I would always find that the finest almsgiver on the eve of a long ride was a barkeep who would gladly serve any man, so long as his coin didn’t bend under the tooth. After two days of riding and one night of fitful rest I was gladdened to come upon the small town of Serdoba, rustic and plain though it still was. The rain had mashed the grass-roots road into a muddy bog, and the wind was determined to direct the downpour into my face, below the hood of my sodden shawl.
‘Not long, Rel,’ I said, patting her flank as we passed over the flooded moat and under the southern gate, giving us momentary reprieve from the storm. Relampago was a tough mare, unbothered by the storm that had crossed our path time and again as if the Storm Aspect was personally offended by our direction. My luck had, however, afforded me an empty stable in which I was able to relieve my horse of my weight and saddle, the latter almost twice as heavy having soaked up copious amounts of rainwater.
The town’s main thoroughfare was obscured by the misty deluge, but I cared not to see the sights. For now, I wanted only for the taste of ale. Pushing open the door of the tavern – the name of which escapes me – my nostrils were assailed with the familiar scent of sweat, ash and malt. A brief silence reigned, some patrons observing my light rider’s gear and sword on my back, and the more eagle-eyed among them glimpsing my red eyes and mark crossing over my collarbone to the bottom of my neck.
I slapped a one zata coin on the table. ‘My horse is stabled. A pitcher of ale, if you please.’
The barkeep’s gaze flickered to the zata momentarily, then back to me. ‘Shall do, though I’d feel a right more comfortable serving a man face to face. Take your hood down.’
I grunted and acquiesced, preparing for what came next. The barkeep made a creditable attempt to hide his consternation, but nevertheless his reaction caught the notice of the only other fellow sitting at the bar.
‘Brooner, don’t be servin’ no Touched. He’s making everyone nervous.’ He turned his attention to me, brows angled down in admonishment. I’d come to know he was called Tarlan, and that he was mostly decent besides the severe resentment he felt toward my kind. It could have been that very resentment that made him decent to most in the first place, or maybe it was because it was bad form to speak ill of the dead, for he was slain barely a week after our encounter.
‘This here’s a simple place for simple folk,’ he began, ‘We’ve enough of our own business to be mindin’, fields to plough and mines to be swingin’ picks at – and making sure we don’t all drown come the morrow. So be off with ye! You daemonfolk mind your own as we mind ours.’
I have learned through bloody, dangerous, and often painful example that rising to such challenges was pure folly. When a man is set in his ways with no compunction to be swayed – and these are men you can discern right away – anything you would say in your defence, reasonable or not, would prove only to incense them. I had learned this lesson prior to this juncture in my life, dear reader, but upon reflection I find that I must still have held a flicker of that youthful self-regard that made any jabs at my pride sting all the more. The lesson was fresh and unrevised.
I ignored Tarlan and proceeded to place two more zatas on the bar, which captured the barkeep’s attention. ‘My only intention is to drink myself merry while I dry my cloak, nothing more. And I should be so grateful as to have the name and quarters of the local Graveminder.’
Brooner the barkeep sighed as he swept up the zatas and said in a hushed tone: ‘Graveminder’s lodgings are near the north gate. Follow a path down the left side of the cemetery and you’ll be at their door.’
‘Much obliged.’ When he failed to produce a flagon and begin pouring I prodded him. ‘And the ale I paid for?’
‘You’ll get none,’ Tarlan interjected. Some men are incensed even if you do nothing. ‘We don’t need a beast like you getting oiled on our grog. Go on now, fuck off.’
‘I’ll have my ale, and then I’ll take my leave,’ I said, leaning on the bar. ‘And I must clarify, good sir, that you had it right the first time. I am Touched, and that is as far from Daemonfolk as men are to pigs.’ I removed a glove to reveal a hand puckered by the rain. Although there was no threat in this move, Tarlan flinched. ‘Were I the latter, I could reach out and touch you, leave you with a mark and curse just like mine. But alas, while my body has turned to the profane my soul remains as sanctified as the day I was born. Strictures of the Numen advocate for boundless mercy, do they not?’
‘And look where that got her,’ Tarlan countered, ‘Now our goddess answers no prayers, offers no protection from daemons, Enlightened nor Feral. Any breath of your like just purges more o’ her vitality from the world.’
‘So, stick knives in our hearts, is it? You’re welcome to try.’ I let a little Daemon whisper poke into the last few words, and I saw that I’d drawn a wider audience. ‘Who would be the hero to slay me this night? No doubt my organs fetch many a zata. Anybody?’ No response, as I’d anticipated. Gazes slithered away from me, a din of meek conversation overtaking once more.
