Chương 13: The Bogge-Rider: Chapter Four

The captain watched wearily as his soldiers stood by, weapons at the ready, as Martimeos unbuckled the sword and sheathe from his belt and gently threw it up to them, along with his cross bow, while Elyse, grumbling, unsheathed a dagger she kept somewhere beneath her robes and threw it up as well. Martim looked around as he came to the top of the ditch, spotting three horses, two chestnut and one a deep, warm brown, their reins tied to stakes in the ground, perhaps fifty feet away.

"Bind their hands," the captain snapped, as they reached him. Martimeos restrained himself to an irritated growl, but this was too much for Elyse.

"Oh no," she hissed, narrowing her eyes at the approaching soldiers.

"Look here. You see my hands. We are unarmed. You stay right there - don't you touch me!"

"I said-" the captain barked, but Elyse interrupted him.

"I am a witch, you know," she said, wagging her fingers at the soldiers, who glanced at each other uneasily. She pointed to Cecil, who had slunk up out of the dtich after her - Flit, on the other hand, circling overhead.

"See this? My familiar. And he a wizard. You treat us rougher than you need to, and you'll regret it." Martimeos winced. He didn't like pulling that card when he didn't need to. Besides, it didn't always work - in many lands those who practiced the Art were regarded with a mixture of admiration and fear, but in others, it was simple fear and hatred. The two soldiers took a step back from her, uncertain, and the captain rubbed his grizzled, pockmarked chin in consternation, glaring at her with one sharp eye.

"Should have known, from the looks of you," he muttered.

"Fine. No bindings, for now. But I still demand to be given a look at your pack." Martimeos furrowed his brow, wondering if some fury from him might get them their freedom sooner - since Elyse had already started it, maybe a witch's scolding and wizard's temper combined would scare these men off. But he decided against it. No need to be hostile with these men; who knew what they had seen. He shrugged.

"Alright," he said mildly.

"But 'tis a wizard's bag. I don't think anything is immediately dangerous in there, but take caution." He placed his pack upon the ground. The captain paused for a moment, then waved his two soldiers away.

"Stand back, boys, I'll do it myself," he growled, and Martimeos immediately liked him a little more, despite his gruff and ugly countenance. At least he had the bravery to put himself in danger first. He approached it with some trepidation as his two men stood back, the lanky, dark-haired one pulling out a bag of pumpkin seeds to munch on, spitting the shells out into the grass as he watched with some curiousity. The captain unbuckled the clasps on the pack, ruffling through it.

Drawing out a leaf-wrapped ration, he sniffed at it.

"This... from Silverfish? Been quite some time since I've had their meals," he muttered.

"Does Ritter still run the old inn there?" Martimeos nodded, but without waiting for a response, the captain had continued rifling through the pack. He frowned at the jar containing the Mirrit egg, gingerly placing it back when Martimeos warned him not to shake it, and hastily dropped the Mirrit's cloth-wrapped beak when Elyse told him to wrap it back up because it was poisonous. Finally, though, he drew out Zeke's book of sigils, scowling at the black leather cover.

"And this, what is this? What manner of Art does this book speak of?"

"Sigil-work. Careful - not even I know that book's secrets." Martimeos had taken out his pipe and was puffing away at it, wondering when the inevitable questions would come. The captain, not heeding his advice, peered inside, then shook his head.

"How am I to know what to make of this spell-scribble," he snapped.

"How do I know it is not some darker Art you practice?" The lanky soldier spit out another pumpkin seed.

"Cap'n," he drawled, "C'mon. You know they aren't who you're looking for." Elyse, on the other hand, was becoming impatient.

"Let me guess the reason you are so suspicious. It has to do with why your man walked by our camp while he had no head last night, doesn't it?" The captain and the two soldiers suddenly became deathly quiet; none of them said a word. The only sound was the gentle whisper of the wind through the grass."'Twas the second man walking without a head we'd seen in these lands," Martimeos spoke into the silence.

