Previously…
Sepp and the party found themselves in the Voerlund town of Saumark. While exploring, Sepp and Barosh procured weapons after a run-in with thugs, Sepp came to terms with his feelings on the strange events of the past few days, the party procured travel with a Dunmarrow caravan, and they learned of the impending winter festival of Viner’s Night, the time of thresholds…
Chapter 10 can be read here
Sepp awoke a little later than he intended. Perhaps just a little past midday. The bustle of the town was muffled, but it seemed rather lively, he thought. There was a flutter of excitement in his chest. There was occasion for it. This was Viner’s Night. As he got up, washed and dressed, he gave himself a second to think on his father. It was a tremulous feeling, but better than it had been. Today, he’d celebrate his adopted Voerlunder heritage, if he could claim it as such. If not, he’d celebrate it for his father. Or just do both. He let out a shaky sigh, said a little prayer to the World Serpent (which he felt he should get used to here), and left his room, pack of medicine and hexes at his side.
The first thing Sepp was greeted with was a rather jovial fellow on the stairs who clapped him on the arm with a hearty “Vinner’s Mechar!”, before disappearing into a room. Let that set the mood, Sepp thought with a chuckle. When he made it downstairs into the tavern, the first thing he was met with there was Barosh bellowing “Vinner’s Mechar!”, well pronounced. The tavern was fairly full, and several folk looked around and smiled. Sepp had a feeling the phrase would soon lose all meaning if this kept up.
“You should see outside,” Seva smiled as she got up and motioned him outwards. Skivor seemed amused as he bid good day over a tankard.
Saumark hadn’t exactly been a quiet town beforehand, but now it seemed to have utterly burst to life. Gone was the somewhat stoic and stolid aspect it had yesterday, and in its place, colour and music and cheer. Great big banners of serpentine design were hung from the faces of buildings, many of them bridging streets. They were green, gold, red, purple, and all quite rich. There were also lanterns of the same colours everywhere, all of them lit and radiant even in the day time. Sepp could hardly wait to see what the place looked like at night.
“The feast opens at sundown, we’re all saving our appetites,” said Seva, beaming. This is exactly what they all needed, thought Sepp. “Except for the ale, that’s free right now.”
“On an empty stomach?” Sepp chided her jokingly.
“It’s not empty, it’s full of ale.”
With the amount of celebratory free food being handed out, their appetites hadn’t a chance. And it wouldn’t be right not to avail of it if they were trying to fit in. Or, as Barosh had concluded, scarfing down a dumpling, at least take advantage of them being poor travellers from a war-torn land and get lots of free food. The customary greeting of “Vinner’s Mechar!” had been bellowed, laughed, and expressed in forms beyond count. But it at least seemed to be helping the others get the hang of Voerlund syllables. Even Skivor piped up a few times. Sepp wondered how he was doing, and if perhaps he was beginning to see the real Skivor emerge.
They slowed their intake of food after a while and genuinely tried to conserve themselves. They sat and listened to music and song in the courts and wide streets, even singing along from the sidelines every now and then as best as they could carry the bombastic tune. It also began to grow dark noticeably fast, and in only a few hours, dusk had set, the sun having left for far places. Thus they began a leisurely walk up to the Count’s keep, in the central-north section of the town.
The keep, home and headquarters of Count Yaroman Sau, a very old name that had reclaimed its reputation in the last century, was as Voerlund as could be: form came first, tall thick walls with turrets at each of the five corners, very imposing. It lay within an enclosing outer wall, littered with smaller buildings of stone and wood. The town surrounded it, itself walled. The great reinforced oaken gates were flung open. With the gorgeous light thrown upon them from the dozens and dozens of lanterns, they saw the richly detailed but age-worn carvings of drakes and horses all about, and of course the World Serpent. They wondered if they would see the Count around and about, but security seemed tight, with armoured town guard stationed everywhere, and patrolling wherever a guard did not stand. Perhaps they feared thieves in the form of desperate refugees. Or more likely fights and rowdy revellers.
