Chapter Twenty Two

  Blood and Bottles

  Kugo sat in a tavern, the appointed meeting place of a certain Grewa and the Rod of Three Parts. It was loud, so terribly loud it beat at his ears, so loud he could hardly hear his own thoughts. Only ever the roar of the crowd, rising and falling every moment like the waves to the shore. Crashing and then silent, and crashing again. He wanted to shout them down. How would he ever spy out his enemies like this? Bang, bang, and still, bang, bang, and still. The people spoke from mouths unseen, pounding, pounding in his head. He gripped his mug so tightly that he feared it would shatter; the liquor rippled in it with each beat. He would scream, he was going to scream, he was about to scream. Bang, bang. – Bang, bang. – Bang, bang! And then, in a moment of lucidity, he realized it was not the crowd that spoke so loudly. But the beating of his heart had reached his skull and pounded within it. Bang, bang. Bang, bang. Bang, bang. And the rippling in his cup settled for a while.

  He took another drink, feeling the anger and fear dull, and his heart settled a little. He sat in a grimy, old tavern by the riverside. It was full, he could tell, of the worst sorts. River-men and thieves and bed-wenches. Had he been a good patron for a long while, there was little doubt he could murder a man in here and come back next week for another drink. In fact, he had some inkling that he was the only person here who had not planned anything illicit for the evening, murder aside. And so he waited. He did not know what the speaker for the Rod of Three Parts would look like, how he might dress, or when he was to arrive. But he had a good idea what Grewa would look like. Even if he were not the wizard with the wolves, he would be a Son of Barthus, pale and sickly, like a dead man walking. Like the visage of a man at a glimpse, the man lurking in the woods. Cold and rubbery, with dull eyes that looked passed you. He would be easy to spot, either at sight, or by a great, black coat.

  But for a while, no one came. For a day, he sat in that tavern, waiting for the moment to come, but it never did. His throat was dry. “Another drink,” he ordered in a wavering voice, and another was poured for him. He stared down into it, dark and rippling, and in the shadow of the tavern, it seemed as dark as the harbor at blackest night. Then, the pounding grew in earnest. What had he done? He wondered. But no, he must stay. He would not forgive himself if he didn’t, if he missed his chance again. “I’ll leave in a minute,” he whispered to his heart, “In a minute more.”

  Then, someone walked into the bar. Tall and clad in a black cloak. His face was hidden, and his features sequestered. It was him. It was him. It was him. It was him. It was him. It was him. Kugo jumped up from his seat and marched over. He grabbed the man by his shoulder and whipped. Kugo could taste it, sweet and sudden. And then he looked under his hood.

  A sun-worn man, tanned skin and great, bulbous nose, and ragged beard. Kugo stared blankly at the stranger. “Get y’er hand offa me!” he bellowed. He was an old man with scowl marks written into his face. Likely, he was a riverman.

  “Sorry,” Kugo stammered, nearly stumbling back. Kugo nearly fled. The world leaned with him as he left the tavern, the sun still shining on him. He could hear the river man shouting about what had just happened.

  “Damn madmen, can’t get a drink here anymore!”

  Kugo wanted desperately to take off his mask. It felt hot and humid beneath it. He kept walking. He just needed a little air, was all. As he walked along the rough dirt road of the little town, thick, tangling, uncut grass beside him, he noticed something. Tangled up in the weeds was a raven, pulling against the grass. He reached up to his coat and he peeked within at the brooch Nephis had bought him so long ago. A sapphire raven tangled up in flowers. Chills overcame him, and he could not bare to look at it any more, he dropped the coat. But as he walked, he found his hand tracing the shape of the piece from the outside. It was only a coincidence. He told himself. He tried to huff, but his breath was shaky. He kept walking. And then he saw something ordinary, and it stopped him. White mountain flowers had found their way all the way down here. This was not their place. They were small and stubborn, but they were not long for the world, for thorns were choking them. These thorns wrapped around, piercing an old log, certain to starve those little mountain bells.