"Though not the only unusual thing. A black rider, on an awful steed." The captain sighed, placing Zeke's book back in Martim's pack.

"You've seen him, then? Well." He glanced up at his two men, catching their attention with a steely eye.

"Kells. Nielson. Gather wood for a fire - split up that old cart if need be. We need to burn that body. You two - I'll need you tell me what you saw of him." Martimeos and Elyse sat cross-legged in the grass while the two soldiers - the lanky, dark-haired, pale one was Kells, while the blond softer-faced one was Nielson - set about gathering wood from the cart, breaking it apart with loud cracks and groans as they kicked and pulled at it, piling up the debris in the field.

The captain - his name Roark, he said - sat across from them, pulling out a surprisingly ornate pipe - carved from bone, it looked like, into the shape of a snarling boar's head whose mouth held the bowl, as Martim spoke of what they had seen of the dark rider the previous day. He thanked Martim when the wizard offered him tobacco, though blinked in surprise and grumbled when his pipe lit itself.

"We're a patrol from Twin Lamps," he told them, when Martim asked him who he served, pointing at the two suns emblazoned on his orange tabard." And we've been plagued by that rider and headless men for months now. Terrorizes the farmlands, though whoever he is, he seems reluctant to approach the town itself. Relentless. Thought he was a bandit at first... before the headless folk started showing up. Should have known. No bandit is that tireless in his killing."

"You think it is this rider who causes the dead to walk?" Martim asked, plucking a blade of grass to chew.

"Suppose we can't know for certain, but 'twas not hard to make a guess. Those he kills, he beheads. And then the bodies walk. Sometimes right away; sometimes not for days. Sometimes they just stumble around, sometimes they draw what weapons they have and attack people. Sometimes they stop moving on their own. Sometimes they keep going even though they have fifty arrows in them. Seems to be no rhyme or reason to it."

Roark shook his head, running a thumb beneath his crooked, scarred nose before biting down on his pipe once more.

"And your farmers stay on their farms in all this? They must be fools." Elyse rubbed Cecil's belly.

"You'd have to be reckless and pigheaded to tangle with the headless dead when you don't need to." She looked pointedly at Martimeos. Roark snorted, twin streams of blue smoke coming from his nose.

"You and I are of a mind on that, girl. Though most of them have fled for the safety of the town's walls - it's full near to bursting. Thank Woed we got the better part of the harvest in before the rider appeared. Some folk though - stubborn, or in denial. Don't believe the dead walk until they see it. Think it's just a bandit. Think they can defend themselves." Martimeos was silent for a moment, considering this.

"None have been able to strike him down?" Roark shook his head.

"Whoever he is, he strikes hard and rides fast. He's killed three of our footed patrols so far, groups of three or more men at once." He stared grimly at the growing pile of wood as Kells and Nielson stacked more debris from the broken cart on top of it.

"Four now, most likely." He grimaced, a truly unsettling sight, and spat into the grass as he tapped out his pipe.

"Told our fool mayor to send out men in larger patrols, but he wants the guard spread out thin enough to offer protection to every farm. What protection, when we all just get killed? But he thinks he knows better than the guard."

"He sends you to pointless deaths?" Elyse looked flabbergasted.

"Why do you listen? Just stick a sword in him and do as you think best." Roark blinked at her, then barked a laugh.

"Would that I could, lass."

"I don't see why you couldn't..." Elyse began replying, but Roark was already shaking his head.

"Bartuk's not as bad as all that. Just more accustomed to trade and counting coin than matters of safety. Though we'll soon find that a problem too, I fear, once merchants spread tale you can no longer travel safely east from Twin Lamps.:""Does he merely kill?" Martimeos asked.

"We saw a burnt farm, once we had crossed the bridge." Roark's face grew dead.

"Aye. Only kills. Never even takes anything, just kills. Leaves nothing but bodies. The burnt farms are put to the torch by the guard themselves - farms the rider has attacked. No one would live in those homes after what was done in them."

