Chapter 1
His nightmare woke him, as usual, standing at the foot of the bed, staring at him until he startled awake. It grinned down with demonic glee, its twisted features writhing with supressed laughter.
“Oh good,” the nightmare said. “You’re awake. The perfect metaphor for your life has appeared in the garden.” Its grin widened, full of pointed teeth and malicious intent.
Tythos now stood beside the nightmare, looking at the fresh tilled dirt of the garden, the neat rows broken by a massive ironwood stump that had appeared overnight. Beside the log-cabin, the pair made a fine contrast, short and tall, light and dark. Tythos stood five feet tall, broad in the chest and shoulders, white beard and bald head. Some things hardened with age, and Tythos looked older than his years, weathered by a hard life. The nightmare stood eight feet tall, thin body with long arms ending in a handful of claws, its monstrous form pure black. The nightmare appeared to be made of smoke, its black form rolling and shifting in a boneless parody of a man. Bright lambent eyes looked into the garden with amusement, a sharp-toothed grin splitting its head in half. Its eyes, mouth and claws appeared more substantial than the rest of its body, the only parts of the creature that didn’t roil and shift.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Asked the nightmare, its dark form swelling with what looked like pride. “It’s not right for this region, it’s been cut down, and wait until you see what the roots look like.”
Tythos looked at the weathered stump. Standing there, beside the crude excuse for a farmhouse, his mind’s eye thought of the valley he stood in. Pines, fir and oak covered the bluffs that stood on either side of the winding valley. The logs that formed the one room structure he lived in were pine. He guessed there wasn’t an ironwood tree for five-hundred miles.
The top of the stump was polished by age, and the gray wood looked hard as stone. He estimated it was ten foot across. It sat right in the middle of the garden. Tythos had finished tilling this spot yesterday. It had been stump free.
Tythos closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, the sweet stink of pigs mixing with the smell of fresh turned dirt. The early rays of the sun pricked his skin and he felt sweat beginning to form on his brow. He let out the breath and opened his eyes. The stump remained.
“Did you do this?” Tythos asked, glancing at the creature standing beside him.
The creature looked around with exaggerated motions, as if it was standing in a crowd and not sure who he was addressing.
“Meee?” The nightmare drew out the word, its deep voice rolling with a melodic, sing-song tone. “Whatever would make you think I would do such a thing?”
Tythos thought of the cow. He had scraped and saved to trade enough favor to get a cow. It had disappeared the first night it’d spent on the farm. He’d found most of the cow’s blood where he had penned it in. No other trace of the animal had ever turned up.
“Well,” Tythos said. “There was the cow.”
The nightmare’s face rolled into an aggrieved expression, putting a grotesque claw over where its heart would have been, if a smoke creature out of the nightmare realm had a heart.
“That was just bad luck.” The nightmare said it with a smile in its tone. It wore a saddened expression, though the corner of its mouth twitched.
“Uh-huh,” Tythos looked over at the scorched patch of ground where the coop he’d built had stood. “What about the chickens?”
“My,” the nightmare lost control, and its mouth curled into a smile. “That was messy, wasn’t it?”
The smile, full of twisted fangs, looked like something that waited at the bottom of a pit, ready to eat children and the hapless. Tythos remembered the first time he’d seen it, coming for him out of the endless dark. Now he didn’t bat an eye. After more than thirty years, he was used to it.
“Yes,” Tythos walked inside to get his only shovel. “It was.”
He’d opted to burn the henhouse, instead of attempt to clean up the mess. That henhouse had been the first thing he’d built since being assigned to work this piece of land. He’d been proud of it. It leaned, and the roof leaked, but the first storm hadn’t knocked it over. It had taken him a month to cobble it together. He still burned it. No sense in looking back.
His failing farm produced only withered crops, and aggressive pigs. The pigs were the only animal that survived a night on the property.
A sharp pain stung him on the back of his hand, then began to itch.
“Damn flies,” Tythos muttered, reaching to scratch it.
His hand passed through empty air. He sighed. It was a phantom pain, accompanied by a phantom itch. He scratched at the stump where his hand had once connected to his wrist. This did nothing to help. He scratched anyway. Ten years, and he still got phantom pains, aches, and itches. Ten years since he lost his hand, and he still forgot sometimes.
He walked out of the house, and around to the stump, his mind on the past. Everything he’d tried to do after assuming the throne had gone wrong. The riots, the fires, the famine. He looked at the stump.
It would be easier to move the garden, than to try and dig up this monstrosity. But he wanted the garden here, beside his only window. He stepped the shovel into the ground. He never let what was easier decide his way forward. He wasn’t about to start now.