  It was nothing. He tried to tell himself. It was nothing at all. But he could not. He bit his tongue and beat himself. Fine! He prayed. Fine! I will go! I will leave! And he left, his heart trembling at what would become of him if he hated another.

  Nephis stood, bound in a chamber with the wizard. It was a horrible room. Blood stained the walls. Red as iron. The smell was unbearable, stale and sour, it made it hard to breath. This was the scent that had repulsed her when she snuck in. In the center of the room was a table fitted with leather straps and iron chains. It was dull, blood and guts long seeped into it. And by the wizard were two things. One of the clay jars, and on the other side: small knives, healer’s tools, meant for precision and delicacy. Nephis could not speak.

  “It is a terrible thing,” said the wizard, “That so much blood must be spilled to make life easy. Don’t you agree?”

  Nephis tried to back out of the room, but a Son of Barthus stood on either side of her.

  “Dear me, you know what I mean? Surely? You are a sorcerer, and a well-bred one at that, judging by your fine coat. We kill to raise ourselves. It is always how it’s been. We go to war for gold and silver and land, because those make us wealthy. I have never believed in honor. It is a silly thing. For stories and church plays. A thing to lull the baa-ing masses to sleep. We kill the pig to fill our bellies. And even when those who dream of honor refuse to kill, they kill their neighbor in other ways, they sleep with their wives, they press their fence a bit more to their side, they do a thousand little things to make their lives easier.” He turned to look at the girl. She was shaking her head terribly. Grewa sighed. He did not know what she shook her head, the gore or the bloody truth of the world. “You still don’t believe me?” He grabbed her by her cheeks. They were warm with blood. “I am Grewa,” he said, “Son of a seer. You will listen to me, won’t you? Won’t you believe me, you are intelligent, aren’t you? Educated?” She still shook her head, her eyes wide with terror. He laughed. “It’s good you have eyes to see through me! You’re right. I am no different than those I shame and criticize. I kill to make myself happy. The only difference is that I am not a liar. I see the truth. And I say it. Grewa, son of the seer. A seer tells the truth.” She still shook her head; she didn’t realize she was crying now, hot tears trickled down her face. He scoffed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you. Not anytime soon. And I’ll show you why.”

  Grewa opened the clay jar and pulled from it a shard of glass. “You brought many wonderful gifts. It took me a while to figure out, but I did. And he dipped the glass in the blood that pooled on the floor. And spilling out came a man. He was naked, with a shaggy beard and a face twisted in pleasure. It took him a moment for his pudgy face to look around. “What?” he mumbled. “Where am I? Send me back,” he groaned.

  “Look at him,” Grewa tutted, “Shameful. No self-control, at all. So few of them do. They give in to him. I didn’t. Pleasure like that is fleeting.” And then he held up a stone, a crystal, a shining red ruby, red as blood. Though it seemed uncut, more like something that grew, like a pearl forming around a grain of sand. He rolled it between his fingers, and it was nearly lost in them. “How little life they had in them,” he bemoaned. “This is all I could squeeze from ten of them! Can you believe it!” he exclaimed. “Ten full-grown men and women, and this is all they can do? Five hundred years of life between them, at best I think, and all they could make is one or two good spells.” He glared, disappointed by the stone made of blood. And then he looked to her, cold, lustful eyes. “But you,” he said, savoring the words, “You are bursting with life, sorcerer, what on earth could make for me? No, I will not kill you so soon. Your blood will stud my belt and grace my neck, pretty little thing you will make.” And Nephis looked up to see the future hidden in the shadows. It was green glass vials of blood lining the walls on shelves.

  Kugo stumbled into the village by the swamp, still biting himself for leaving, still feeling the cold bite of the mountaintop. He looked around the village, it was quiet, her people milled about as always. If anything, there was a peace to it that was not there when he left. The people gave him odd glances as he walked by, but did not dare say a thing, making wide berths around him. Finally, he saw the man who had first harassed them. When the man saw Kugo, he nearly stumbled back. “I – I’m sorry, sir! I still don’t have your money! I really don’t!”