I pulled out a waterskin and slapped it on the table. ‘Forget the pitcher. Serve my ale in that and I’ll leave you in peace.’
*
I’d expected the Graveminder of Serdoba to be equally as hostile as the rest of the townsfolk, so it was a pleasant surprise that she didn’t balk at my presence. You didn’t see women in such professions very often, mostly because they’re bred to be demure on this side of the world, aristocrat and swain alike. Her hair was long and tied back, black enough that in some light it held the hue of a midnight sky. Oddly, she wore darkened eyewear, but her eyes bore into me with a depth of scrutiny I had come to expect among her profession. She knew why I was there before I opened my mouth, most likely.
‘I can do you two pints. Lucky for you some numbskull on Ekbell’s farm fell on his own fucking pitchfork a few days ago and I haven’t prepped him yet. Can you imagine that? Greeting the Vestige by saying you committed self murder by accident?’ She shrugged. ‘Poor sod’ll be damned anyway, but at least he has a story to tell in between all the plague victims, if’n his soul ain’t ripped to shreds in the Dreadhallows first.’
‘Three pints and I’ll throw on ten zatas,’ I said, barrelling through her rambling. ‘Two won’t get me to the next moon.’
Understanding dawned on her fine features, and she tapped at her collarbone. ‘Ah, an Ichor daemon got you then. The Diviners reckon the next bloodmoon’s not for a couple months.’
‘I’ve never known the moon to be co-operative with us earthly creatures, and I feel decidedly naked without any stores. It pays to be prepared.’
‘That it does.’ She rather suddenly pulled her arm out the sleeve of her blouse, revealing a breast marked by a daemonic handprint, similar to the one on my chest. ‘But I’d be feeling a little naked myself if I parted with more than two pints.’
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Trying not to look timorous by her sudden disrobing, I nodded. ‘Alright. Two it is.’ I understood her now. She was also Touched, and by a daemon of the same alignment as the one who touched me. She needed the blood as much as I did.
She righted herself before opening one of eight large drawers and sliding out a body covered in ice and salt. She sat the corpse up, his skin pallid and face gaunt, before puncturing the poor fellow’s wrist. She placed a bowl on a table just below the wound to catch the blood. I pulled out my coin-purse ready for the exchange when she held up her hand.
‘He’ll bleed, but it’ll take a while. Unless you’d think a tavern would be more welcoming, we’ll get the particulars out of the way and share a drink.’
I didn’t relish the prospect of finding more Tarlans out in the town, nor braving the rain that was still pattering against the cloudy window panes. ‘Alright,’ I said, pulling up a rickety old chair to sit across from her. A raised and stained table was between us, but she lowered it to a comfortable height for writing and produced a red ledger.
‘Just for my records. Us Graveminders are a careful lot when it comes to dealing with Touched of any kind.’
‘I’m aware. Here’s hoping I haven’t pissed off enough of your colleagues to warrant a blacklist. The Graveminder in Pattersley was of a more… belligerent disposition.’
She appraised me, her eyes running me up and down. ‘You don’t seem the type to make trouble. And I’ve had dealing with Yorick before… he’s a right cunt anyway, so I wouldn’t worry.’ She procured a quill and ink from a nearby shelf. ‘Give us your letters then.’
I did so, and she stopped halfway through my first name, bemusement fluttering across her face as she finished the rest.
‘Vyde Embris.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘You sure about that, chum? That’s about as false as names get, and I’d hate to find out I was wrong about and, and that I’d shared company with some kind of dastard.’
‘It’s the name I use everywhere else, and I was young when I was touched. I didn’t have a lot of imagination and the name I had only served in attracting danger.’ I had essentially translated the words ‘dire’ and ‘blood’ from my native Aelrik to the Nethertongue used among the Enlightened, the daemons that occupying the westernmost continent of Viahlyx, the epicentre of the Daemon’s emergence. Those unacquainted with history would think of mine as an odd name, but nothing more. I thought this Graveminder may have a mind for legend and language. She intrigued me, truth be told.
‘And you?’ I asked, removing the waterskin of ale from my belt.
‘In a world full of falsity it’s best to go with the tide. I’m known as Izla around these parts.’
The name triggered an old memory. A name that Sir Wymond had taught me during a lecture regarding the Numen’s lesser Aspects. With it dawned the memory of sunlight spilling through the thin slatted windows, highlighting the dust in the empty dining hall, and wishing that I was outside refining my swordsmanship instead studying theology.
‘Izla, the Quietus Aspect. How fitting,’ I opined, sucking on some ale.
