The Path of Poison: Chapter 8
Previously on The Path of Poison…
After narrowly escaping a beastman attack in the wilderness thanks to Sepp’s hexes, the group arrived at a Voerlund town, and after a good night’s rest, split up to explore…
Chapter 7 can be read here
Sepp stopped dead in his tracks. The sign above the door was unmistakable. All he said was “Hey!”, point back with his thumb, and when Barosh recognized the sign of an apothecary, he waved with his hands as if to say “Let’s go”.
The interior was low, but wide. Eight long tables were laden with samples of various medicines and accoutrements for customers to peruse. Most were like replicas—the store didn’t have a watchman or anything. But above all, it had the persistent odour that such places have—the smell of incense, dried herbs, powders, it seeps into the wood over time, and try as one might, it will never leave. But most apothecaries don’t want it to, and customers come to find it as something comforting. For Sepp it was something entirely different. The all too familiar scent hit him like a wave. He stopped for a second, and was about to tell Barosh that, perhaps, this wasn’t a good idea right now, when something happened.
A young woman appeared, and went to pass them. Pale, very pale, far more so than even the Voerlunders they’d seen, almost bereft of colour, but with absolutely black hair. The juxtaposition was striking, but what caught them both off-guard were her eyes: piercing, they were grey, like steel. She was only there for a moment, but every detail of this alien countenance impacted them. And as she passed, she gave Sepp a quick and rather odd look. That was when he noticed the blue markings on her bare arms. But her eyes darted away, she simply nodded, and left through the doorway. Barosh was looking back at the doorway, and when he turned back, Sepp seemed lost in a thought. He snapped from it and remarked:
“Who do you think she was?”
“Couldn’t rightly say...never seen someone like that before.”
“I guess you get all sorts in big towns like this, eh?”
“Sure do, yeah…So, uh, what are we looking for?”
“I was thinking of stocking up on some things and...well, for old time’s sake, take a look.”
“Oh—of course, go.”
The store wasn’t blessed with the best angle for sunlight, though the windows were generous. A few wide paper lanterns hung on the ceiling and gave the place an atmosphere of evening light, though it was still morning. An aged woman stood behind the counter, which was stacked with various baskets and small wooden casks. She smiled and held up a hand in greeting.
“My goodness, so many foreign visitors today! First the Macha girl, now two Silverden lads! How can I help you?” She was polite, bright, and only somewhat formal. Sepp glanced to Barosh with a look that said he’d speak for them.
“G’morn’, miss,” he said with his best northern accent, and she smiled at it. Barosh just grinned. “I was actually wondering if you could help out a fellow apothecary?”
“Ah of course!” The gold of her eyes lit up.
“You see, we’re actually on the road with—with family, and I’m the go-to healer. And, well we’re travelling pretty light and I’d like something for emergencies, you know, like mandrake cord, something hefty.”
“Goodness, you are an apothecary,” old lady chuckled. “I think I might just have something here…”
From here, the two healers launched into a discussion that left Barosh completely bewildered. He didn’t even excuse himself as he went off and poked around the shelves. Once or twice, the owner called out and used what Barosh was examining as an example to Sepp, making the young man set whatever scented branch or little vial he was poking at back down. He noticed Búcher’s name came up once, too. After some minutes of excited chatter, which Sepp seemed to get more comfortable with, he asked for some gold and began to rummage around in Búcher’s pack. They had come to an amicable agreement, some gold and some of Sepp’s materials in trade. Nothing hard to find, but it saved her from having to source or gather them herself, plus they were already pre-preserved. In return, three twines of mandrake cord—given, not harvested from a mandrake’s flowerfolk, which apparently made a huge difference. She even threw in a few small bits, on the house, as a favour to a fellow healer. One of them was a few small lozenges, made from a certain tree’s sap and used for calming. Sepp remarked they tasted pretty good, mildly sweet, but you wouldn’t want to overindulge. He learned the hard way when he slept for a full day on them as a boy, which made the shopkeeper laugh. When they were done, Sepp thanked her again, and Barosh gave a very polite Silverden bow, and they left with her well-wishes.
They walked up the quaint little back street in high spirits, glad to have found another friendly face in the town. A town, they realized, they actually didn’t know the name of. That was something else to learn today. They were quiet for a minutes as Sepp arranged his pack a little and Barosh strayed to check out the windows of buildings they passed. After a moment, Sepp spoke up, but didn’t turn around. A slight hesitation tinged his voice.
“You know, Voerlund’s been pretty good to us so far, but...do you feel like perhaps we shouldn’t have abandoned Silverden so quickly?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Barosh said as he rubbed the back of his head. “But, pff, as the temple guard said, this wasn’t a little skirmish, it was war. Won’t be over soon.”
“I remember. I just can’t help thinking, what if they took the village back? Drove those mercenaries out. I mean, would we even know? The refugee groups would be first to know.”
“Maybe they did, but considering what that attack was turning into, we don’t know if there’s a village to go back to. Could be under temple guard occupation, become a barracks, hardly a good place to live with fear of another attack, this time in the night. As for other towns nearby? Probably no better. Nah, best to continue for ourselves. Keep an ear out, sure, but...wouldn’t hope for anything. Maybe one day. Just not soon. Sure, we all have our reasons for going along with it, right?”
“True, we do. But you didn’t have...family or anything back in Silverden, no?”
“Yeah but not really,” Barosh said with a kind of sigh. “The farm was kind of it for me. I wasn’t even really from Yamesh.”
