Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Haluzfeld - Haluz Věže
٤٤ Gerstesykli: ١٦ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
The night had grown cold enough to grow claws, though Eobum didn’t really mind. He stared at the pyre, watching it writhe and dance over the now unrecognizable form of Hrothgian. The others were, hopefully, curled up within the empty tavern they’d occupied.
He turned his back on the fire and walked a few steps away around the building’s side. Looking up, his eyes sought the jewel-bright orange of Sensenglanz—the star at the curved tip of Gerstesykli’s chief constellation, the Falx. This time of year, it hung long in the sky, not fading fully from view until the sun was well and truly awake. He drew a mental line between Sensenglanz and the sickle moon, gauging the hour as he’d been taught. Nearly three—nearly time.
Walking back to his former perch, he cast about. He was still alone.
He’d drew breath to call Haiga. The agreed-upon call this evening was one of his favorites, the Zimowy Sokół. His brothers and even his son were far better at duplicating its haunting cry as Hrothgian had taught them, but he thought he could manage a passable rendition. Before he’d had the chance to prove that dubious assessment, Haiga appeared at his shoulder.
Eobum gave him as warm a grin as he could muster, given the cold of both the air and his mood. “Was there enough?”
Haiga nodded, though he wore a reluctant expression as he handed over the small glass vial. “Bruu, Ng… erld bruu?” (Yes, Brother… are you sure?)
Eobum nodded, snatching the vial more quickly than the question warranted. “Bruu, Haiga. Ed bruu. Ed hrek zak vrekwrin ragshrash gar.” (Yes, Haiga. I’m certain. I will speak with him before he runs home.)
Eobum knew what was bothering his youngest brother. There had only been enough for one draught, and by rights, it should have gone to Aderano as Hrothgian’s closest kin or kith. Aderano, however, had made his mind all too clear on the matter, even through his misery.
Nye, Eobum. I want to. Hells haul me home if I don’t, but magic—even old magic… too much o’Venzene’s rubbed off on me, sadly—too much fear o’what’d come of it. I’m afraid… afraid I’d go with him…
Movement brought Eobum back to the matter at hand.
Haiga had bowed his head in a gesture of acceptance. “Ed ragbruu de lo ragord erld.” (I will make sure no trouble stalks you.)
Eobum nodded, looked once more at the pyre, then unstoppered the bottle and drained its meager contents in a single pull. He tried and failed not to pull a face. The flavor… well, calling it a flavor would have been awfully kind. It was like biting into a rotten lemon. Once Haiga had boiled the substance down, then treated it to remove the scent that drew the creatures toward the drinker—something about the sweat it forced the body to produce, he supposed—what was left was anything but sweet.
He ran the back of his hand along his mouth, wiping away the spittle that had been summoned by the vile stuff. His hand came away purple.
He strode to a nearby stone, slightly out of the way of any who opted to pass toward the jakes while he was otherwise occupied. Once there, he arranged his cloak so that it draped around both he and the stone he now sat upon. He thought about pulling up his hood but reminded himself that doing so would only make him more difficult to spot, which would make the whole exercise moot.
Settling in as best he could, he once more commenced staring at the fire—at Hrothgian. He allowed his vision to widen, forced his eyes to drink in the entirety of what lay before him, not merely the spot his gaze happened to fall upon. He felt his body slacken, muscles unknotting, eyes beginning to sting from his refusal to blink.
Slowly, he began to hear noises that did not precisely belong. It wasn’t that they were alien things that couldn’t belong to this pastoral scene, but rather that they seemed source-less. A growling hound sounded at once mere feet away from him, and as if it were expressing its displeasure in a cave or a well. A big-chested horse trumpeted its fear or anger from just beyond the pyre, though again, as if it were held in a stone chamber that Eobum was yet to see or mark.
While he did his best to lose track of time—such direct concentrations were reputed to slow the process rather than speed it up, much like watching any other pot boil, he supposed—he guessed some ten minutes or so had passed this way. The sourceless sounds grew louder, closer, as if they were slowly coming toward the entrances to their invisible caves and stone structures.
A short time later—he refused to guess how long—he saw the first flicker of movement to his right toward the foothills south of town. He resisted the urge, strong though it was, to turn his head in that direction. Haiga was near, he reminded himself, and would keep watch over the area. What he was seeing couldn’t harm him … unless he allowed it to.
As he continued staring at—nearly through—the funeral blaze, trying hard not to blink any more than he absolutely had to, the movement to his right grew closer. He saw a shadowed thing walking through the scant winterberry bushes and scrub pines. When, a moment later, he heard footsteps crunching on the cold grass and rocky scree; he knew it was time.