He pulled out a set of leather straps and began to fasten them to his arm. One on his forearm and one near his wrist. He threaded a crude iron bar that ended in a hook through the straps. The hook sat where his hand should have. This allowed him some use of the arm while he worked. The straps bit into his skin and chafed. He had callouses on the arm from years of wearing the simple prosthetic.
As he tightened the straps, using his teeth to cinch them down, the nightmare walked over. It loomed, an air of anticipation about it, like it was waiting for him to open a gift. Tythos glanced up at it, eyeing the expectant grin it wore.
“What?” Tythos said.
“Mmm, nothing,” the nightmare sang the last word.
Tythos finished the straps and looked at it.
“It’s never nothing, what?”
“I’m just excited to see you complete the metaphor, that’s all. No need to get snippy.”
Tythos looked at its grin, then back at the stump. It looked like an ordinary stump that had begun to petrify with age. Except that it was too big, had appeared overnight, and no ironwood grew anywhere near here. Maybe he could salvage some of the wood from the stump. Tythos ignored the leering figure and moved the first shovelful.
The piece of the stump this revealed had a hole in it. The hole was small, round, and deeper than he could see into. The nightmare leaned closer, its grin spreading off the sides of its head. Tythos leaned down to take a look at the hole. The smell of decaying flesh wafted up from inside. He caught a glint of reflected light from inside the hole, before something lashed out at him. Time seemed to slow as years of instincts forged in combat kicked in. His mind registered fangs as the shovel he held came stabbing down.
The shovel stabbed into the dirt, taking the striking fangs with it. A bright green snake head fell onto the dirt, snapping and flopping around, venom dripping from long fangs, cold reptile eyes shining with malice. The head had been severed at the neck, jewel bright blood welling up from the cut. Tythos looked at it, the shape and color of the head registering as the world sped back up for him.
He knew that shape. The iridescent green of the scales. The familiar smell of decaying flowers and flesh. This was an emerald pit viper, and was as far out of place as the ironwood stump. Farther. It belonged on another world. Tythos remembered the jungle where he’d encountered these snakes before.
“Isn’t it perfect?” The nightmare’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You get it, right?”
The nightmare scooped up the snapping head and swallowed it. Making a satisfied sound as it did. The head disappeared, and the nightmare squatted down, its face growing wider, until it resembled a fat toad. All except for its crocodile grin.
“The metaphor?” The nightmare said from where it squatted. “You get it, don’t you?”
Tythos moved the shovel, and grabbed the snake’s body, pulling it from the hole. It was almost three feet long. The decapitated snake twisted and writhed, wrapping around his arm after he pulled it free. He stabbed the shovel back in front of the hole. There would be more snakes in there. The emerald pit viper’s venom caused a festering rot. A single bite could be survived by most men, however the snakes developed a deadly reputation from their aggressive pack behavior. They swarmed their victims.
Tythos looked at the rising smoke he could see across his field. The Gladwell’s would be cooking breakfast. They had a son and two daughters he had watched grow from nothing to knee high— watched from a distance. There were almost a hundred people living in the valley, but only one of them who would speak to him.
The exception was an old farmer by the name of Sagget. That man was the reason Tythos hadn’t starved his first year here. Everyone in the valley knew the name Tythos, and kept their distance. His name conjured memories of war and turmoil, and the people of the valley wanted nothing to do with him.
He felt responsible for the people here, despite his lack of status, and in spite of their lack of friendliness. He could’ve negotiated a better lot for them, if he’d been wiser. That chance was now gone, and calamity clung to him like a disease and infected everyone near. He’d lost everything, even the freedom to explore the world. The pit vipers were a plague that would spread and kill most everything in the valley. They had no natural predator on this world. Except for one.
Tythos looked at the creature beside him, seemingly made of smoke and bad dreams. He shook his head.
The smell of the snakes had taken Tythos to another time. Another lifetime. He would clean out this nest of vipers before they spread. It was time to focus on what he could do. Even if that was simply cleaning up a mess that wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.
Tythos used his hook to pierce the snake skin, beginning a tear that allowed him to fold it back from the neck. He took the snake skin in his teeth, grabbing the flesh, and ripped the skin off, like taking off a sock. The skin tasted of blood with a bitter, chalky aftertaste. The skin would be useful if he cleaned and cured it. Tythos took a bite of the raw snake meat and chewed as he worked. The meat held a stronger tase of chalk, the flavor bitter and dirty. The nightmare shot him a disappointed look.
“I need to eat too,” Tythos said.