"Think we've got enough here, Captain!" Roark turned around; Nielson and Kells were standing by a large pile of broken wagonwood, piled to make a bonfire. Nielson, who had called out, was mopping the sweat from his face; Kells seemed considerably more relaxed, leaning languidly against his spear.

"Right." Roark stood up, brushing the dried grass from his pants as he did so.

"Well, let's get on with it." Roark and Nielson fetched the body of the slain man, which lay in the grass perhaps thirty feet away, the captain taking the arms and walking awkwardly to ensure the bloody stump of the man's neck did not brush against him, while Nielson took the legs. Kells walked apace with them, his spear at the ready, to pin the body to the ground should it begin to move again.

As they drew close to the woodpile they paused to remove his breastplate, shield and sword, and to search his pockets for any clue of who he might have been. They found nothing, though, except a necklace looped through a small silver coin, emblazoned with the image of a pair of crossed bones.

"Good luck charm," Roark said, when Martimeos asked him.

"Fat lot of good it did him." Unceremoniously, they heaved his body onto the woodpile with a clatter. They tore up handfuls of dried grass to pile around the wood, leaving the ground bare so the burn might not spread. But when Roark reached for a flint and tinder to light the grass, Martim stopped him.

"Don't waste it," he said. Standing before the pyre, Martimeos concentrated, reaching out with the Art. Lighting kindling with the Art felt, oddly, like pulling strings. At least, that was how Martimeos always thought of it. As if what he was trying to light aflame was a bundle of strings, and he was pulling them quick and hard enough to generate friction and set them ablaze. Soon, one part of the dried grass began to smoulder, then another, sending up small eddies of smoke to whirl in the autumn air.

Once flame appeared, Martim removed one of his gloves and snapped. With one snap, the flames among the dried glass spread with a small whumph. Flame, once it had appeared, was easier to spread than it was to light something to begin with - flame almost had a life of its own. You only had to demand that it consume more, and it was almost always willing to obey, if it had the strength and fuel to do so. With another snap, the fire from the grass raced rapidly to the wood, blackening and charring it.

With another, they began to lick at the corpse's clothes. And with a final snap, they spread to the corpse itself, sending greasy black smoke pouring into the sky. They stood back from the pyre so the smoke did not blind and choke them, watching grimly. Though Martimeos stoked the flame with his Art, sending the fire burning brighter and hotter than it should have otherwise been able to, so hot that even from a distance it felt as if it might blister them, it still took hours for the wood to burn.

And when the fire dwindled, the charred remains of the body were still visible, blackened bone and flesh. But, Roark said, that should be enough. Martimeos whispered to the fire to die down as much as it was able - a more difficult task than spreading it, as fire always wanted to burn - and Kells and Nielson retrieved shovels from their horse's packs to pile dirt and choke what remained. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

It was past midday by the time they were finished, and all that was left of the fire and the body was a mound of steaming dirt. Roark sighed, and cast about, finally finding what he was looking for: A decent sized rock, larger than his head, which he planted atop the pile of dirt.

"Maybe one day, we'll get them a proper burial," he muttered.

"Not today, though." He turned to face Martimeos and Elyse, shoulders square, hands on his hips.

"Well. Wizard. Witch. What was your plan? Was it to Twin Lamps you were headed? If so, you are welcome to travel with us. Town is still a couple day's ride away, though it may take longer with our duties. Safer, I think, though, to travel together." Martimeos nodded, but Elyse was eyeing the soldier's horses nervously.

"Ah... travel by horse?" she laughed, looking a little nervous.

"I... don't know..." Martimeos chuckled at her, and she glared at him.

"You've ridden a wild ride on a horse now, haven't you?" he told her.

"This would not be so bad; much calmer than that, I'd hope."

"It's not that," she snapped, and bent down to pet Cecil, who was curled around her feet.