“Eodenth filth,” came a voice. “That they managed to end even one of you for what you’ve done here is sweeter by far just now than any wine that ever was.” The voice grew closer, stopping a few scant yards to Eobum—and the pyre’s—right. “Never fear, beautiful butcher… I’ll stay right here until you wake and enter into this grey place. Sweet savage… I shall design such brave punishments for you—ahhh…”
At first, Eobum feared the voice was speaking to him directly. He was, after all, Eodenth, just as nearly all of his folk were. As the newcomer ended his rant, a thing happened that clarified the situation: a screaming, howling sound that could only have come from a human throat. It grew louder, closer, finally localizing itself on the burning place where Hrothgian’s far-too-young corpse was being immolated.
As he watched, it was as if Hrothgian rolled off the platform, hitting the ground on his hands and knees, flesh smoking but otherwise unharmed. His red hair reflected the firelight, almost as if his mane, itself, were still ablaze.
The man to Eobum’s right—definitely a man, now, despite its higher tone—spoke up afresh. “Ahhh, here at last. I would have waited longer if I had to, but no matter. It is my decided pleasure to welcome you to the Grey Between. I fear you’ll not see whatever your ilk account as hereafter.” He paused as Hrothgian tried to regain some sense of his new surroundings. Full of a strangely dark courtesy, the man spoke on. “I shall give you a moment to find your feet before we begin.”
Eobum knew that voice. He was certain of it. He rummaged around in the back, sides, and front of his mind but came up with little more than certain familiarity. No matter. He, too, needed Hrothgian to gather himself before he spoke. If he didn’t wait, there was a chance the youth would attach himself to Eobum, rather than going on to whatever came next.
Hrothgian shook for a moment longer, then lifted his head, casting about himself as he tried to gain his bearings.
“Where am… Where’s Ader?”
“Gone, I’ve no doubt. Perhaps you owe them for burning you before they left.”
“Gone?”
“All of your filthy friends have gone, now, boy.” The man sighed theatrically. “They came through whatever bark-boiling sorcery your kinsmen used, sacrificed everyone they could find to their patrons, and moved on to find some other unsuspecting sows ripe for the slaughter.”
“I don’t…” Hrothgian stood up at last. He started to turn but stopped as he saw… “Eobum! Hells be hid. I was starting to worry! Where are the rest?” Then, as an afterthought, “Who’re we burning?”
“He cannot hear you, pup. The fire is yours.” The man’s voice was almost cheerful as he delivered this pronouncement.
Hrothgian turned to the man, drawing his sword. “I’ve had more’n enough a’your prattle. Still and silent, else I’ll still n’silence’ee.”
The man—still mostly in shadow—drew his own sword, laughing. “Oh, yessss. Do, please. Still and silence me, Eodenth filth… horse humper and tree tamer fall too short of the truth, ay? Child-eater, flesh-feaster, death-waker, blood-drinker…”
Hrothgian moved toward him, drawing his sword up and back over his bright shoulder.
As he advanced, Eobum saw the hallmarks of Aderano’s training, which in turn bore the hallmarks of Eranoric’s. Hrothgian’s body language suggested he was full of simple, thoughtless anger. He was selling the fact that his sword was going to either come down in a hammer or lash out in a flat snap. Eobum knew better. Hrothgian’s dim-arm bent in as if he would bring both hands to bear…
Suddenly his dim-arm flew out in the arc of a flat snap, but without a sword in its hand. As his foe reacted, leaning back at the waist and bringing his sword to bear in advance of a block he would never need, Hrothgian’s true attack began. He fired, bringing his sword down just above the man’s knee on his lead leg. The stroke connected and sliced straight through the exposed … flesh? Could it still rightly be called flesh?
Hroth’s foe fell to the ground with a howl of pain that quickly devolved into outright and uproarious laughter.
Stepping back, Hroth froze. His sword moved into a wary guard position across his own body.
Eobum, too, was initially baffled. When, a moment later, the man stood up whole again, laughing still, Eobum thought he understood. As the laughter died, and the man spoke anew, his understanding was proven true.
Hrothgian started to speak, “… How?” He had no further words.
“We shall have such magnificent battles, you and I, my dear demon.” He allowed his voice to return to its earlier calm, though with a touch of not-quite friendliness for good measure. “We’re dead, you and I. While the world burns around us, we will have time to spar and sprint, trap and torture one another, until we grow tired or the night finally, truly falls over Skolf at last.” He allowed his voice to grow soft, almost conciliatory. “None of the living will hear you, boy. Unless you lose yourself to the rage of your ending—becoming a haunt—nobody will hear your laughter ever again, save you and I. We have, I fear, all the time left in the world. We have … time to kill.”