The winter had been hard and stores were low. He would never mention his hardship to anyone, but he only had enough left for a meal every two days. This viper nest would be a boon if he could catch and kill them all. He walked back to the house, and pinned the skin up inside to dry. After he’d torn off half the good flesh of the snake, he threw the rest to the nightmare. It still sat like a toad near the stump. A long black tongue shot out of its mouth and snapped the snake remains out of the air. Blood sprayed the ground behind it, and the flesh disappeared into its black form. The creature could interact with the dead or dying, but never swallowed the blood.
Tythos wiped his bloody hand on his shirt and went back to the shovel. It was shaping up to be a long day, but at least he had food in his stomach. If he could dig down far enough, he could smoke the vipers out. Tythos smiled and began to hum a simple tune Mr Sagget had taught him. The nightmare eyed him as he worked.
“You’re not actually going to dig that up, are you? It’ll take you all week.”
Tythos snorted, “If I’m lucky, it’ll only take a week.”
Tythos continued to work, striking the heads off two more snakes and giving them the same treatment. He split the meat of each with the nightmare, the ground growing more bloody where it squatted. He began to feel cheerful as the morning wore on. He had a full stomach and something that needed doing. This seemed to irritate the nightmare. His levity would have driven it off to wander the property, if he wasn’t feeding it. This amused him, so he kept feeding it. After the seventh snake, the nightmare spoke up.
“Someone’s here,” it said.
Tythos didn’t look up. It would be Mr Sagget. No one else visited him. He also couldn’t spare the attention now that several holes were exposed. The viper nest was beginning to come alive. The lingering chill of the morning made the snakes sluggish. As the day warmed, they’d become quicker, and more dangerous. The sound of horses approaching caught his attention. No one in the valley owned horses.
No one in the valley owned anything, they themselves were property, belonging to the king. No one in the valley had horses. Horses meant soldiers and tax collectors, working for the local seigneur. He kept working, not sparing a glance for the approaching group. He heard the riders reign up in his yard. The nightmare stood, unfolding from where it squatted, interested in the newcomers. Its form rolled upward, until it was no longer toad shaped, once again looking like a tall, thin man.
They wouldn’t be able to see the creature. Tythos could because it was tied to his soul. Bound by a pact he had made in his youth for the power to take the throne. The power to change things. He had failed. Now he was stuck with the nightmare’s constant company, cut off from the power.
One of the snakes slithered from a hole. It rose and opened its mouth, then spat at him. Two jets of venom shot toward Tythos. Tythos held his breath and side stepped the spray of poison. Glistening droplets of venom hung in the air, a mist of toxins that would seize up the lungs and blind the eyes. He threw the shovelful of dirt he held at the viper and leapt onto the stump. The snake recoiled and darted up the side of the hole, following his movement. Tythos crouched, and stabbed the shovel down in front of the active hole, so he would only have to deal with one. The snake coiled and struck, its movement a blur. Tythos slapped at the strike on instinct… with the hand he no longer had. He braced for the impact and the pain, ready to pay for his mistake. He hadn’t trained or fought since losing his hand, and now he was about to pay for that neglect. The impact didn’t come. He brought the hook up and saw it had pierced the snake behind the head, right where he had tried to grab it.
“I bet you couldn’t do that again if you tried,” said the nightmare.
Tythos stood to face the newcomers, a snapping serpent impaled on his hook. It coiled its body around his arm, trying to free itself. Tythos looked the lead rider in the eye and bit through the snake’s neck. He could feel the spine crunch between his teeth. He tore the head off and spat it in the dirt.
The group looked unsettled, and they weren’t what Tythos had expected. They were neither wearing the red of king’s men, nor the silver of the tax guild. Five riders held reign in the yard, a group of four, accompanied by a man in a green cloak with a large black bird on his shoulder. A hunter. He would be their guide. Which meant they had come from beyond the valley, further even than the local fort. The lead rider was a tall woman in half plate. Tythos recognized her. He fixed her with a glare as blood ran down his chin into his beard. She was the woman who took his hand.
The woman in the lead dismounted, standing straight, with the bearing of a king’s soldier. Her armor gleamed in the morning sun, polished and unmarked, except for a thin layer of road dust. She stood nearly seven feet tall, with thick legs and arms, wearing the kind of muscle that came from a lifetime of hard work. If not for the armor, she would have looked like a well fed farm hand. She had a wide face, with a high brow and a flat nose. Her brown hair was cut short, and her eyes flashed a challenge as she strode forward.