"It's... keeping up with a horse for that long, I don't know if Cecil could do that." Martimeos took her point. Flit would be fine.... but though Cecil was larger than any normal housecat, and being a familiar, was more intelligent, stronger, and durable than one would normally be... keeping up with a horse for long distances would be a problem.

"Could you not hold him?" he asked. Elyse considered, and then grunted as she bent and picked up Cecil, nearly stumbling back as she did so; he was large enough, and she short enough, that his tail nearly drooped down to her knees as his head rested on his shoulder. At least Cecil himself seemed pleased with the situation, purring and nuzzling up to Elyse's face as she staggered.

"I... suppose it's not impossible, merely awkward..." Nielson, watching them, snapped his fingers.

"I've an idea," he said, his round face dimpled as he smiled at Elyse. He fetched his horse, one of the chestnut mares, and with deft hands tied a saddlebag and bedroll into a sort of sling to hang off the side of the horse's flank. With some coaxing, Cecil was persuaded to slide into it, secured snugly by his own weight.

"I think it should hold, as long as we do not sprint," he said when they were done, giving Elyse another bashful smile. Elyse raised her eyebrow at him, and then laughed as he blushed. So they set out on the road, Captain Roark in the lead, a Twin Lamps banner streaming from a standard behind him, Nielson behind him, with Elyse riding sidesaddle, and Kells and Martimeos following up in the rear, on the dark brown gelding. Despite the horror and fear of the previous day, they felt safer in a group.

And Roark's words comforted them as well - the rider, he said, usually would not return to the same spot he had struck for a few days, riding instead in broad swathes across farmland. Kells rode in silence, at least at first, which suited Martimeos just fine. He was trying to think of what the rider might be. A rider whose headless victims rose and walked again. Was the rider a wizard? The first he had seen of the rider, back on the road to Silverfish....

it had been so large, and the hoofprints its horse had left in the stone - he had not thought it a man. Though, he supposed, even a fell creature might practice the Art. But... Martimeos knew little of necromancy, but what little he knew.... the rites and rituals he had heard of to make a corpse walk again did not seem consistent with bodies that walked merely from being beheaded. Perhaps it was the creature's weapon? Perhaps-"So," said Kells, suddenly interrupting his line of thought.

"You practice the Art? What brings you on the road to Twin Lamps?"

"Yes," Martimeos replied, a little annoyed, more curt than he had intended to be.

"Just... wandering." Kells shifted the reigns in his hand, his spear tilted up against his shoulder. He glanced back at Martimeos with stormy gray eyes full of friendly curiousity.

"Ah, yeah. I hear that your sort do that. Wizards, I mean. I suppose, witches too. Or... sorceresses, or whatever they call themselves. Uh, those who practice the Art. In general." He coughed, awkwardly.

"Do you have any in Twin Lamps? Wizards or Witches, I mean."

"Ah, no." Kells shrugged.

"Or if we do, they're sure good at keeping quiet about it.

'Tis a friendly place for your sort, though. The Queen was a witch, after all, and she was well-liked in Twin Lamps." Martimeos was quiet for a moment, the steady clop of the horse's hooves against cobblestone ringing in the air.

"Twin Lamps was the Witch-Queen's lands?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah." Suddenly, Kells seemed to realize something, jolting up.

"Uh. I mean, yeah, it was. I'm... not saying anything, though. I mean people liked her, but... the war ended some time ago. Nobody holding bad blood about it anymore.... she's just a memory. I mean, I was just a child myself when she died. I know I've heard tale from travelers who... did not... have the highest opinion of her. I'm not saying I'd, uh, defend her honor or anything..." Martimeos chuckled softly.

Truth be told, he had felt a flash of anger rise in him at the mention of people loyal to the Queen, but, he supposed, it was silly. She was nothing but history now.

"I suppose you could say I'm one of those travelers. Did the town suffer badly in the war?" Kells shook his head.

"Twin Lamps was lucky; only town south of the Queen's range that was loyal to her." He nodded at the mountain range in the far distance jutting upward into the blue sky.

