Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias
Gmork's youngest followed his eldest through the town accompanied by
some of the Baron's soldiers. He didn't particularly like the Baron
or his soldiers, but so long as they were loyal to his father he
would tolerate their presence. He paid them little mind as he kept a
close pace behind his brother, one eye ever watching that mostly
furless tail swing back and forth in time to his steps.
Of much more interest to him were the townspeople themselves. He had
never been in Fjellvidden, only the castle. He recalled like
quicksilver the day he'd come to the castle intent on killing the
Baron. The fire of that earnest goal still tantalized his heart and
made the fur covered hand wrapped about his magical core tremble with
a sense of justice long delayed. As he swung his shortened snout from
side to side, triangular ears lifting at each sound, he saw the quiet
homes shuttered against the night. But he could smell the fear and
the trepidation and that bothered him. It was because of the Baron.
When these humans belonged to his father they would no longer be afraid.
Like the shipwright they'd spoken with shortly after leaving the
castle. He'd been delirious with joy at being of service to Father.
While his brother questioned the human, he had explored the shop and
smelled the fishing gear that the dragon and boy had used. The
dragon's scent he recognized and immediately his hands draped
themselves in fur, his claws swelled to an inch in length, and his
hackles rose all along his back. The boy's scent was oddly familiar
but he couldn't determine why.
The shipwright had apologized profusely when he admitted that he only
knew of one other person in the town involved with the Resistance,
some tanner named Ture. His brother had nodded and the youngest of
Gmork knew that the human traitor was known to his brother. And with
eager confidence he followed him through the streets of Fjellvidden,
wishing that the soldiers would douse the noisome and smelly torches
they carried.
The Tanning shop was a two story building with a large double door
gate in the front. The upper windows were shuttered but he could
still faintly hear someone snoring within. His elder brother lifted a
mostly human hand and glared with his blue eyes at the six soldiers
accompanying him. "I will open the door, and my brother and I will go
in. Guard the exits and make sure that none of them escape."
One of the soldiers hefted a cudgel. "Knock them on the head if they
try to run?"
Gmork's youngest shook his head and almost barked. "Nay. They may not
be traitors. My brother will question them and then we'll know."
He tucked his tail between his legs and glanced at his older brother
hoping that he hadn't spoken out of place. His brother's face
distended into a long snout and the jowls pulled up in an amused
smile. He wagged his tail in relief.
While the soldiers fanned out around the house, Gmork's eldest stood
before the gates and traced runes that glowed a faint purple. The
youngest watched and waited, sniffing at the air and allowing himself
to grow more beastly now that the soldiers were not so close. He
slunk lower to the ground until his hands had become paw-like and
rested on the hard, cold dirt.
The spell did not take long to cast. When it was complete, the rune
flashed and disappeared while the gates slowly swung inward,
ponderous yet quiet. They crept forward cautiously. The eldest
summoned a witchlight but kept it very faint as it bobbed from one
end of the room to the other. Long racks draped in animal hides lined
every wall, along with tools and work benches. Hammers, special
knives, thread, and several fire pits with fresh wood piled nearby
were everywhere.
The two pups sniffed and listened. The sound of snoring came from
above them. A wide variety of animal scents permeated the shop, as
did oils, smoke, ash, and the sweat of at least four men. Behind the
front space in the shop was a door behind which hid a room with more
finished products hanging along the walls. A set of wooden steps led
up. The elder brother gingerly put a clawed foot on each step,
lowering to all fours to move as quietly as he could. The younger
followed him up, also moving on all fours. The man-scents were still
intermingled and hard to distinguish for Gmork's youngest.
At the top of the landing they found another stove, a washbasin, a
pot and skillet dangling from metal hooks, as well as a cupboard with
bread, cheese, and a small portion of salted meat that made them both
begin to drool. A doorway curtained off with a bear skin lead to a
room with four beds stacked two by two with modest trunks at the foot
of each bed. A quick glance showed that three of the four beds were
occupied and that one set of boots was missing.
They had no sooner glanced over the beds when from the top bunk on
their left a dark form jumped down and swung a hammer at Gmork's
youngest. He twisted to one side, grabbed the hammer and the arm in a
fierce grip that spared not his claws, and spun both of them to the
floor with a loud whump. The figure grunted and shouted, "Run!"
From the other two occupied beds leaped two more young men, one
clearly smaller than the other. But while his elder brother stood
watching, he bounded after them with a powerful thrust of his legs,
and in two leaps had grabbed the one's quilted jacket between his
fangs, and the other he snatched around the thigh with a hand. He
yanked them back in less than a heartbeat, throwing the one to the
ground so strongly that the young man was left gasping for breath.
The other remained dangling from his jaws before he finally slipped
free of his coat and collapsed on the ground at his feet.