She approached Tythos, who still stood on the stump. She stopped outside the garden, eyeing the mound of dirt and the blood on the ground. Her gaze tracked up to his bare feet, then to the threadbare clothes he wore, bloodstained and dirty. She looked at the snake coiled around his arm and raised an eyebrow. A twitch of an expression. Then she looked at his beard, and he watched her face for contempt. Her expression remained impassive. The expression of a soldier who’d had obedience drilled into them the king’s way. She met his eye.
Even standing on the stump, he had to look up. He spat on the ground in front of her, to let her know what he thought of seeing her again. The nightmare paced around her, circling like death. It eyed her with a hungry smile, smoke dripping from its mouth like drool. The smoke hissed as it hit the ground, sizzling and wafting up, disappearing back into the creature’s body. It left no footprints, and made no marks in its passage, but as it circled, the woman kept glancing to the side, as if she’d caught sight of something. She began to look uneasy, her stone mask of an expression slipping. She locked her gaze on a point behind Tythos’s head and addressed him.
“Your service is required by your king,” she said, with the air of a practiced speech. “By command of the king, you will be accompanying us to—“ Tythos cut her off before she could get going.
“No,” he said, his voice overpowering hers. “When I gave Rupert his life and handed him back the throne, I fulfilled more lifetimes of service than he deserves. The agreement was: I’d retire. Look…”
Tythos gestured expansively at his land. It stood out from the rest of the valley, everything inside the border of his property withered or dead. The rest of the valley held life, evergreens, grass, buzzing insects, chirping birds and the verdant new growth of spring. In a sharp line that demarcated the edge of his property, there was only cracked dry earth, dead trees, and dust.
Tythos continued. “I’m happily farming, retired. Feel free to take my tribute of dust back to Rupert.” Tythos looked down at the snake he held. “I suppose I’m growing snakes now too— here!”
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He threw the snake at the woman. She flinched, and the nightmare slid in front of her while the snake was in flight. It contorted, its mouth opening like a large fish and it swallowed the serpent whole. Blood sprayed across the front of her plate, and droplets spattered her face, but no other sign of the snake remained. She blinked in surprise and looked around. She opened her mouth, looking a question at Tythos, but it died on her tongue. She closed her mouth and wiped the blood from her face with a look of disgust.
“The future of the kingdom is at peril! The king has ordered your service. You will be to coming with us to reforge the—“ Tythos cut her off again.
“No,” Tythos glowered at her. “I won’t.” He raised his iron hook and waggled it at her. “If I recall, I already gave you a hand.” He looked her up and down. “You seem to be doing well enough. You earning your coin for all that food and fancy steel, by selling tickets to see it?”
Her face reddened. She looked furious. He stepped off the stump and picked up the shovel, turning his back on her. He resumed digging, and spoke without looking up from the work.
“I’m too old to care anymore. The whole kingdom can burn. I’m just a farmer. The agreement was, I’d be left alone.”
The woman behind him stood quiet, except for the clink of armor as she shifted. Tythos moved several shovelfuls. A viper burst from the stump and darted up out of the hole. Headed away from Tythos. The snakes had all come after him up until this point. This one was trying to escape, and caught him off guard. He couldn’t let one get away.
He threw the shovel in front of the retreating snake and lunged for it. The serpent jerked back, and Tythos caught hold of its tail. It turned to strike, but Tythos was already moving. He whipped the snake over his head. Its head struck the dirt. The soft dirt barely stunned the creature and it began to coil again, fangs bared. Tythos whipped it back the other direction and this time it impacted the stump. Its head crunched, and some of the fight went out of it. Tythos tried again, swinging it faster this time. The snake’s head made a sound like a cracking whip as it slapped against the ironwood.
Another bright green head poked out from the stump. It tested the air with its tongue. Tythos dropped the broken snake, and grabbed the shovel. He stabbed down, and sparks ignited from the impact. Too high. The shovel hit the stump before catching the snake, and the head disappeared back inside. The shovel sunk into the ground. The snake with the broken head writhed in the dirt, opening and closing a mouth that no longer worked right. Growling, Tythos grabbed it behind the head.
“Tythos Tyrannous Rex,” the tall woman almost shouted the title, like a herald announcing someone in court. “By the authority granted me by King Rupert the Third, I— unit commander Wellbourn— hereby take charge of you, and order you to accompany me to Thonos Gap, to reforge the Pact of Shadows—“
“What?” Tythos roared. He felt weight from her words settle on him. King Rupert had given her authority to affect the agreement. “You idiots broke the pact? What did you do, try to kill one of the dragons?”
