Previously…
The party left the Voerlund town of Saumark in the company of a Dunmarrow wagon, among whose number was the warrior Sepp helped heal. After fending off an attack by a colossal drake, Sepp deals with the repercussions of his hasty actions…
Chapter 13 can be read here
Further west, and a little northwards, for the road wavered a great deal, the general landscape assumed a rather attractive character. The town of Saumark had sat on a kind of natural elevation with one, wide flat approach at its front, and rugged slopes and low cliffs on every other side. Around it the land hadn’t been terribly undulant, but compared to this broad, gently rolling panorama, it certainly seemed more so in their heads. The grass was lush and deep green, numerous sprouts of woodland and smatterings of shrubbery lent a healthy aspect to the vista. Farms sat with good spaces around each other, but no so far that they were isolated. Their boundaries were naturally managed with hedgerows, and small figures could be seen harvesting the last of their crop and tending to their livestock, these being the early days of winter. A calm, pastoral scene to soothe the nerves. The road they were on was of bare, loose earth, possibly at times was paved and re-paved with large flat stones, but that clearly still wasn’t a priority out here. Regardless, their beasts and wagons got on fine with it.
Through the next few hours, the caravan passed through a small village and deposited two of its merchant cargo. Sepp had seen to them in that time, they were fine as he very well knew, understandably shaken and highly excitable, but completely untouched. Still, his healer’s instinct thought they could use some looking to. As he did so, they beheld the young apothecary with something like awe, and Sepp felt himself increasingly unable to take their wide eyes upon him. He gave them each a piece of softened root to chew on, taken from a very particular plant that grew everywhere but was hard to find. A popular remedy for frayed nerves. He knew they were bursting with questions, he could feel it bubbling just under the surface, but his reserved and somewhat brusque manner seemed to nip that in the bud. But he did wonder how they perceived them as he asked perfunctory questions. As some kind of sorcerer no doubt. Maybe a holy man from the mystical south, as some Voerlunders were wont to think. Anything was better than hex-man, though. He hoped they wouldn’t come to that conclusion as the story of the drake encounter inevitably spread through the village. The thought came to him time and time against he moved from wagon to wagon: what on earth had he been thinking?
The village had been open, and had no walls. A collection of several clusters of buildings. Several of them had guardsmen coming and going, and, Sepp guessed, acted as its perimeter. All in all, the buildings were smaller but similar in style to what was back in the town. Many wooden houses with overhangs, tall roofs, some bottom floors made of stone. The place even had a neatly paved main road running through it from the two larger structures that likely acted as gatehouses of a kind. They didn’t stop over long, but it was enough to grab some hot food from an interesting tavern which had an open wall, selling food of the street, and for the Dunmarrow to bury their comrade in a spot just outside the village bounds. They were pretty quick about it, too, after talking with some local official who looked rather small compared to the black-armoured northmen, who kept a respectful distance. Sepp expected there to be more of a show to it, considering they were so concerned with death and all, but he supposed that was for back home. He wondered what that looked like, if any outsider had ever seen it. Was Dunmarrow a place people went to, or just came from? At any rate, there must have been countless numbers of their unmarked graves all around these lands.
The nervous agitation among of his companions was taking a while to die down, but they were more settled once back on the road. The back flap was left half open as were the side flaps to let in more light now that last night’s revelry had been properly shaken off. Sepp sat and looked out at the dusty earthen road beyond which that gorgeous Voerlund country stretched. It really did have a different aspect than to Silverden, but it was hard to pin down what exactly it was. That hardness, or toughness, down south he supposed it’d look more...what? The grass would be lighter for one thing, and taller. The woods wouldn’t be so tightly packed, either. He thought the juxtaposition of pale Voerlunders with their dark land was amusing, especially considering the opposite was true in Silverden.
“Quite a display out there, Sepp,” said Seva after a moment. “You good after all that?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Second time you’ve saved us on the road,” Barosh said with a friendly prod of the elbow.
More eyes on him now. He didn’t blame them.