And through it all, the sound of snoring continued. His elder brother
waved one hand and a little flash of green light sparked just above
one of the pillows. "One of you knows a little magic," he said with
syrupy delight. "Or is that your Master Ture?"
Two of the soldiers stomped up the stairs, but his older brother
walked over and told them to wait below. Gmork's youngest growled at
the three young men now laying next to each other in the middle of
the room. They huddled together, eyes wide with fright and defiance both.
When his brother returned, three more witchlights joined the first
and they could finally see them clearly. Two of them looked to be
seventeen or eighteen years of age with beards too small to braid
covering their chin and cheeks. Their hands were hard and callused,
and their bodies were well-muscled from years of work.
The third apprentice was younger, perhaps fourteen at best, but his
face was marred by three warts, one above his right eye, and the
other two on either cheek. Each wart was a black bulbous mass
sprouting hair. His muscles were not as well defined, but he was
already abundantly apportioned and as strong as any of the soldiers.
His eyes were shadowed as he brows furrowed in defiance.
"What do you want, pups?" the same one who had attacked with the
hammer asked. His black hair spider-webbed across his face and
shoulders, giving him a more ominous cast that he deserved.
He deferred to his older brother to speak while he allowed his jaws
to distend and his posture to hunch monstrously. "We are looking for
your master, Ture. Where is he?"
"Seydisfjord," the young man replied with words as short as his
tongue could make them. "He left yesterday to gather supplies."
He didn't recognize the name of the village or town, but his older
brother nodded so he must have known it. "What sort of supplies?"
The young man tilted his head forward, more of the dark hair falling
in front of his face. "Food and thread."
He licked his nose as he glanced at his brother. His brother's blue
eyes flashed by a passing witchlight, and there was no credence in
them. He growled, a deep burning welling up from within his chest.
His elder brother glanced over the three of them, and then knelt more
closely, sniffing and scrutinizing them with a vicious snarl in his
jowls and fur standing up along the back of his neck and through the
patched holes in his once fancy furs. All three recoiled from him,
the youngest of the lot the most of all. When he brought his snout
close to the boy, the other young man kicked at him.
The blow never landed. Gmork's youngest saw the young man's muscles
tense, and he moved by instinct. The swirl of power within him flared
to life and he crossed the space in less than moments, and with a
quick smack of his outstretched palm, drove all the air from his
lungs and made his ribs creak but not crack in protest. The man
gasped for breath, his leg lifted but feeble, eyes bulging in pain.
And so unimpeded his brother inspected the youngest of the three. The
boy lifted his arms to shield himself but no attack was forthcoming.
His brother smiled and wagged his naked tail as he stood back up as
far as his beastly legs would allow him. "It's you. You're the one
who made the snoring spell. Father will love to meet you. All of you."
"I'm not going to that monster!" shouted the black-haired man. He
scrambled to get up, but Gmork's youngest was on him, and smacked him
in the chest too. His next imprecations died on his lips as his
tongue stretched past his teeth and he quivered on the ground trying
to put air back into his lungs.
"You all are," his brother added with a throaty growl. He turned his
head toward the staircase and shouted, "Guards!" Swinging back around
he smiled, revealing yellowed beastly fangs and molars. "You wont lie
to him." He growled as his blue eyes lifted to meet Gmork's youngest.
"Check their things and ware of traps."
He nodded, grinning that same beastly smile. Rising from all fours,
his flesh became more man-like, revealing through the holes in his
tattered black robe the myriad scars sluicing across the flesh of his
back, arms, thighs, and chest. But his legs were still twisted so
that he walked on his heavy padded and clawed toes, his fingers were
flecked with black and gray fur and tipped with smaller claws, a tail
swung between his legs, and his ears were those of the wolf. He could
become no more human than that.
In two steps he reached the nearest of the chests. He picked it up
gently on either side, and sniffed with his mostly human nose across
the surface. Father was right again. There was so much to learn just
from a simple breath of air, so much that only a beast could know. He
reveled in each secret that breath taught him. This chest belonged to
the young man with blond hair. He ate mostly bread and fish, heavily
salted fish at that, though there were hints of something redder,
perhaps deer or even bear flesh from the many times he had touched
his chest after eating.
And then there was the subtle bouquet of a woman's body. A night of
passion perhaps, or merely a demonstration of his adulthood? He
couldn't quite tell. But it had happened some time past.
There was more, but nothing that seemed out of place for a tanner.
Keeping his brother's warning in mind, he flung the chest against the
wall where it splintered and trembled the rafters overhead. When the
crunching echo faded, he heard the sounds of a quartet of boots
thumping up the stairs.