“Dragons?” She looked confused for a moment, then shot him a pitying look. “I was told you might spout nonsense. Now, you will receive remuneration for your service in the form of…”
The woman continued to talk, but Tythos couldn’t hear her over the ringing in his ears. Something fell at his feet. He glanced at it. A broken snake head. He looked at the snake in his hand. He’d squeezed the head off. He hadn’t noticed. Tythos dropped the body of the snake. They’d broken the pact, then sent someone who didn’t even know where she was ordering him to go, to send him back.
Back into the dark with the creatures. Back into the madness. He’d gone into that black once, spent years in it, and given away part of himself to try and change things. When he’d come back, he started a war to try and win people their freedom. When he’d given it to them, they’d used their freedom to tear each other apart. It had all been for nothing. Now, they thought they could order him to go back. He woudln’t do it. He would rather die here, and take this messenger with him.
Tythos looked at the tall woman in her pristine armor. She stood there, speaking, holding something out, but all he saw was her face. The corners of his vision turned red. She had ordered him to accompany her, but stipulated nothing about safety. If he killed her and took the body with him, it would fall within the terms she had spoken. Tythos strode toward her, and she faltered in whatever she was saying. She reached for her sword. Tythos grinned.
Darkness filled his vision. Tythos paused, blinking. The nightmare took a step back from where it had stood, occluding his vision with its body. It had taken the form of a black wall and now contorted back into the rough shape of a man.
“Wait,” the nightmare waved its claws. Its voice spoke in his head, clear even over the ringing in his ears. “Wait, don’t kill her, not yet. Look, look what she brought.”
The nightmare swiped a claw at his head, like a slap. It passed straight through, the only thing marking its passage was a strange sensation. It felt like a splash of cold water, underneath his skin. The nightmare stepped aside and gestured at the thing the woman held. It contorted its body into a large black arrow, and pointed with it.
“Calm down and look, damn you.”
Tythos closed his eyes, picturing the next few moments, how he would kill her: The giant of a warrior stood at the edge of the garden in her gleaming armor. He stood six feet away from her, among the neat rows of tilled earth, ready for planting. She reached for the long sword on her back, holding something before her like a talisman, as if trying to ward him off. He leapt forward before she could draw the weapon, closing the distance in less than a second. Beside her now, he lashed out with a powerful kick to the side of her knee. The armor she wore reinforced the joint, affording some protection. But everything bent under enough pressure, even armor. The plated joints folded under the impact and her knee crumpled sideways, the joint shattering. She fell toward him, shock evident on her face. He caught her eye-socket with the hook attached to his arm and pulled, speeding her fall. She hit the ground hard, both arms out of position, unable to complete the draw of the sword. Before she finished landing he lashed out with a second kick, stamping down on her neck. The sharp crack sounded like a horses’s leg breaking, a sound that signaled the end of her life. She still held a spark, but it would soon die, her body no longer responding to her will. She had made a mistake, thinking she could send him back, and now her life, and the lives of those who trespassed with her, were his. He looked up at the other four riders, grinning as battle lust filled him.
Tythos opened his eyes. The tall woman stood at the edge of the garden, six feet in front of him. The nightmare stood beside her, still pointing at the object she held out. She had one hand on her sword pommel, a wary look on her face. Tythos felt calmer, after imagining her death. The ringing in his ears faded enough he could make out her words now.
“…And what’s more, you will be granted your freedom and allowed to leave the king’s border to the north.”
Tythos turned his focus to what she held in her outstretched hand. Recognition splashed over him, colder than the touch of the nightmare. It was withered, and desiccated, a claw-like parody of what it had once been. It was his hand. The one he’d given up to forge an agreement, in a final attempt to salvage what remained of a people who were tearing each other apart.
“Finally,” said the nightmare, sagging and fixing him with an intense stare. “I thought you were going to kill her before you listened. You never listen to me. Do you see now? She’s brought the authority to make a new agreement. Which would be about as useful as a severed dick in a whorehouse if you kill her first.”
Tythos grimaced at that mental image and turned his attention to the people in front of him. The four riders flanking the woman looked down at him with expressions that ranged from shock, to disgust. They all recognized the title, and as he confirmed it they grew uneasy. The hunter, sitting his horse apart from the others, looked at him with open hatred. Tythos ignored them and focused on the woman holding his hand.
“Do you agree?” The woman asked.
“I wasn’t listening,” Tythos said. “I don’t care about the kingdom and I don’t care about the details. I’m not agreeing to anything with the king’s name in it, so let’s start over.”
The nightmare cleared its throat and raised a single black claw in the air, its focus behind Tythos. “Right foot,” it said.
Tythos jerked his foot up, and stamped down, the timing perfect to trap the head of a striking viper beneath his heel. The snake writhed, the dirt beneath his foot too soft to crush its head. He reached down and grabbed the serpent behind its head, then lifted his heel and picked it up. He turned back to the tall woman. Her mouth hung open, her eyes on the emerald pit viper he held. She closed her mouth and looked up, narrowing her eyes at him.