As they passed into the sizeable main hall, Sepp thought to himself before he saw anything, how was Miss Imalde? He hoped she and her baby were enjoying the festivities, wherever they were, be at the border keep or another town or village. He hoped she still had enough potion. But the sight of the decorated hall flushed worry from his mind. It was a massive vaulted chamber, with six pillar rising right through the ceiling, of a dark, veined marble, not only beautiful, but sturdy. The floor was slabs of smooth stone, the walls rich dark wooden pannelling. This kind of place was intended for various functions, from grand receptions, audiences and ceremonies, to holding the townsfolk in case of war or invasion. The monasteries in Silverden served the same purpose, but only if you lived nearby. It was like the entire town condensed into a single great chamber. How they’d even managed this was beyond him—Sepp noticed the place was almost entirely lit by coloured lanterns, lending an almost garish but still festive and lively air to everything, the strong shades blending together warmly.
They observed it all for a minute, unsure of any particular customs they should partake in, but no, it really seemed like a free for all. Various helpers seemed to manifest from nowhere, restocking plates, veering about the crowds expertly. It was extraordinarily loud, thought Sepp, and between the chattering crowds and raucous music, he felt he needed something to eat to fortify himself against imminent exhaustion.
“Now,” Skivor leaned in and rumbled through the noise to the others, “We’re to meet this Karel fellow here, the Dunmarrow.” He stroked his drooping moustache thoughtfully as he glanced about. They’d stand out pretty easily, but the place was packed, and constantly on the move.
“Best move into the center, perhaps he’ll spot us?” Barosh said, tapping Skivor on the arm.
“Aye, yeah, good idea, lad,” the woodsman nodded and immediately set off to wade through the people, leaving barely a space in his wake to be followed. He peered over heads every so often to no avail. Eventually, after no less than a twelve “oh sorry’s” each replied to with a cheery “Vinner’s Mechar!” they made it to what seemed to be the general, more open center, where much of the food had been laid out on a long table spanning almost the entire length of the hall, with a couple breaks in it for movement’s sake. Alas, all that was left in that area was drink, which they took anyway.
Sepp periodically patted and felt his pack. In the back of his mind, he too feared thieves. Pickpockets would make a killing here, he thought. There was little of immediate worth on him, but he was also keenly aware that there were things of immense danger a second’s grab away. He decided to try and keep one hand perpetually upon it, more for everyone else’s sake than supplies he could easily replace. But it wasn’t as if they didn’t hold a sentimental value, either.
Skivor asked them all to take a direction and look out for their contact, while Seva, with a grin, slipped away to try and forage, promising to bring something back. They shifted away from each other ever so slightly as people came in to grab bottles and pitchers.
It was then that she appeared.
It was the Macha girl from the apothecary the other day. Sepp saw her now more clearly. She was pale, not like the Voerlunders were pale, but almost bereft of any colour at all, and she had black hair and grey eyes, different to the Dunmarrow ones. It was a stark and striking image in the otherwise bright and colourful keep hall. She wore a sort of long brown tunic, vest, and strapped sandals. Her arms were bare, and her shoulders bore intricate blue patterns. He had heard some time in the past that the Macha had a tradition of strange blue paints that might be magic.
“Come join with me in my room tonight…” she glanced down to Sepp’s pack, and leaned in, whispering in Merchant’s Tongue, “hex man.” And with that, she took his hand from his pack and slipped a small parchment note in it. She stopped just a second, and looked him right in the eyes with the most intense look he’d ever seen, nodded slowly, and slipped back into the crowd. Sepp had been so consumed with the strangeness of the encounter that he nearly missed Barosh, who had chanced to turn around, and his sly little smile. Sepp, who had been staring off into the crowd, ignored him for the moment, and examined the note, setting his ale down. It was a street name, then an inn and room number, and a final line which simply read: ‘I need your help’. How had she known about his hexes was the first thought that rushed to the forefront of his mind, and made his heart race. Was she ill? In danger? She didn’t say healer, or apothecary, not even physician, no, she said ‘hex man’. Barosh had sidled up beside Sepp and was grinning, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
“I don’t think it’s like that,” said Sepp, showing his friend the note. Barosh’s grin was replaced with a frown and raised brow. Sepp leaned in, and said:
“She called me a hex man.”