  Kugo ignored him. “Where are my companions? Nephis and Moss?” he asked harshly.

  “The girl and the creature?” the man asked, “They haven’t come back yet.”

  “When did they leave?” Kugo asked, “And where did they head?”

  “Three days ago,” he stammered, “The same day you left! And they went towards that old fort, as far as I know! Please don’t hurt me!”

  Kugo pushed the man out of his way and jumped down into the swamp. There were three possibilities, as far as Kugo could surmise. And only one of them was good. In any case, he would have to hurry to find them, and he prayed he would meet them on the way. But he did not.

  For a day, Kugo crossed the dark swamp. Gnats buzzing up into his mask and past his cowl, biting at his skin, though he slapped his face, he could not get rid of them, so he kept walking. The swamp stunk of stale water and death. Eventually, he passed by the sinking fort. He nearly passed it by, but he noticed something odd. Footprints along the small dirt ridge that held up its highest point. He took a closer look. They were fresh, the dirt still tossed aside, still damp even. Three sets of boots, nearly identical. They walked softly, evenly, and then they led back into the swamp, further ahead. Someone had been here after they left, and Kugo had a good idea who it was. By nightfall, he was soaked through. Still water crept up his pant legs, weighing him down. The sun had fallen below the horizon, and the swamp was dim with silver starlight. Not once did he think of sleeping. The thought of the omens, of the white bell flowers strangled by thorns, would not leave him. He kept going, pressing through the swamp and muck until his feet screamed at him to stop, his eyes burned and ached, but he did not stop.

  The sky was blue, yet the sun had not risen, when Kugo saw the castle in the distance. It sat on a little island, surrounded by reeds and tall grasses. Yet before it, something was in the water. He got as close as he could before he realized three dead bodies lay in the water. Pale-faced and broken, their jaws hung open in dull shock, tongues lolling out and bodies swollen with water. Kugo only knew of one person who could do this. All of them lacked their cloaks. Kugo shook his head, a terrible idea; what a childish pair those two made, who in the world would fall for something so simple? Then, he leapt! Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone lurking, tall and terrible. A great black shadow behind him! He whipped around to see a black cloak hanging from a dead branch, inches above the water. He silently chastised himself. But then he took the cloak in his hands and looked it over for a minute. It was still dry. A smile crept across his face as he swung it over his shoulders. And this great Son of Barthus crept closer to the castle.

  The entrance was guarded by something horrible. It was like a dire wolf or a lion, but greater. It had a long snout and a mean face. And it chewed on something, the carrion, some game surely, lay still, only jolting with every bite and tear. It was a pale creature. Two faces stared back at Kugo, one dead and one alive. Two knowing eyes looked at him, tired and brown. In the warg’s maw was a dead man, a human. A chill ran down his back, and he only moved once he was sure the beast hadn’t seen him. Not through the main gate, then, he thought to himself. Kugo circled the fort, slow step after slow step. The stone of the fort was good, though after so many years in a swamp, it was sure to have some damage. Worse still, for all his circling and watching, he could not find any other way in, none besides the front door and a low window which also sat in the front. It would have to be the window.

  He waited for the beast to sleep, but it never did. The more he looked, the more Kugo was sure it couldn’t blink. Its eyes were ever watchful. And so, he waited for it to eat again. The beast tore into the poor man, ripping open his skin and stripping his flesh from his bones. Kugo shuffled to the shore and hurried as quietly as he could to the low window. It was small and flat. He could squeeze through it, but only just. As Kugo pored over it, trying to cut along its borders, he heard a voice like the croaking of a frog, like the lies of a raven.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Wait,” it said.

  Kugo froze. As he stared at the window, lowering his hooded gaze to the floor, chains began to rattle, to swing and chime closer to him. Tolling, no doubt, for him. Kugo slipped his hand to his sword.