His golden eyes skated across to tanner's apprentices before he
shifted through the wreckage. But there was very little there other
than rumpled clothes, ribbons for tying back hair, a good belt, and a
scrimshaw comb. Resting atop the belt was a small wooden yew which he
gingerly took out of the mass of splinters and bent iron and pressed
to his lips before setting it back amidst the pile of threadbare
clothing. Otherwise he saw nothing.
Gmork's youngest repeated the exercise with the next chest. This one
belonged to the black-haired young man. All three of them flinched
when he smashed the chest against the wall. But his belonging were
equally meager and equally inoffensive.
The guards busied themselves with securing the three young men with
rope while his older brother watched and ordered them to escort all
three to their father. They struggled, but the soldiers smacked them
on the head with the backs of their spears as they marched them back
out of the house. He watched all of it out of the corner of one
golden eye as he lifted a third chest to his nose. Once they were
gone, he lowered it and said, "This one is Ture's."
His brother came over and together they allowed their snouts to
elongate as they breathed in the tanner's husky mire. After a single
breath he knew without looking which bed was his and every place in
the room he had touched in the last week. Within two breaths he
remembered which station was his in the tannery below. And with three
breaths he recognized it as one of the flavors he'd sampled on the
way here from the shipwright Vysterag's shop.
After six he felt certain he would recognize it anywhere.
"Let us see what the other two had before we go," his brother
suggested. Gmork's youngest nodded then hurled Ture's trunk against
the wall. The rafter's groaned in protest as the trunk spilled its
contents across the floor. Had they hoped for some secret weapon or
map they were disappointed as all they saw were more clothes and
simple gear. So it was with the wart-covered boy's trunk as well. The
only additional secret there was a little writing slate that he had
sketched runes upon with a bit of charcoal. His brother drooled on
them and then washed the slate clean before very gently replacing it.
With a smile he said, "We'll want to bring that back with us. Father
will want it to teach him."
Gmork's youngest nodded though he didn't quite understand just what
his brother meant. But from the way his naked tail wagged and his
ears perked, it must be a very good thing indeed. If it made their
father happy, it gave strength and joy to his heart.
"There is nothing else here. Come." His brother walked back down the
stairs and he followed closely. Their posture bent forward into a
crouch as they reached the hard floor. By the time they left the
tannery they were on all fours again, large with wide shoulders, long
arms, and thick fingers spread like a man's hand. Their snouts
savored the ground, turning this way and that, before their eyes were
drawn resolutely to the west. Jaws slavering and eyes bright, they
loped after the man who dared be their father's enemy.
----------
He'd been flying for what felt like hours in a zig-zag pattern but
mostly heading south. Quoddy's wings were burning up in pain and his
breaths were ragged and ever shallower as he danced across the forest
canopy through the winding hills and slopes of that broken land. The
lights of Fjellvidden were lost behind the hills, but the clouds had
broken apart and the stars shone bright enough that he could see
where he was going. And whenever he glanced over his wings he saw the
dark shadow of Lubec following him.
At least that half of his plan had worked.
But he knew that his wings wouldn't for very much longer. He hadn't
slept much the night before, and now, already enervated, every muscle
in his body wailed for relief. If only he could find some place to
hide that would keep Lubec looking for him. And even if Lubec headed
back to Fjellvidden, at least Machias would have a few hours.
Quoddy descended and slowed, allowing himself to glide over the
treetops. He scanned the midnight vista, and while there was still
very little to see, he did notice a break in the treeline that snaked
between the folds of the hills. A stream perhaps? He angled toward
its nearest curve and was rewarded with a glittering light beneath
him. The trees opened on either bank just enough to allow him an easy
path into the sheltered branches, as well as a quick drink of water
when he was thirsty.
He glanced over his shoulder one last time and saw that Lubec was
following and gaining quickly. The gull pushed his wings one last
time and angled towards the stream. He banked just as he passed
between the line of trees on either side and darted within the open
branches. He beat his wings back to keep from running into any of the
pines while dropping down toward the ground where he'd be harder to see.
Lubec's wings ruffled somewhere behind him, but his brother didn't
risk following him into the darkness quite as far. Quoddy settled
down on a branch within view of the forest floor and then collapsed
against the tree trunk, his legs splaying on either side and his tail
bunching behind him, while his wings rested at either side to frame
himself. He'd furiously preen his feathers when he had the energy,
but for now he tolerated their disarray.
Glancing back up, he could see something moving through the trees,
hoping from one branch to another, but much higher up and obscured by
the long boughs between them. Lubec was searching for him. His heart
beat a little easier then as he tried to breath as quietly as he
could through his beak.
Just as felt like he could relax, Quoddy heard something scraping
against the bark behind him. He turned his head only to have
something heavy come crashing down atop it. Everything went dark.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
!DSPAM:4dc26946220831398310010!
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