“You weren’t listening?” She asked.
“No,” Tythos squeezed the deadly creature until it stopped struggling. “And I won’t make an agreement with Rupert through a proxy. You’re the one standing here, so you make an agreement.”
Tythos tossed the lifeless serpent to the nightmare, who snapped it out of the air. The woman followed the movement, beginning to draw her sword. She looked worried, as this one disappeared as well. Tythos reached up and unfastened the leather straps on his arm, letting them and the iron hook fall to the dirt.
“I will go with you and help you, if you agree to give me back my hand.”
“That’s all you want?” The woman looked at the hand she held, suspicion on her face. “The agreement with the king I already spoke, came with status, gold, freedom, and the hand, upon completion.”
“No,” Tythos began to turn away, towards the stump. “If you and I aren’t making an agreement now, I’m done. I got things to do.”
“Sigrun, just throw a sack over his head and let’s carry him out,” called one of the party behind the woman. “God, it stinks here! If we linger any longer this smell will get into my clothes.”
“You will address me as unit commander!” The woman barked. “Now hold your tongue! He has already agreed to come with us.” She lowered her voice. “I will agree to give you the hand. That was part of the first agreement. If you’d listened, we woudln’t need to go over this again. You’ve got to promise to come with me, and help me, and complete the king’s task. When finished, you will receive payment.”
“Oh my,” the nightmare said. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Someone really stuck their dick in it by letting her bring the hand. Try to get her to agree to give me her soul. I’ve always wanted one of those— just as a keepsake.”
Tythos smiled. He schooled his face back into a scowl before turning back to her.
“First swear on your name to give me back my hand, and then I will swear on mine to come with you, making it binding.”
The woman stood straighter. “I, Sigrun Wellbourn, so swear, to give you, Tythos, back your hand, if you agree to come with me and swear to help me—“
“I agree,” Tythos interjected. Before she could say anything, he followed up. “I Tythos swear to go with you and help you: thus completing our agreement and forging our pact.” He grinned. “You’ve got to front-load clauses and conditions if you want them to take effect.”
Tythos stepped forward and held out his stump. “Shake on it?”
Sigrun stared at Tythos. The look on her face said she thought this was childish.
“Nice try,” she shook her head. “Payment upon completion. My orders were clear on this point. Now, if you’d like to actually discuss terms, I will still give you the details and am authorized to promise status, gold and…”
She froze, a look of shock on her face. Tythos felt like a heavy cloak had been set on his shoulders. Sigrun would be feeling the same, as the weight of authority in their agreement settled on them both. The weight added to what Tythos already carried, causing a conflict with the old agreement. As the layers clashed, the weight on him increased, until he felt like he had a horse on his shoulders. Then the annulment clause in the old agreement was reached, and the pressure released as the old one broke; releasing him. The air between them shimmered, reflecting light like a mirage. Sigrun took a step back, alarm on her face. Then the air above all of Tythos’s land began to shimmer as the old agreement dissolved. Standing in the middle of dissolving authority felt nauseating, as if the rising vapor in the air was pure dizziness, distilled to a point it could be inhaled. The world began to spin and tumble around Tythos and he closed his eyes and waited. He heard Sigrun become sick, and cries of alarm rose from the party behind her. One of the horses screamed, and there was a thump. It sounded like the horse had fallen over. The sound of retreating hoofbeats confirmed this a moment later. The storm passed, and Tythos took a deep breath, then opened his eyes.
Sigrun was doubled over, panting and spitting. Three riders had been unhorsed, two trying to settle spooked mounts, one laying on the ground. The hunter sill sat his horse, draped in his green cloak, his big black bird on his shoulder. His horse stamped and was wild-eyed, but he looked unmoved. He continued to glare at Tythos with hate in his eyes. The black bird on his shoulder glared at him as well. Tythos figured he would have to kill that man before this was over. He looked at the rest of the party he would be traveling with.
The one on the ground sat up, long black hair spilling down their back. Tythos caught a glimpse of delicate features as they got up. Tythos wondered at this. Had a young girl been sent as party to escort him across the country? The other two weren’t what he expected either.
A short one in a heavy cloak was wrestling with a horse and being pulled around. A tall, ascetic looking man with short blond hair, held two horses. He looked like he’d be more at home in a king’s court, giving orders. These were not the people Tythos would have expected Rupert to send for him. A thousand men with spears, maybe. Something about this was out of place. Tythos turned his attention back to Sigrun.