  “Wait,” the voice said again, and again it was not quite right. He peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw only great daggered paws before him. “I check,” the voice said. It was all wrong. Was it the beast that spoke to him? Kugo wondered.

  Then a terrible snout pressed against him. Sniffing at him, breathing Kugo in, some were quick, and some were pleasured, anticipating, licking his chops. And then, it growled. A terrible, gravely thing. It then sniffed more, as if digging for something, trying to find what lay beneath. Eventually, it gave up. “Enter,” the beast spoke. Kugo could feel its hot breath against his leg. He stilled himself, doing all he could to not react. And he stepped forward and entered through the front door.

  Inside the castle was like the inside womb or a throat. Hot and wet. Even the walls were damp, though they should not have been. Kugo could not bear to touch them. And deep within was the scent of blood, both fresh and stale. Kugo’s eyes peeled from side to side. Corridors split every way before him. He was not sure where to go, and so simply made a choice. To the right, he would stick to the right. And as he crept, he saw only a few of the black cloaked Sons of Barthus. They paid him no mind. But he was still wary, for he saw far fewer than he expected, far fewer than the tracks would have suggested. It was like rain on a harvest day. Pleasant for now, but poison for tomorrow. And then his crawling led him to a choice. An oaken door stood in his way.

  Pain. Pain. PAIN. It ripped up Nephis’ arms and legs, and wrists. She wanted to scream, but she could hardly breathe; something had been stuffed in her mouth. She could not see; her eyes had been blindfolded. She could only hear and feel. Feel nothing but hot pain, cutting steel. The wizard Grewa spoke over her, muttering to himself. She was not sure who was hurting her, but she knew he was there, muttering and muttering. Yet it was the silence she feared, for that is when he worked. She would have flicked her wrist and ignited all of her blood in a great fire, but her hands and legs were bound in cold iron and rough leather. She thrashed and tried to scream again, but she could barely move, and her voice did not even reach the next room. As she trashed, she felt the knife dig into her thigh.

  “Oh, dearie, you must be careful when I work,” Grewa soothed her. Then she felt him twist the knife, only a little, but it was searing. “You should not have killed by pups,” he whispered to her. And he continued his little work. Tapping. Tapping. Tapping at the tree.

  Kugo pressed open the door to see a jail, and before it was a Son of Barthus, who sat up at once. Kugo ran, running his sword through the devil and the bars, covering his mouth in the same movement. Pain shot through his hand; the thing bit him, trying to cut through the leather. They scrambled for a moment before the pale man fell still. Kugo peered into the dark cage. A great mound of wood and iron chain, and in the dark glittered sapphire eyes.

  “Kugo,” Moss said in a low voice. “I knew you would come. You always do.”

  “Have I ever left you before?” Kugo tried to shield himself, “Where is Nephis?” he asked, peering into the dark.

  “They took her somewhere else,” Moss answered sadly.

  “Do they have a key?” Kugo asked with a tisk.

  Moss tried to motion for it, but the great chains clanged. Where they had gotten these, Kugo had no idea. They must have been for a ship or a drawbridge. But they could bind Moss.

  “The guard has them,” Moss said, pulling again at the chains, which crashed against the stone, pulling at the wall. But he could not escape.

  Kugo found the keys and, one by one, began to try them, slowly freeing Moss. One heavy lock at a time snapped its jaw open and let the golem loose. Moss stood, free at last. At once, he began to move towards the door.

  “Wait,” Kugo said.

  “We have to find Nephis,” Moss replied.

  “Where are the rest of them?” Kugo asked, “The Sons of Barthus?”

  “They left,” Moss answered, “This morning, I think, I heard them all go.”

  Kugo cursed, biting his tongue as he did. He could taste iron.

  “Are you okay?” Moss leaned towards him.

  “I’m fine,” Kugo brushed him off, bristling, “Anyways, why is so hot here!” he changed the subject and lifted his mask so he could spit on the floor.

  “I don’t know,” Moss answered, “But it’s gotten hotter since Nephis left.”

  “That can’t mean anything good,” Kugo murmured.