“Karel! Hello!” came Skivor’s accented bellow before Barosh could put forth a question. The woodsman turned and grabbed both lads, motioning them to follow him. He paused only a second to scout for Seva, but in that second was resigned that she was gone, and went to the Dunmarrow.
They sat about a small round table in a corner, near the top of the hall. The space immediately around them was free of revellers, likely avoiding the great grim black-clad warrior who sat looking out into it all. Though to be fair, he did have a mug of ale. If Sepp thought the Macha girl looked stark, the deathly pallor and shock-white hair of the Dunmarrow, Karel, with murky grey eyes different to the girl, was like a wraith. It’s said that something about the land up there, beyond the sea, marked the first Macha. Perhaps it was their gods, but the Dunmarrow, he reckoned, were marked by something far stranger.
The other thing both lads recognized nearly instantly, even in the garish light, was that it was the same warrior who had saved them in the alleyway. They both gave him proper Silverden bows and professed thanks. He glanced at the axes on their belts and gave a short smirk, and said he was glad they learned their lesson. They fell then into conversation, or rather Skivor and Karel did.
“We’ll be setting out tomorrow shortly before midday, or what passes for that now,” he spoke with perfect but slightly stilted Silverden sounds like before.
“Why so late?” asked Skivor.
“No sense driving out the crew in the wake of these festivities,” he waved a mailled hand about, “they’ll be useless until freshened up anyway. Myself included.” He gave a deep chuckle, and the lads shared a look. “I know well our reputation,” he noticed it and said to them, “but for us, you get one life and you fight for it. Then you can enjoy it, hmm? So no rush. Enjoy the town. We will spend many nights in the open, in the cold. It is a long way to the next village.”
After that, the two men hashed out further details, and mostly went over and over what they said, Barosh beginning to wane, excusing himself at one point. But Sepp sat there, and half-listened, distracted by his encounter. He did not feel dread, more concern, and a sense of mystery. But it began to settle upon him and make him restless. He decided to wait for a short while, until the streets went a little quieter. He knew, from talking at the merchant stalls previously, that many folk would await sunrise, though plenty would retire long before then. He was almost sure he knew where the inn was, too. Somewhere just off that main thoroughfare. The Axe and Mug was likely going to remain open for people to come and go through Viner’s Night, so that wasn’t a problem. If not, he’d remain alert, and find a time to leave.
After Skivor and Karel shook on their plans, Sepp bid the Dunmarrow thank you once again and added “Vinner’s Mechar” to which the mercenary smirked. They left then to seek out Barosh and Seva, who had commandeered a section of table laden with piping hot beast shank and assorted fried cheeses, which was apparently a Voerlund favourite. The things his father had given up, thought Sepp. Seva had given him a wry smile, to which he glared at Barosh. They passed the night slowly retiring more and more from the keep until they found themselves outside, filled to bursting, though Sepp had eaten rather sparingly, and had forgone further ales and wines, opting for cold water when he could. Whatever was going to happen tonight, he wanted to be alert.
Sepp dozed in his bed for a while, and calmed himself as best he could, checking through his medicines and hexes over and over. But mostly it was a waiting game, and he wasn’t really waiting for anything but whatever he felt was right. He counted the crowds passing outside, and kept check on the sound from within the Axe and Mug. Over perhaps three hours, it began to lessen considerably. He checked the note again and again, memorizing its short contents, and making sure he read nothing wrong. Her words echoed in his head.