She spat once more, and stood straight; her expression either angry, or alarmed. On her broad face they looked about the same.
“What was that?” She asked, her tone accusing.
The nightmare walked around behind her and put a claw on her shoulder.
“That’s cute,” the nightmare said. “I’d tell you that was nicely done, but with her grasp of authority, that was more like drowning a puppy, than wrestling a bear. And you didn’t even get her to throw in her soul.”
The nightmare tisked, like a disapproving grandmother. An odd sound to hear coming from such a monstrous face. Its grin widened, looking at Sigrun like a crocodile watching an approaching meal.
“That was our agreement, taking effect,” Tythos said. “Now, my hand?”
Sigrun shook her head. Tythos felt sure the look on her face was anger this time.
“No,” she said. “I told you, payment upon completion.”
She opened a sack tied to her belt, and made to stuff the hand in. Tythos stepped forward, holding out his stump. Sigrun looked up and reached for her sword again.
“Don’t come any closer,” Sigrun said. She had the voice of a commander, but none of the party she had come with were paying attention.
“Okay,” Tythos said. “Then my hand will come to me.”
With this, the nightmare poured itself headfirst into the hand. The hand absorbed its black form like a sponge, twitching and jerking. Sigrun looked down at it, her eyes wide. A bar of liquid black shot from the hand and connected to Tythos’s outstretched arm. It solidified in an instant, becoming the blade of a black sword. Sigrun cried out and jerked her hand back, and as she did, something fell to the dirt. She took a step back, drawing the greatsword on her back and a dirk from her belt in one smooth motion. Tythos stepped in, black sword pointed at her throat. She brought the dirk up, its blade clashing with the black one. This should have pushed the black blade out of position and given her room to use her sword, but Tythos reinforced the blade with an effort of will. It felt like lifting a heavy weight with something deep inside of him. The dirk passed through the black sword, the steel shearing through in a neat line as it did. Half the blade fell to the ground as Tythos placed the point of the sword under her chin. The party saw what was happening and reached for weapons, letting go of the horses.
“Nobody move!” Tythos shouted.
The party froze, hands on weapons, as another one of their horses beat a path back to the main road. The hunter still sat his horse, a glare locked on Tythos. The black bird on his shoulder opened its beak and spoke, its voice sounded like a man holding his nose.
“There’s trouble,” the bird said.
“Ooo,” the nightmare said in his mind. “A bird that can state the obvious. When you kill him, I want to keep the bird.”
“Where I come from,” Tythos said, “It’s custom to clasp hands to seal a pact.” He raised his voice so they could all hear him. “I’ve sworn to come with you, and help you.”
Tythos stepped forward. He applied his will once again, and the black sword changed length as he moved. The point remained steady, resting under Sigrun’s chin, as he bent and retrieved what had fallen to the dirt. He stepped up to her, letting her chin lower enough she could see his outstretched gesture. She dropped the broken dirk, and took his hand. They clasped, and Tythos left what he’d retrieved in her palm.
“Good,” Tythos said. “We have an agreement.”
He removed the black sword, and it shrank until it became a hand. It looked like his other hand now, fleshed out, scarred and calloused. The skin of it was the right texture, showing lines and pores, but the color of it was wrong. Its surface didn’t catch the sunlight, instead, the light passed through, like was made of smoke. It seemed to have an odd depth, as if the light fell on something deeper inside. Tythos flexed the fingers of his hand, rolling his wrist. The movement was painful, long disused muscle and tendons tight and straining with the motion. He enjoyed the feeling for a moment. This was turning into a good day. Tythos smiled up at Sigrun, who was looking at the object in her hand with horror.
She held her own severed finger. Her ring finger, severed just below the second knuckle. It twitched in her palm. Neither the cut on her hand, nor the finger, bled. Skin was grown over the wounds on each. It looked like she’d been missing the digit for years. Tythos knew from experience, the finger she’d lost would live for a couple days to a week. Then it would behave like a normal severed finger and begin to rot.
“If you get that to a skilled healer in the next week,” Tythos said. “They can probably reattach it. Now, I just have three things to do, and I’ll be ready to leave.”
He turned his back on her and walked towards the stump. He didn’t see any snakes.
“Did any of them get away?” Tythos asked the nightmare.
“Not that I saw,” the nightmare said in his head. “Although I was distracted for a moment. There was one creeping up on you, until the authority began to dissolve. When that happened, it fled back into the den.” The nightmare started laughing. “Have you ever seen a dizzy snake try to run?”
“Snakes don’t run, they crawl.”
“Oh whatever, you know what I mean. It spun as it slithered, like a little corkscrew. It was adorable.”
