Poisoned

It started as a tickle, then an itch. By the time Runt made it to the pile of wolf skins by the fey-tree it burned. He found the metal dart lodged in his cloak while loading the skins onto his dog’s back. It was made of solid gold, about five inches long, with a nasty barbed end coated in a foul-smelling green paste.

“He must’ve had some kind of dart slinger hidden in his armour.” Runt said, grimacing as the heat crept up his arm and across his shoulder. He didn’t realise it at the time, but the cloak saved his life. The dart barely scratched the skin. Even this tiny dose of poison, though, was enough.

He started seeing double before they even reached the next fey-tree. After that, things got… weird. Using rope leftover from strapping wolfskins onto the back of his dog, Runt did the same thing to himself. He lay across Stripes’ back and looped the rope under the dog’s chest, over his shoulders, under again, and over, until he felt like he was secure. Now there was a bundle of wolfskins strapped to the dog, plus a bundle of Runt. It would have to do. The heat spread to his face, crept behind his eyes, and seeped into his mind.

The rope was no longer a rope. It hissed at him. Twisted and coiled. Grew scales, slithered across his shoulders, and squeezed. Gasping, Runt’s eyes bulged, and burst.

Darkness.

The boat rocked across the ocean. Darkness clung thick like a blanket thrown over the abyss. Groans from low down in the timber of the craft. Rhythmic, to the rocking of the ship. Groans from the belly of the beast with the rocking and rolling and creaking of the vessel’s ancient bones. Groans. Groans. Groans and whispers.

They whispered and cackled and hissed and pointed and loomed over everything. Giants. Tall as the sky. Slender but strong. They trembled and shook and danced and laughed and waved back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Marching past in a grim procession cackling and hissing and trembling and waving. Giant stick insects marching past with limbs bent into impossible angles shaking and swaying and stretching out with sharp fingers. Pointing and hissing and taunting and slashing and poking and scraping and snapping and crashing and tearing and scratching and ripping and splashing…

The giants recede. A smooth dark glide. A long cool ride across the night itself. Sliding along the shadows slick with fear and resignation and acceptance of loss. The snake relaxed and slithered away and left its prey to breathe their final breath in peace and darkness.

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Darkness.

Darkness and death.

Runt awoke to a hundred pairs of eyes, each round and brown and full of worry.

“It worked!” Patch laughed, clapping tiny hands together.

“Of course it worked,” the teacher grumped, “when have you ever known harpy medicine to fail?”

Runt sat up and winced as his vision swam for a few moments. He shook his head and sighed as the world righted itself.

“How did I get here?” he asked, looking across at the great fey-tree.

“We found your wolf-pup wandering in the Deep and led you back here.” The teacher replied.

“You have brought more friends back to us, Runt,” Patch said, pointing to the bundle of wolfskins. “We owe you our thanks.”

“No, that’s not what you owe me.” Runt said. He groaned as he tried to stand, felt dizzy, and sat back down with a thud. He stared at the teacher. “You owe me an explanation. I talked to the Captain. The boss of the demons. I asked him why they were making the gorgons destroy the fey-trees, and why they were trying to exterminate the harpies, and do you know what he said?”

The teacher stared at Runt with eyes of stone.

“He said, the gorgons and harpies have always been at war. That you and the gorgons want the same thing, the fey-trees, and that it’s been this way for ever. For ever! But you said the gorgons only started being bad because the humans made them. So which is true?”

Runt slumped back onto the grass. The stars drifted overhead and he thought, randomly, they knew. The stars knew why. They watched it unfold every night from up there. But did the stars care?

The teacher must have signalled to the other harpies because, suddenly, Runt and the teacher were alone.

“Rest, now, Wolf-ghost, and allow the harpy medicine to finish healing your body of the poison. Always with the demons’ speech there is a hint of truth to their grand lies. That way, when they are challenged, they say ‘I didn’t lie, not about everything’. Mark my words, though, that demon is a liar and an oath breaker. It is in his blood. You will see. Soon, you will see. But now, you must rest.”

“I just want to help,” Runt murmured, but the words became more difficult with each breath, “I just want the world to make sense.”

“Wolf-ghost. At the rise of the sun, I will take you to the remembering place. We will carry these wolf skins to the others, waiting there. The truth is waiting there, also.” Then the teacher turned and made their way up into the hollows.