“No way?”
“Yeah, let’s just say I’d rather stay with folk from the village than go back elsewhere. Anyway, always been more comfortable with a strong leader, and Skivor’s got that, more so than the temple guard, bless them. No matter how much an ox he is. And, sure, the company isn’t so bad!”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Sepp chuckled.
Barosh shot him a glare with a grin behind it.
“Oh come on, you can’t possibly object to that. Plus, Seva can cook, can you cook? I can’t. I somehow doubt Skivor can.”
“I actually can, and Skivor being a woodsman, he probably can, too, but I somehow don’t think that’s the point.”
“Exactly!” laughed Barosh.
They turned a few corners, not really keeping track of the place names, and moved deeper into the backstreets. Things were much quieter here, but a little more bare. A lot of back doors to other buildings and private residences, some taller than wider, and many with overhangs, giving the street they walked up a shadowy aspect.
“Hey, so, I have some more Voerlund questions—and some others,” Barosh announced.
“Go for it.”
“What’s Sepp short for, anyway? Never heard that name before.”
“Seppesh, but no one ever called me that, not even my dad.”
“What would it be up here?”
“Uh...something like Sabbak, I think. Honestly, Silverden to Voerlund sounds aren’t always consistent.”
“I see, I see...what would my name be?”
“Hmm, I think it’d be Baruch, with that throaty sound, or maybe Barrok.”
“I could used to that,” he mused, looking quite pleased with his lot. “What about the other two?”
“Skivor’s already basically a Voerlund name, and Seva...honestly I’m not sure. Never heard a name like her’s before myself. Cheva, or Sheffa, or something.”
“Pff, doesn’t sound half as good.”
“Not really, no,” Sepp answered with a chuckle.
They decided to try and find a main street, not liking the idea of getting lost somewhere they weren’t meant to be. These streets looked old, they were thin, and were all quite similar to each other. Bits of moisture collected in the deeper grooves of the pavement here. Suddenly, there was a sound behind them which cut the silence of the alley. A scuffing sound of something upon stone. They didn’t look, but walked a little faster. There was a bend up ahead that looked like it widen onto something nearer the main street. And then, a voice called out.
“Hey, Silverden…” it was raspy, with a thick accent. “You no run, yeah?” It was followed by a laugh that was returned by a second voice, also behind them. Ahead then, a figure emerged from the shadow of a deep porch ahead of them. Sepp and Barosh stopped and turned. Pale Voerlund faces, with pale hair and yellow eyes with none of the pleasing light gold of the north. The second one addressed them with a reedy little tone.
“You give gold now, come on.” He spoke loudly, as if to a fool or a child, and motioned while the other laid a hand on the hilt of a long dagger by his waist.
“We’re only travellers, we haven’t much…”
They two facing them laughed.
“This one can talk! Right, good, so you’ve an idea what’s going on here, Silverden, we don’t really care. Drop it.” Barosh was inching backwards when the sound of a blade unsheathing made them both tense up. Sepp suddenly realized the thief probably didn’t mean Barosh’s little coinpurse. He meant Sepp’s—Búcher’s pack. The fear in him immediately inverted, and every fibre of his being wanted to make and follow through with as many threats as he could. There were things in that pack that could kill, and he’d half a mind to let them know. All he needed to was reach in and rip off a label, any label…
“Leave.”
The single word was growled with an alien accent from behind them as a noticeably larger blade was quickly drawn. Where it had come from so swiftly, no one there knew, but when Sepp and Barosh followed the frankly terrified eyes of the thugs, they saw in the dimness of the backstreet first only a bloodless visage, with pallid eyes, and a shock of white hair. Gaunt, but strong featured. The teeth were bared. And then, the great black metal broadsword held ready to strike. And surrounding it all, black armour of the same type, a coat of plates, shining dark, and chain, adorned with a sweeping cloak almost like a living shadow. The thugs almost fell over themselves in escape. Sepp and Barosh stood frozen. The ghostly titan stared with stormy eyes beyond them as the footfalls fell into silence. He relaxed then, lowered the frightful blade, and looked the two up and down.
“The streets, back here, are not safe.” He spoke with almost perfect, if a little stilted, Silverden pronunciation. They knew exactly what he was. “There are no good deaths here. Go now.” They hadn’t even time to bow as the great Dunmarrow warrior, mercenary clansman and follower of the nameless death god of the ice wastes, strode past them, clanking, into the alleyway, and disappeared around a bend.
They looked at each other, back to where the warrior had gone, and back to each other again.
“Seeing all sorts today, aren’t we?” Barosh laughed, but there was a shaking behind it. Sepp just let out a long sigh of relief.
“Yeah, maybe weapons wouldn’t be such a bad idea...I’d rather not use what’s in my pack.”
The two swiftly left for the wider street ahead, and found themselves in a courtyard overlooked by a grand old house, and ringed by smaller ones. Another street beyond this led to a much livelier thoroughfare, and it was there they began to search for an armourer, blacksmith—they weren’t exactly sure where to buy arms, but they’d find them. They came, after some moments, to a covered arcade where lines of merchants hawked their wares. It looked promising. But suddenly, Barosh stopped with a hand on Sepp’s arm.
“I’ve just realized!”
“Yeah?”
“That Dunmarrow fella, they don’t usually appear alone, right?”
“True, but...Ah!”
“Exactly, we find him, and his comrades...we find transport.”