“Your mind’s like a little corkscrew. Could you power a sigil right now, or do we have to do this the hard way?”
“Of course I can. Just who the hell do you think I am?”
“Hey!” Sigrun called from behind. “Why do I feel like I’m wearing a cloak I can’t see? What did you do to me?”
“Look at her,” said the nightmare. “You could have gotten her to throw in her soul, but you were only thinking of yourself. You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m the only person you’ve ever met, quit your bitching.”
“Even so, I’ll never forgive you.”
Tythos turned his attention to the ironwood stump, and the smooth hard surface of its top. With an application of will, he formed one of the fingers on the black hand into a claw. The effort felt like lifting a weight with a sore muscle. Making the sword he had used a moment before had pulled on something inside of him. Now he was tired. Manifesting a claw should not be so difficult. He was out of shape.
Ignoring the pain and fatigue, he began to carve on the surface of the stump using the claw. It carved into the wood with as little effort as drawing in the soft dirt with a finger. Aware the reprieve from the emerald pit vipers would be short lived, he worked fast, drawing a familiar symbol. He’d drawn this symbol thousands of times. He covered the largest area he could, and still make its geometry perfect.
“Are you sure you want to make it this big?” The nightmare asked. “One a tenth this size would be more than enough.”
“I don’t want to miss a single snake,” Tythos said. “Besides, we’re about to be stuck with this group of people and I want to make a point.”
“Don’t want to miss a snake? You do remember how balefire works don’t you? You’re being needlessly flamboyant— what am I saying? Far be it for me to play the voice of reason— by all means, draw it bigger.”
Tythos finished and inspected his work. He didn’t want to suffer the consequences of powering an imperfect sigil. Satisfied, he placed the black hand on the sigil.
“Okay,” Tythos said.
He waited. Nothing happened.
“Okay,” Tythos said again, growing irritated.
“Okay what?”
“You know what, power the sigil.”
“You didn’t say the magic words,” sang the nightmare.
“Goddamnit, I hate this sack of crap. Just power it and let’s get out of here.”
“If you deepened your bond with me, you could do it yourself. Until then, I get to make the rules, and the rule is: you’ve got to say the words.”
“Fine,” Tythos growled. He muttered the next phrase, so only the nightmare could hear him. “Burn baby burn.”
“I can’t hear you,” sang the nightmare.
Tythos ground his teeth for a moment, then gave in and shouted,
“BURN BABY BURN!”
The lines carved into the surface of the stump began to fill with liquid light, like glowing quicksilver being poured in from where he’d placed the black hand. The light glowed with such intensity, it hurt to look at. He withdrew his hand and walked away, setting a ground eating pace, not quite a jog. He passed Sigrun, who was shielding her eyes against the glare coming from the stump.
“You’ll wanna back up,” Tythos said as he passed. He raised his voice and addressed the group. “I’ll wait at the next farm over while you gather your horses. I got some things to settle.” He pointed up the road as he continued striding away from the stump.
“Brace for impact,” said the nightmare. “In three, two, one…”
The sound of thunder exploded from behind and Tythos set his feet. A moment after the boom, a wave of pressure hit him. It pushed him forward and he leaned into it, keeping his feet under him as it carried him several steps. The people in front of him were all knocked flat, including the hunter, who hit the ground and rolled. Tythos glanced back, shielding his face with a hand from the heat.
A towering column of green fire rose into the sky. The rounded bar of green looked solid until his eyes adjusted, and he saw sinuous ropes of green fire, spiraling upward as the flames climbed higher. Overhead, the green bar pierced a cloud, pushing the shreds of white far away in a moment. Tythos grimaced at the now clear blue sky, as the green light winked out. It seemed to be a darker blue surrounding where the balefire had been, and for a moment he thought he saw stars.
He glanced down at the empty, blackened crater where the stump had been. Every trace of it had been erased. The wall of the log house beside the crater glowed cherry red, the wood of its face cooked to coals by the heat. As he watched, they dimmed to black. Smoke poured from the wall as it blackened, but didn’t rise. Instead, it behaved like water, pouring down onto the ground, then flowing into the crater in the garden. Then the wind began to blow. The smoke whipped upwards in a spiral, and dust poured in from across his fields to fill in the shape of a funnel.
Tythos resumed walking as the wind tried to push him back to the farm. Once he reached the road, he looked back one last time. The wind whipped past him, toward where the balefire had been. The cyclone had stopped, but clouds were building on the horizon, piling up, and appeared to be getting ready to march on the valley.
“Alright,” Tythos eyed the approaching storm. “I may have drawn it too big.”
***