“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” Seva said with a kind of nervous chuckle, “but what...made you leap out of here and do that?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, it was more of surprise. He got the impression she didn’t think such a thing was in him.
“I don’t know,” replied Sepp with a particular bluntness. “I wasn’t really thinking. I just knew I could help. I mean, hey, don’t think I haven’t been asking myself that ever since.”
“Were you not afraid you'd get hurt? You saw the size of that thing.”
“I can’t believe I’m alive, Seva,” he replied with a grim chuckle of his own.
“Didn’t think your...stuff could get that strong, honestly,” said Barosh then. “Did you know, or..?”
“Eh...yes and no. I had an idea. But to see it, that was something else.”
“Impressive stuff, though!” Sepp wordlessly agreed. That was certainly one way of looking at it.
Skivor was the only one with an odd look.
“I would hate to see what that could do against a person.”
“Yeah, so would I,” Sepp said shooting him a glare. “I know, Skivor, we’ve talked about this before.”
“Young lad carrying around stuff that could probably level all of those fellows outside.”
“That stuff saved their people twice now. That’s what I was doing last night, I’m sure you’ve been filled in,” he nodded towards Barosh without looking away, who gave a small, awkward smile in confirmation, “about the Macha girl.”
“Aye, and it’s good you did so, but Sepp, this hexing stuff...this is what sets folk apart from others. Those merchants saw it. They don’t know you. Just be careful, lad.”
“I’m very aware of what I’m walking around with. Grew up with it. But I grew up with more medicines than I did hexes.” Only he hadn’t counted on Aismere’s woad mark, but he didn’t say that.
“Well,” Skivor cut in, “I’m glad it’s at least in your hands. Just make sure it stays there.”
Perhaps there were no odd feelings about his foolhardiness, but there was no way, Sepp thought, that they weren’t looking at him at least a little differently now. Though he didn’t appreciate the woodsman’s veiled remarks coloured by what Sepp secretly considered was his ignorance, there was no doubting that he was right. Was it good and proper for a lad of not even twenty summers to be walking around with a pack full of things that could kill a person? Or a group of people if he really tried? And, he thought, there was Búcher’s grimoire, detailing all these poisons and blooms for anyone to read, all the things they could do, should some pickpocket slip their hands for just a second into his pack, or some stupid mistake part him from it. His immediate reaction to these thoughts were “absolutely not, yet here I am”. It wasn’t like he intended even for a second to set it aside. Once they remained in his hands, he supposed. But that woad mark…Serpent’s Breath, part of him genuinely felt like he shouldn’t have it. The realization began to dawn on him of the weight of the services he had rendered.
After some moments of silence, Sepp spoke in a lighter tone.
“We’ve only been gone a couple days, and the world comes tumbling down on us, eh?”
Barosh and Seva chuckled, Skivor grunted in assent.
“I could go for a day without something happening. You and I haven’t gone a day I think without being accosted,” said Barosh with a slight groan. That sparked something in Sepp’s head.
“Hey, let me teach you all a little healing. Balance things out a bit, maybe.” He turned to Skivor, “I’m sure you know a good deal of roots and leaves, but it would be good for us all to have it, right?” The woodsman nodded to affirm it was so.
The Voerlund country began to assume a wilder character as they left the bounds of civilization. Several black, peaked wagons lazily trudged along the well-trampled dirt road, which sprouted small weeds in some place. The stocky beasts with short horns that pulled the carts, however, didn’t seem to mind the terrain. Alongside the caravan, grim Dunmarrow warriors in black on darkish horses and dracomounts kept a vigilant eye on the quiet, empty country. From within one wagon there came an enthusiastic chatter as Sepp answered, at frequent intervals, questions about every single wrapped root and bundle of stems and leaves, at times consulting from his father’s grimoire on some name he couldn’t remember as his comrades crowded about him.
Have you ever thought of turning these into a book of short stories?
or barring that, have you thought of making an index for Path of poison?
I started reading it, and got lost after a day or so.
I love your work, by the way.