Sepp slunk down the darkened stairs of the inn. He lent his weight slowly to every step. He had brought his travelling cloak with him for concealment, but felt perhaps he was making too much of it all. No one was going to notice him, or stop him. And yet stealth and secrecy somehow felt right about all this. He gave a nod to the half-sleeping innkeeper, and slipped out of the inn door. He passed across the small square and into some side streets, but not too deep. The place looked so different at night, and the lantern lights weren’t as omnipresent as he thought. He noticed some town guard on these quieter streets, he was glad of their presence in case of a repeat of the other day, until he noticed them, hands on their axe-hafts, telling someone to get out of the alleyway. And once this person had moved, they started coming down his way. They looked jumpy, he thought. New men nervous of some situation cooked up in their minds, more than likely. Sure, Viner’s Night was probably a troublemaker’s heaven. But he couldn’t afford their interference.
He thought quickly. Play the lost foreigner, and ask for directions? This late, and dressed like a thief in a great dark cloak? Not a chance. He didn’t want to just dart away either. There was something else, though. He slid his hand down to his pack, and reached inside slowly. They hadn’t seen him yet, but were getting closer. He could turn them. He was glad of the refresher of the pack’s contents he’d taken. About halfway down was a small hexagonal jar of a moist greenish powder. In extremely small doses, it could addle the mind. In stronger doses, it dulled the senses for hours at a time. If overdosed, it could put a full grown burden beast into a sleep of death. That little bottle, taken at once, would kill in seconds, he guessed. Corked shut and bound with a neutralizing bloom, it was harmless. But rub a stroke or two of the design off, it might be enough to make them leave.
He wasn’t in the habit of employing hexes against regular people, but this was a special case. Charcoal at the ready, he wiped away a section of the bloom tied to the jar’s neck, reversing it. Even he, with his years of exposure and relative immunity, could feel the wave pouring over his mind. He moved along, watching the guards. The general range of a hex is pretty difficult to calculate. It has to do with the amount of poison, its freshness, its potency. This was a small jar of strong stuff, so it would cover, say, a house. If anyone was in the buildings near him, they’d be feeling it, too. Lethargy, discomfort, heaviness, confusion. At any rate, Sepp sighed quietly with relief when they turned away. He quickly filled the missing strokes back in, replaced the hex in the pack, and crept along.
The long, large main street of Saumark was still rather active, but Sepp stayed off to the side. He saw then the sign to the inn, which sat in a curious little bulge in the street just ahead: Greatgate Inn. She was likely waiting in the rooms upstairs. Sepp gingerly opened the door, felt the bell above it, and moved in slowly. There were two people behind the counter, chatting. Wincing, Sepp merely put his head down, yawned, waved, and let out a weary “Vinner’s Mechar” as he plodded up the stairs.
Room fifteen. The last room in a rather sizeable inn. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect inside. The sudden and quite dreadful weight of it being a trap galloped to the forefront of his mind and stopped him in his tracks. Maybe she wanted him dead. But he remembered her eyes, and the look she gave. On the one hand, he was frankly armed to the teeth, and had his axe. On the other hand, if he left, someone might die. The right decision overpowered his paralyzed limbs.
He knocked on the door lightly. There was a sound of rushing feet from within, and then slowly, the door opened a crack. The Macha looked out. Relief flooded across her tense expression. She opened the door a little more, and permitted him entry.
“Thank you, hex man,” was all she said as Sepp took some hesitant steps within. He was suddenly struck by the scene before him: on the floor, on a pile of flattened blankets, was a Dunmarrow warrior. Kneeling beside him, another, who looked with grim, sorrowful eyes. The girl locked the door and came around to Sepp.
“There is not much time here. This man is gravely ill—he’s been poisoned.”
“Bad death,” came the Dunmarrow’s reply as he looked up, in a thick accent stumbling over Merchant’s Tongue words, “the far frost will not allow it.” He looked back down again, and was silent.