  Suddenly, the boots beat against stone, like the pattering of rain. The sound grew and filled the hall beyond the door. Kugo peeked his head outside and whipped it back in as fast as he could. “It’s no wonder,” he said, “But there’s at least a dozen of them. Steel yourself.”

  Moss nodded. The Sons of Barthus began to beat at the door. In the heat and damp, Kugo truly felt that he was in the heart of some terrible thing. Moss held the door back as Kugo prepared his bow, training it just below his eye. Without a word, he nodded at Moss, and the door was flung open. He loosed his arrow, catching the intruder and felling him. Both he and Moss charged, leaving the bow and arrows behind. Moss swung his great arms, catching one and then another. But then, Kugo heard a sound blending with the mad shrieks of battle spirits. Chanting, calm and still. Strange words filled his ears, words he could not parse, but their ending he could see. One of the Sons of Barthus held out his hands, and in them were a pocket full of nettles and thorns. Kugo ran towards him, but was too late. Something burst unseen within the witch, and the Son of Barthus fell to the ground. Kugo swung his sword, cutting only the cloak. Moss bellowed in surprise, and great, braided vines burst from the stone floor and bound him. Kugo might have stopped to help him, when then he heard another begin to chant. The next held a wreath with a twine web.

  Kugo ran. One, two – Kugo ran with all his might, pressing against the floor as if he might fly, -- three, -- he readied his thin blade – four – the Son of Barthus put out his hand before Kugo. He swung, catching the witch before he could finish his spell. The Son of Barthus fell dead, but not before another began to chant. His training Nephis flashed before his eyes; she could cast a spell in five seconds. Kugo could hardly breath, the heat and air and the running smothered him. Nephis could cast a spell to a count of five. He began to run again, nearly turning the other way. One – If the witch reached five, Kugo would die in sudden and terrible agony. Two – All for naught. He pressed himself further. Three – He was nearly there. Four – Something sharp bit him in the side. He pressed on. Kugo swung, and pain ripped up his side. The witch’s head fell to the ground, but another of them held onto Kugo, onto a dagger that stuck into him. He cut the pale man down. But yet another was upon him. One, and two, and three, and four of them fell upon him. They were weak, but there were many. He pushed them back, throwing one to the ground with a wicked crack. They cut and beat at him, their claws clattering against his armor. Then.

  One. Two. Three. Another one was casting. Kugo’s head whipped around. He was all the way by Moss, who fought off three or four while bound to the earth. Kugo caught his eyes. They were cold and dead. Not the eyes of a man, they could not have been. Four. He could not reach him. No. He was going to reach him. He was going to save Nephis and catch Grewa and find the Rod of Three Parts and. Five.

  Kugo was blind. The world was dark. He hurled his sword forward and heard it clatter against stone. He swung his arms wildly and tried to press forward, roaring like a madman. He felt the blows of the Sons of Barthus beat at him. Over and over. Another dagger slipped past the chain. It was light. But how many more could he take? When would he see again? Would he? Many hands grabbed him. And he fell to the ground, tumbling onto the stone. He was going to die. Nephis and Moss were going to die or worse. All for naught. They pounded at him. Then. Chains jangled and the soft stepping of paws.

  “Can I eat?” a foul voice rumbled, filling the air. “Eat?”

  Hot breath flowed through the holes of his mask. A hand grabbed at it, and pulled it up, the fabric of his cowl slipping away. To be seen and not to see. Kugo slammed his face down, his nose cricked at the blow. “Wait!” he shouted. They did not stop, pressing and pushing harder, they crept around his clothes, stripping them back until they found the edges of his chain. Their hands were cold. “Wait! Wait!” he demanded. “Stop!” They did not. His brain raced, he was falling, slipping away in the dark.

  “Kugo!” Moss bellowed. There was a crashing sound, and the vines snapped. Even still, there were only seconds, grains of time that hung above him like the blade of wrath. And for a moment, Kugo accepted the blade and the fires that came after. And he burned, but could not move in the heart of a wicked place.