"Nobody bothered to bring violence..." he gave a hollow laugh.

"Well, for the most part. All we ever heard about was when the royal family died and the kingdom collapsed. Just one day... that was it. It was over. We were on our own." Kells fell quiet, seeming lost in thought. Martimeos glanced around him, up towards Roark, Nielson and Elyse riding in front. Roark had his eyes pinned to the road, vigilant, and Nielson rode with his halberd laid across his lap.

Elyse, it looked like, was fidgeting with something, her hands twirling and twirling, busy at something Martimeos just could not see. He raised an eyebrow at this, then caught Kells looking surreptitiously at him.

"Ah, so," Kells said, clearing his throat, a bit of a blush coming to his pale skin, once he realized he had been noticed, "Elyse... a witch, eh?" Martimeos looked at him curiously.

"... Yes?"

"How long have you two known each other?"

"Not long." Martimeos left it hanging at that.

"Is she....." Kells coughed, as if trying to look for the right words to say.

"Is she... dangerous?"

"As dangerous as any who practice the Art." Kells hemmed and hawed for a bit, tapping his spear against his shoulder.

"Right. But... what I am trying to say is.... she gives a more... disfavorable impression than you do. I think Cap'n might not have trusted her to come along with us if not for you being there. Though he probably would have brought her anyway. I guess I'm trying to figure out.... for our sake, is she trustworthy?" Martimeos considered this for a moment. He supposed he did trust Elyse; she had saved his life, after all.

"Yes," he replied, "Though... I would call her more wild, than dangerous. She had an.... odd upbringing, I think."

"Are the two of you, erm..." Kells tapped his spear nervously against his shoulder again.

"Together....? I ask," he added in a rush, "because I think my boy Nielson is a bit moonstruck, and I don't want any trouble caused, I'll tell him to stay away if necessary-" Martimeos blushed, thinking back to Elyse in Silverfish, naked in his bed, and the desire he had felt for her. And the thought of her kissing him to draw the Mirrit's poison out of him..." I don't think so..."

he muttered, chuckling a bit, "But the way she acts, you might-that is, I mean to say, no," he corrected, seeing the odd look Kells was giving him.

"No." Kells still looked at him oddly, but eventually shrugged, accepting it. As they traveled on, they talked more, about Kells time as a guard, and about the path Martimeos had taken to Twin Lamps - though he told the soldier only about his time from Silverfish onward, and did not speak of his brother. They traveled on in this manner for hours, through endless expanses of rolling farmland - empty and devoid of life, many of the farmers in this area having left - until they came to a crossroads.

A worn wooden sign posted there pointed further down the cobblestone path, reading 'Twin Lamps', and worn dirt trails forged by cart wheels led off to the left and the right, into the farmlands. They stopped here to dismount, stretching their legs, the sun sinking down to meet the horizon. Martimeos looked out over the rolling fields, stretching out his arm so that Flit could alight upon it, preening and pecking at himself.

He was chirping in his bird-speech something smug about how nice it was to be able to fy instead of walk, taking half a minute to say anything at all as usual, when Elyse approached him. She wore a small yellow flower behind her ear, and waved behind her at Nielson, laughing. Nielson beamed, though Martimeos couldn't help but notice he looked at little disappointed as she walked away towards Martim, his soft round face falling and his smile becoming a little crooked.

"Careful," he told Elyse, as she turned toward him.

"I hear Nielson is smitten with you."

"He's a sweet boy," Elyse laughed, then smiled smugly at him.

"He says I'm pretty."

"But not strikingly beautiful?" Martimeos shook his head in mock disbelief. Elyse simply ignored his jab.

"Honestly, mother was a fool. All her warnings and her..." she became quiet for a moment.

"Her punishments, and for what? Men seem reasonable enough. At least most of them." She grinned wickedly at Martimeos.

