiar with the country and could get them back on the road called the Golden Way without backtracking along the path Marrec and Gunggari had used to reach Fullpoint. Marrec knew little of the land, but he was learning more with each day. He did know that the city of Two Stars girdled the Golden Way and was an important city in the land of

Thesk, which was the ungainly name of that far land where Marrec found himself.

Marrec reflected back on his journey since he’d reached the eastern shore of the Sea of Fallen Stars. He and Gunggari had first disembarked in the city of Telflamm after their passage east across the Sea. Telf lamm was the founding city of the Golden Way. For thousands of miles the great trade road wended eastward, eventually joining Faeriin to the fabulous lands of Kara-Tur, Marrec was assured. Along the road lay the merchant towns that comprised the realm of Thesk, the crossroads of the Unapproachable East. All that was revealed to Marrec upon landfall, but he wasn’t sure he believed much of what was told him in the thief-ruled city of Telflamm. At the time, he just wanted to find Fullpoint, though he did recall seeing a map showing Two Stars situated not much farther along the great trade road.

While on the great trade road, they’d passed through countless smaller villages, and three larger cities, Phent, Phsant, and Tammar. The towns of Phent and Tammar had offered no trouble, but in Phsant their ignorance of local custom had caused a few problems. Somehow—Marrec wasn’t sure exactly how—Gunggari had earned the displeasure’ of someone called the Golden Master. Marrec didn’t really worry about it until they discovered hundreds of soldiers loyal to the Golden Master mustered against them as they attempted to exit the city from the strangely named Shou quarter. They’d barely escaped. One thing was sure—he and Gunggari wouldn’t be going back through Phsant if they could help it.

Marrec hoped Two Stars wasn’t all that far from Fullpoint. Surely it would be a quick journey, at least after he made some sort of arrangement for Ash’s transportation.

Perhaps he should consult with their guide.

“Elowen?” called Marrec from the rear. He was making certain that Ash walked ahead of him, never

allowing the girl out of his sight. “How far to Two Stars did you say?”

Elowen paused in her conversation with Gunggari, looking back. Marrec was glad to see those two seemed to be getting along. “No more than a couple of days, Marrec; it’s about sixty miles. Not to worry. This foliage gives way to grassland soon enough. If we were traveling through a real forest, like the Lethyr or Rawlinswood, you’d know it.”

Marrec nodded, satisfied.

Elowen walked, excited at her chance meeting in the wood. Her senses were attuned to the wildlife of leaf and bough, but more than others of her order, she enjoyed conversation. Sadly, the creatures and plants in her care were mostly unskilled in that area. These strangers had many stories to tell and offered the chance for conversations many and long.

More importantly, the strangers were concerned with the troubles of the wood, just like her. They seemed specifically concerned about the troubles caused by these rot-touched volodnis, as was she. She feared that where blight moved so fearlessly, only one possible agency could be responsible… but she had to be sure before she reported back to the Circle. That was a conversation she did not relish. She had stayed away far too long—and the longer she stayed away, the more difficult it had become each day to set her feet back toward her fellows. After all, she had been pursuing her mission, however delayed it had become.

“The trees are yours to guard?” asked Gunggari, who walked beside her on the road to Two Stars.

“Not quite,” responded Elowen. “Nentyar hunters, such as myself, are. few. We don’t patrol specific areas. Rather, we are free to wander widely, trusting our own judgment,

but yes, we confront all who seek to harm the forest.”

Gunggari fell quiet, apparently satisfied.

The southlander was a puzzle to Elowen, but an interesting puzzle. She’d never seen anybody like him. A human, to be sure, but one with customs unlike she’d ever come upon before then. He intrigued her. She hoped they would accompany her back to the Mucklestones. Her friend Briartan would love to meet someone from so far abroad.

“What about you?” Elowen asked the tattooed soldier. “What is the significance of all those marks on your body? They seem too exquisite to be mere decoration.”

Gunggari considered a moment, then said, “In Osse, in the land where my mother bore me, these tattoos speak of my strength, skill, and dedication to alcheringa.”

Elowen looked at Gunggari, waiting for him to continue.

“Alcheringa is the philosophy of my people. I walk that path. These marks on my body are totems, each telling of an ancestral hero of my people. I call on them for aid when I am in need. That is alcheringa”.

“Who’s this one?” Elowen impudently pointed at a vaguely human tattoo on Gunggari’s chest. “He’s got a warclub like yours.”

“Tumbarum. He is the spirit of music. He plays the dizheri. Like so.”

Gunggari hefted his hollow war club, upon which were painted elaborate designs in bright colors, and began to blow through one end. A sound, as of thunder, or a rushing river, reverberated through the air. Startled, a nearby flock of birds gave flight. The sound was unlike anything she had ever heard. Gunggari continued to blow. The thought occurred to her that it was music of a sort the elves had never mastered, something she could scarcely credit. His warclub was a musical instrument. Truly a marvel.

After a time, Gunggari finished. Elowen said, “You

are a master musician, Gunggari. Among my people, you would be accorded much honor for that alone.”

The Oslander stowed his instrument and nodded, taking her at her word, without humility or arrogance. Gunggari was simply a man who knew his worth.

He said, “You have made my friend Marrec very happy, appearing when you did, saving the child. He has long sought that child; you have made a friend of him and me.” So saying, Gunggari clapped her on the shoulder.

Such familiarity between herself and strangers was uncommon, and normally she would resent such contact, but she was surprised to find that, coming from the strange man from the south with his strange customs, she didn’t mind.

Ś&

A pony named Henri was procured for Ash in the village of Culdorn that evening. The group had covered just fifteen miles, but they did reach the great trade road, the Golden Way. They put up that night in the Culdorn Inn. Ash was completely taken with Henri; she was far more interested in the little horse than with her companions. The girl tried to sleep with the pony in the stable instead of the room they arranged for her and Elowen to share. That was, by far, the most emotion the child had yet generated for anything, and Marrec was pleased. Perhaps the mount would prove a bridge by which Ash could be reached.

The next day the four traveled swiftly down the Golden Way. Henri was amenable to the pace set. Elowen and Gunggari were used to traveling light and quickly, but Marrec, too, could move fast when necessary. Before the sun dipped down on their flank, sending their shadows ahead like dusky fingers, they covered a full thirty miles. Elowen indicated they had only a half day’s travel to look forward to the next day.

They made camp alongside the road that night. Elowen got a fire going with Gunggari’s aid in scavenging suitable brush and dead branches. Tiny sparks drifted up from the fire, blending with the stars above. Gunggari told a story drawn from the mythology of his people, as he sometimes did, but only with much cajoling from Marrec. That night, he launched into the telling on his own initiative. It was a story about rain.

Rain woke Marrec in the gray light of dawn. Clouds scrolled across the sky, brushing water in great grey arcs across the soggy landscape. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the water from his hair, then stood to check on Ash. They’d rigged a simple lean-to for the girl, which had kept out most of the rain. She still slept under its protection, curled up in her blanket. Henri stood protectively nearby, his coat damp and curled. Marrec could smell the beast’s damp fur—distinctive, but not unpleasant.