“Tonight is a time of-”
“Thresholds...” Sepp trailed off, taking it all in. She seemed to appreciate that.
“Only tonight can we heal him. Northern magic for a northman.”
Magic. He supposed she was right. But that felt more than strange to think of. Magic was something hermits did, odd folk in forest huts and hillside shacks. Things done in secret places, at secret times.
Just like the back room where Búcher brewed hexes, he answered to himself.
Alright, so he was a magician then. But laying there was a sick man, dying, and he was above all else an apothecary, as was his father.
“Okay. Tell me what you want me to do.” She took a deep breath then, and began explaining what she had done, slipping every so often in a curious dialect, her own northern Merchant’s Tongue he guessed. He couldn’t have expected it to be the same everywhere. She had been invoking the god through the water, and having the man drink it as best he could by drops.
“I’ve nearly used it all up, my water from Macha. And this land is bad for it to happen in, we Macha are old enemies. But Locod is seeing him through as can be done so far away. But I want your hexes here to kill the poison in him. That is Turach medicine and magic, from the north.”
“Turach?” Her brow furrowed at his question.
“Turasach you know them as here?”
“It was the name my father used.”
“Your father was northern, hex man?”
“Yes—no, well he was from Voerlund.” She considered this.
“But you are Silverden? You are, pardon me, dark.”
“Yes, he adopted me.”
“That is good then. We need to prepare, hex man.”
“What do I call you?” he asked as she began to move away. She looked down for a second, and turned to him.
“My name is Aismere, of Norleach in Macha.”
Ash-mere, he formed the sounds slowly for a second.
“Then call me Sepp.” She nodded, and motioned him to join her.
He looked at this company as Aismere prepared more water. Their complexions were ghostly in the candlelight. He wondered that the difference in their grey eyes meant. She saw him looking, and answered.
“You wonder about our eyes?”
Sepp stuttered an apology.
“I am marked by Locod, the water god of the past and magic. Because magic is old and deep like the lakes and sea, and the past can be murky, or be clear, like the lakes and sea. Locod is death, too, but not their death,” she motioned to the Dunmarrow. “I am on my fiannos to become dryador, because Locod marked me. Maybe you are on a journey, too, Sepp.”
He wasn’t sure what to say, so asked elsewhere.
“Do you know what poisoned him? Any symptoms?”
“He could not eat,” said the other Dunmarrow, “then became very weak, and before he fell into slumber, he was in pain. It happened very quickly. He was attacked.”
“Sounds bad, could be a lot of things...” he said half to himself in thought, and then set to work silently, thinking only on what he needed in the moment. He tried to avoid glancing at the dying man before him.
The root of hexing was the radiating of a poison’s baleful power, to apply poison’s harmful affects indirectly. It was a simple and very imprecise art. The different poisons and blooms could produce varying levels and types of harm. Some poisons were, naturally, stronger than others, and could be used to overpower lesser poisons. These hexes for protection were a trickier art, however, and Búcher’s blooms on them were intricate. His neutralizing bloom didn’t really take away the poison’s harmful properties, it just kept it in its place. After all, he had once said, a room full of vicious toxins, blooms or no, wasn’t a good thing to keep. Might be a good place to start, keeping the poison still.
But this wasn’t protection, thought Sepp, this was combat. Harm against harm. There was nothing to protect against, he was already stricken. It wasn’t an outside influence being drowned out, it was a poison already within.
...Why couldn’t he affect that? If he could turn this man into, essentially, a hex bottle...draw out and then drown out the harm. Let the Macha’s holy water do the healing. Serpent’s breath, now there was an idea, loose as it may be.
But how? The other Dunmarrow had brought out a small flat stone on a length of cord from about his neck, and was rubbing it with his thumb. He looked over to Aismere, who had a small bowl, from which she was taking droplets of the crystal water and letting them fall on the man’s lips. He saw then again her arms with the blue designs in the candlelight, and the thought struck him like a physical blow. It was worth a shot.