"Curious, sometimes, perhaps." Martim looked over her shoulder. Kells was currently talking to Nielson, glancing in their direction, saying something close to his fellow soldier's ear as if he didn't want anyone to hear. Roark, on the other hand, was dutifully brushing down his horse.

"I think your mother was odd to keep you from them," he warned, "But I would not underestimate how dangerous men can be." Elyse waved away his protest, then drew him close.

"Look here, wizard," she said, opening her hand. In it lay two rings, woven from twisted grass, knotted and twisted until they were firm, each large enough to fit two fingers through. Around one was woven what looked like to be a tuft of Cecil's hair.

"Wards," she murmured.

"One for each of us."

"Wards?"

"Yes - for luck and protection from the wicked and vile. I think we could use them in this land, yes? Mother taught me to make them. But I will need a feather from Flit to complete this one." She held up the grass ring without the tuft of hair woven around it. She smiled at Flit, who was currently perched on Martim's shoulder.

"What say you, brave little one? Just a small feather, for protection." Flit chirped something shockingly rude about just what he thought about her calling him 'little one', but Elyse just smiled. Though Flit grumbled about losing one of his prized red feathers, he accepted Martim plucking a small one from his crest. Elyse took this from him and worked with quick, nimble fingers to weave it into the bare grass ring, until it was solidly lodged among the knotted cords of grass.

"There," she said, holding it up proudly.

"Fine work, I think." But when Martimeos reached out to take it from her, she looked at him oddly.

"What are you doing?"

"You said they was one for each of us, didn't you?" Martim asked, confused.

"Yes, but this one is mine," Elyse said.

"They work by extending your familiar's protection. You already have Flit's protection; so you take the one with Cecil's fur." Martimeos' eyes widened with surprise. He glanced down at Flit, who watched him with beady black eyes.

"I... have his protection?" he asked, curiously.

"Wh... of course," Elyse replied, her hands on her hips.

"Martim! Do you know nothing of your bond with your familiar?"

"I.... know he's a fine companion and scout," Martimeos replied somewhat sheepishly. Elyse stared at him. Then she laughed, and not kindly. Martimeos frowned, annoyed, but before he could say anything, she pressed the grass ring with Cecil's fur into his hand.

"Fool wizard," she said, still laughing under her breath.

"The next time you have chance to teach me about sigils or flame, I will have to teach you what it is to have a familiar." Martimeos held up the ward to the sky, looking at the setting sun through it, before tucking it into his pocket. Elyse still held a hand to her face, looking at him oddly.

"And wards," Martimeos muttered, feeling a little embarassed and angry at his lack of knowledge.

"I want to know what Art is used in the making of these, witch. And, um... thank you. Should you not make these for everyone, though?"

"To make too many would reduce their power," Elyse replied.

"You should feel honored, Martimeos; it's not just for anyone I would tear out a bit of Cecil's fur."

"Oh, come off it," Martimeos replied dryly.

"I find clumps of the stuff in my cloak every morning." Elyse was about to answer, when Roark called them back to their horses with a sharp shout that nearly made them jump.

"Sundown's coming," he said as he mounted, and Nielson and Kells jogged back to their steeds as well.

"We head north. I would like to check on the Hendrickson homestead before dark." Drawing his reins, he guided his horse down one of the dirt paths at the intersection. The sun soon began to sink beneath the horizon as they continued down the path, painting the sky in brilliant orange and purple hues. It was not long before, rising over the crest of a rolling hill, a small, comfortable-looking loghouse was visible in the distance.

But they had just spotted it when Roark uttered a curse and stopped his horse, looking down at the path before him. Kells and Nielson drew up their mounts beside him, so they could see what had made him pause. A grim silence fell over the group as they saw what it was. The dirt path, here, ran over a large, flat, lichen-covered boulder buried into the earth. And there in the boulder were four hoofprints, sunk into the stone, filled with blood.

And though the blood was a dull red, turning black, it glittered in the setting sun, still somewhat wet.