Hrothgian bowed his head, though Eobum was pleased to see he didn’t lower his sword.
A light came into being. Like the sounds of earlier, it was source-less but undeniable. Eobum found he could finally see the man facing Hroth. He’d been right. He did know that voice, albeit not well. It was finally time, it seemed. The world of the dead had, at last, become sure, steady, and, most importantly—close.
“You’re half right, Excellency. You’re both dead, but there are ways—old ways—to say farewell.”
Hrothgian spun, utterly forgoing any defense, springing toward Eobum. “You see me! You hear me!”
Eobum nodded, still seated on his stone. “I do. I’m sorry I failed you, Hroth.” Hrothgian was mere feet away now, opening his arms to embrace the man he’d called commander. “Stop.” Eobum kept his voice flat. “Seeing and hearing’s all we can do. If you touch me, it may shake me out of my state. Given the hour, I doubt I’d have time to come back to you tonight, and a good deal can happen to the dead or the living by day.”
Hrothgian froze, face falling almost comically. “So it’s true? Ader? Alusc, Eranoric? Hells be hid, Eobum, the boys were with us! Lakkrid! Sulok!”
“… Are all alive and as well as may be, given your loss.”
Hrothgian looked surprised but clearly relieved.
“Turn, now, and look upon your sparring partner.” As Hrothgian obliged, Eobum continued. “May I present His Excellency, Baron Vagiaedelt, upon whose lands we now stand.”
He saw Hrothgian’s body tense, uncertain as to whether he should bow or grow angrier.
Vagiaedelt, on the other hand, merely snorted. “You know the name of the man who you and your fellows were sent to bring low. Is that supposed to—”
“I’d heard you’d grown softer in these last few years,” Eobum cut in. “I hadn’t thought that extended to your mind as well.”
Aedelt blinked, then glared. “How dare you?”
“…Speak the truth of what I see? I’ve done it most of my life, Excellency. No reason to stop now.” He paused, letting the silence deepen before speaking further.
Aedelt looked impassively on, keeping his face a mask.
Eobum released a soft sigh. “We must be nearly at the bell’s tolling by now, surely. Look again on my face—on his.” He gestured to Hrothgian. “Or have you grown so old you’ve forgotten how to tell friend from foe? Aye, fine. Your secret sorcery only served your body, not your spirit. Fine, but I and mine did not attack you. Edmund sent us to find you and deliver you a message that… that wouldn’t have mattered, in the end. It was based on untruth, and now…” He shook his head, cutting himself off. What more was there to say?
“Eobum… Eobum… yes—yes, I do recall you.” Aedelt snorted, “How could I not after Černé oči? You were lucky Edmund walked in when he did.”
Eobum gave a nod. “Gone days, Excellency. Gone days.” He turned back to Hrothgian. “I came looking for you, not the baron. I owe you and mean to see that debt paid.”
Hrothgian blinked, looking back to his commander. “You owe me nothing, Eobum. You pulled me from the block and gave me—”
“Your ending on the road because I trusted Alojz.”
Hrothgian nodded slowly, then moved to sit down a few feet from Eobum’s stone seat. “What do I do now? Wait, how in all the Hells… How are you hearing me? How are we speaking?”
Eobum grinned. “There are old rites. Not magic. Not really, at least. You know there are mushrooms, plants, and certain venoms that can make you sick, kill you, or give you vivid dreams.”
“Aye.” Hrothgian grinned. “Shrooms, spiders, n’serpents, n’no mistake.”
Eobum nodded and fought to hold back his grief. This could all be over with a shout of alarm or a sudden storm. He needed to move things along. The problem was, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to end their council because it would mean never hearing the voice of one of his own again.
“Well,” said he. “There are those that make you dream, even while you’re awake. Some that make you feel as if you were drunk or sleepwalking. If you take them in small, pure amounts and at the right hour… at the soul’s midnight, when the world grows thin, for instance, well, here we are.”
“More and more, I find myself pleased that I let you live, Eobum.” Aedelt walked over, grinning sourly. “You’re not dazed. You’ll recall nearly all of this meeting, won’t you?” As Eobum nodded, Aedelt wore a look of triumph, sitting down beside Hrothgian. “Tell me what happened—tell me Edmund’s message and why it proved useless. Perhaps I can still put my mind to some wider use before Havoc’s Horn knells the true end.”
Eobum arched his brows, leaning slowly forward. “I can do that. Hroth, you should hear it, anyway. You should know how this all happened—how and for what you … died.”
Hrothgian winced but nodded. “One last story, then?”
Eobum grinned, if only to stop himself from weeping. “Aye. One last story pays for all.” With that, he voyaged on the tale.