  Moss watched as the Sons of Barthus and their warg scurried over him, like maggots and worms. “Stop!” bellowed, “Stop!” He pressed forward, the vines around him snapping like thunder. They pulled tighter against him, dragging him back. And as the wicked man-beast put its maw around Kugo’s head, something within Moss died and something within him was born. Anger flashed in his soul. Cold and impersonal. A ghost trapped in his limbs and veins. Dark trees flickered in his vision, great vines as thick as beams and thick as horses lay like serpents before him, dragons caught in the air. And from them were pierced many. Deep in the woods, he saw death, deep in his memory, he saw death. He roared, something within him roared, primal and iron and magic it filled the castle. Every room, every place shook at his roar. And the warg and the Sons of Barthus froze.

  Moss stepped forward, and the vines released him. They turned away from him and to the Sons of Barthus. They leapt with him. A vine pierced through one like a taproot to the soil, Moss crushed another beneath his mighty hand. He trampled forward, knocking witch and pale man away, snapping their bones like twigs. The one who had cursed Kugo tried to cast another spell, but the vine wrapped around him, snapping his throat. He twitched and pulsed before falling to the stone still as a nail, for that was all he was. Moss took the great iron chain that bound the warg and pulled it, causing the warg to rear up and whimper. The warg fought back and swiped at Moss. It tried to topple him, its muscles like wood, its claws like iron. But it did not see the vines, slithering to it, and by the time it knew, it was too late; they had wrapped around it, binding its legs and neck. Moss knocked it down, pummeling its skull as it whimpered. Breaking it until it lay still.

  Moss looked around. Fire within him. A will unfamiliar to him within him. And there was no one but him and Kugo. He boiled, but when he felt a hand upon his foot, he looked down to see Kugo crawling towards him. And the fire died. And Moss was born. The vines fell to the floor as if they had never been anything more than vines. Moss helped Kugo to his feet.

  “Are you okay, Kugo?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m alright,” Kugo said, his vision was beginning to return to him. Though the world was still foggy. What had he just witnessed? He tried to step forward. “Actually, there is a dagger in my side. But first, Nephis is trapped somewhere here.”

  “First, the dagger,” Moss demanded, and stopped Kugo, who weakly tried to press forward. Moss set his hand on Kugo, and a great warmth spread through him, like good and sweet liquor on a freezing night. From his wound to his fingers and toes. The dagger was pressed out, clattering futilely on the stone floor. All that was left was a hold in his armor and a thin layer of lichen over a scar. He was still pale, and the pain still ripped through him. But he would not die.

  Door after door they went, checking every room until they came to a heavy, blackened door. Here was the source of the heat and damp of the heart. Kugo entered, dull candle light spilling in. The room was sour with the scent of blood. There was an iron pot surrounded by sigils and scortch marks, in its bottom was a small red crystal, he passed it by. A withered man, a face twisted in fear and pleasure, lay on the ground. He passed him by. And in the center of the room was a wooden table, where lay bound Nephis. She had no clothes, but bloody bandages that ran up her arms and legs. Heavy cloth spread across her eyes and stomach, as if to soak up any sweat or tears that came from her. He stepped closer. She was breathing heavily, her chest rising up and down, and her face trembling. Her shoulders were red and raw. All the iron scales had been ripped from her. He reached down to remove the gag so she might breathe more easily. As soon as he did, she screamed.

  “NOOO!” she howled. She shrieked. Her face contorted, twisting in pain and fear. She was pale, nearly white, nearly grey.

  “Nephis!” Kugo said, “It’s me!”

  He quickly undid her bindings and wrapped her in his fur cloak. He held her in his arms, against his chest, and walked out of the wretched room. Moss found her clothes and their things set nicely in a little room. Kugo left through the hall and passed all the pale men.

  They left into the spotted sun and waited a while. Nephis held onto him, sobbing and choking with tears.

  Kugo burned with rage and relief. Glad only that his thorns had not killed that white heather.