She leaned forward, a focused gaze landing on me. ‘Well, aren’t we two strangely educated souls, and in a town barely marked on any map no less.’ She nodded at my waterskin and I handed it over. She gulped generously. ‘Are you looking to get lost, Vyde Embris?’
‘I’m looking for what only those of our affliction can these days.’ I thumbed to the sword I’d left by the door. ‘Blood and money. The dirtier the job, the better.’
‘It’s not the only thing us Touched are good for. I’d say I have a rather upstanding profession.’ She crossed her arms, her face twisting into a parody of offence before grinning sardonically. ‘There’s so much reverence for the dead, but what they really respect is their memory, or their souls, or whatever else the Numen decided to put in our weak, fleshy bodies when she made us. Folk don’t want to think about the carcass that takes two men to carry, nor the intricacies of keeping the rot from a corpse that needs to be displayed a week later. Even then, it’s only to be burned or buried.’ She took another large gulp from the skin and handed it back. ‘It’s thankless work, but it allows for privacy. And let’s be honest, it’s one of the only vocations that will forever have a demand, just like yours. You make the bodies and I trade with them. Our work is different in nature , but we sit on the same side of the scales.’
I took the waterskin back to find it almost half empty already. ‘Here’s to death, then. May the dead continue to fill our pockets,’ I took a sip and savoured the refreshing citrus tang that quenched my thirst. I hadn’t engaged in a conversation that hadn’t devolved into insults or threats for a good few weeks, and I found the particularly strong concoction the barkeep had supplied was loosening my tongue. ‘What do you do during a Bloodmoon? None of the townsfolk mentioned you were Touched, and I’d imagine that’s by design.’
Izla nodded. ‘I have a little place sequestered in Hugon’s Holt about ten miles west. If anyone’s noticed the pattern of my absence they haven’t mentioned it. Most of them are too worried about their own hides when the sky turns red anyway.’ She tilted her head, her mood turning inquisitive. No one had taken this much interest in me for a long time. I was used to furrowed brows and leers with bared teeth, so I found her lingering eyes disquieting. ‘You carry yourself like a real veteran, but I wouldn’t place you over three decades living. You really were touched young.’
‘I have a young face,’ I said curtly. I was often mistaken for younger than my thirty-three years. ‘But yes, almost eighteen years ago.’
She raised her eyebrows and whistled in surprise. ‘I’ve only known a few that lasted longer than you, and you’ve got over double on me. Mine was seven years ago this spring. I was young but mature enough, and the Feral that touched me, well… it did more than just touch me, y’know?’ Her expression darkened, and gone was her blithe attitude, replaced by recollection of a bitter memory. Her spectacles had slid down her nose and I could see the crimson tinge surrounding her pupils. ‘Suppose everyone is shown the difference between Feral and Enlightened, sooner or later.’
The implication of her violation hung heavily in the air. I wanted to comfort Izla, and perhaps I should have done. However, dear reader, the only way I would’ve known how was to share my own experience. Even now as I put quill to paper my mind has placed details behind a barricade built for a purpose unknown to me. Is it a curse? Is it my subconscious attempting to protect me from even further horror, perhaps one that would further pollute my soul? I suspect I’ll never know. So I hope you understand my reluctance to offer any platitude to her in the moment, for it would have rung hollow.
‘Enough of that,’ Izla scoffed, waving her hand in front of her face. Her buoyancy had returned just as quickly as it had evaporated. ‘If you’ve not a destination in mind I’d suggesting heading north toward a town called Langteglos. Folks coming through say there’s something afoot that way.’
I drank the last of the ale. ‘As long as it’s something that’s quick and pays fair.’
‘I don’t know if it fits either of those. There’s rumours that the lord there isn’t paying his militia their stipend, and though he’s known for an open door policy, the door to his manor has been shut tight.’
There was an inconsistency that piqued my interest. ‘Surely the militia would just storm in and hold the lord ransom against the Viceory? That’s what I’d do, and what usually happens when lords are frivolous with their coin.’
Izla shook her head. ‘You’ll have to find out for yourself. That’s as much as I know.’
She wrapped up the bags of blood and handed them over as I prepared myself for an overnight stay in the stables with Relampago. I still didn’t have enough for my intended purpose. The truth was, I had a destination in mind, and it was the manor of one Lord Lothway of Langteglos. I had some lingering questions the required an answer. No, more than that. My being cried out for them, and I thought obtaining them would be one step closer to silencing the hellish presence that appeared in my dreams.
‘Don’t be a stranger, Vyde Embris,’ Izla called as I left. ‘If you wrap up your business and you come back this way I might have that third pint for you.’