“Aismere, how much of that water do you have left?” She looked to Sepp, and then back to the bowl.
“Not very much, why?”
“I’m going to paint a bloom on him.” The other northman looked up. “With charcoal and holy water. I’m going to make him into a hex, and drown him out with something stronger. It’s the only way I can affect the poison inside him. And after a minute, have him drink the last of the water.” She immediately set aside a small amount of water in another bowl, and they mixed the rest with half the stick of charcoal, making it into a sort of thin paste. They lifted the dying Dunmarrow’s tunic and Sepp held Búcher’s grimoire close, copying with extreme and practiced precision a simple radiating bloom onto the pallid skin. He had to be quick, though. The poison in him would begin to go outwards, and it wasn’t anything light in there. He grabbed his pack and dug through it, bringing out the two worst hexes he could find. He rubbed off a stroke of their neutralizing blooms, and gave one to Aismere to set at the feet, while he set the other by the head.
“Can you invoke your Serpent?” she asked. Sepp turned to her.
“Oh, I’m...well, it’s different in Silverden, but…” He recalled dimly something his father used to do as a kind of frustrated reflex. He would cup his hands inwards, one over the other, and usually give a mild swear and plea for divine intercession before going silent for a second. Worth a shot. So, Sepp cupped his hands, and held them to his chest. The Macha dipped her finger in the water, and held it to her forehead.
“I don’t know who this man is,” Sepp said, mouthing the words and exhaling, “but he needs my help, and I need yours. I don’t know his gods, but ask them for help too. Please protect him while we work, and let your coils right the wrongs of his illness.”
He could only hope that his worst poisons were stronger than whatever had afflicted the Dunmarrow. They’d likely know in a moment. Hexes were often not gradual, like poisons can be, but sudden, and they grow in magnitude until full.
An agonizingly slow minute passed, and a heaviness began to gather in Sepp’s chest. Aismere was still as she gazed down. The other Dunmarrow had removed the stone charm from around his neck. Sepp guessed it was a holy symbol, maybe the man was pre-empting some rite. The dying man’s breathing had been terribly shallow and slow.
“Okay, now, give him the water, quickly.” Sepp bit his lip in concern. Aismere glided across to the bowl she’d left and bent down, cradling the man’s head. She put the bowl to his lips. Sepp didn’t think him unconscious, but clearly he was not aware. In that moment, he noticed, however, the man stir slightly. He took the water, and she was careful to go slow, small sips at a time. She was mouthing something. A prayer? A spell? She held him for a second, and the other Dunmarrow set his charm down, and helped her.
“Hold the bottle over his head,” Sepp said, watching the man’s face intently. The Dunmarrow obliged. The very instant it was held there, his eyes, though closed, winced. Sepp held his breath, and mere seconds later, there was a heave in the man’s chest, which was let out gently. And then it came again, then again, and suddenly he was breathing deep, but slow, and regular. A tension was lost in his face Sepp hadn’t noticed before. Aismere turned, and there was a brightness in her eyes, and a flash of a smile, before she went back to the Dunmarrow and lay his head down. The other one pocketed his charm. He reached out and touched Aismere’s arm and said something in a tongue Sepp didn’t understand, but it seemed good. He finally gave a shaky exhalation, and caught his breath.
They helped the man to the bed in the room, and Sepp moved the hexes from the floor to the bed. The Dunmarrow who had come with his ill comrade laid his hand on Sepp’s shoulder, and said:
“I will not ever forget this. He will not ever forget this. We would count you a friend, healer.” The Dunmarrow nodded to both of them and left quietly. Sepp couldn’t help but smile. She, too, was smiling, a faint one, but it removed the intensity in her features.
He knew he would be exhausted beyond compare tomorrow, but he stayed in the room with medicines at the ready, beside Aismere, tending to the slowly awakening Dunmarrow warrior.
The Path of Poison: Chapter 11
Great heroes journey! What next?!