CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BLEAK DREAMS
“Promise me,” Anna’s strained voice whispered to him. Her frail hands clutched at his as Carter sat there next to her hospital bed, a dead expression on his face.
The black house loomed in front of him. It was a dark shade against an ash-gray sky, four stories of burnt wood and a labyrinth of long forgotten rooms. The charred corpse of a tree sat up front, its black branches stretching up at the sky like a skeletal hand reaching for the moon.
“Promis me, Carter.” Her face, once so bright and rosy, was now pallid and pale. Her dark hair, which he had so often played with during their close, intimate moments, was long gone. Eaten away by the treatments that poisoned her body as it tried to kill the cancer inside her.
At the top floor of the house was a large, round window. Soot and ash marred the surface of the glass, but it remained unbroken unlike the other windows. From behind the glass, Carter could see a figure. It stood in the dark shadows inside the house, a silhouette blacker than the darkness it hid in.
“Promise me!” Her voice was so weak now, so soft. Her breaths came in gasps, each one fighting not to be the last. Her grip tightened on his hands, yet it was so weak that he could barely feel it. Her hands were so thin now, he could feel the bones beneath the skin of her fingers.
Carter continued to stand outside the black house, his eyes locked onto the shape behind the circular window. Soon the dark figure began to solidify, its form taking on a more recognizable appearance. The dark blur turned into a young woman, her skin pale and ghostly. Her black hair was long and fell past her shoulders and down her back. She wore a black gown that clung to her alluring figure. She was beautiful, in the same way a sharp, well honed knife was.
“Promise me,” Anna desperately pleaded, as tears fell from her eyes. “Promise me that you won’t give up. Even after I’m gone.”
Their eyes met, his brown locking onto her black.
“I promise,” he lied.
The woman’s black lips twisted up into a smile.
Carter was standing alone, in a graveyard, next to Anna’s grave. He pressed the barrel of the gun against the side of his head. His finger squeezed the trigger.
Soft laughter echoed throughout his mind as he woke up.
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Carter woke up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat up in his rented bed. He took a quick glance around the room, which was even smaller than the one he had slept in back at Culvert’s Rock. It was barely the size of a walk-in closet.
He looked out of the room’s sole window, noting that it was still daylight past the grimy glass. It looked like his nap had only taken a few hours. Yet it had been enough to have those strange dreams again.
During the long sea voyage to the south, Carter had been having strange dreams. They didn’t happen every night, but they came with such regularity that Carter knew it wasn’t just a coincidence. The dreams were always the same, too. They showed him, standing outside a grim black house, staring up at a window where a strange young woman was staring down at him.
Carter’s eyes moved to the side table by his bed. On top of it lay the black shape of his Witch Arm. He was certain that the weapon was the source of the dreams. It had to be. Rann’s father had warned him that all the other holders of the Black Witch Arm had gone insane. Was this how it happened? Would he keep dreaming about that strange woman until she drove him nuts? Who the hell even was she?
Dorothea the Ebon. That was the name of his Witch Arm. Carter guessed that had also been the name of the witch that the weapon drew its power from.
Was that it, then? Was the ghost of this Dorothea reaching out from beyond the grave to torment him? She was a witch, after all, so it made a sort of sense for her to do so. But why was only the black one acting like this? Why didn’t the other Witch Arms drive their users crazy? Was only the black witch evil and the others good?
Carter frowned, then reached over to pick up the Witch Arm. Like always, it was much lighter than it looked. A solid piece of metal shouldn’t be so light. He examined its shape, noting the round cylinder, the unmarked four-inch barrel, and the fully metal grip. Why had it taken the shape of his old revolver? Carter remembered that when Dervon the black knight had wielded it, he was able to transform the Witch Arm into a multitude of weapons. During the fight with the bandits, he was able to transform it from a sword to a spear, to a battle axe, to a hatchet.
Not for the first time, Carter attempted to recreate Dervon’s actions. He focused his will and tried to turn the gun in his hand into a sword. Try as he might though, the shape would not change. He had attempted to do the same thing during the long sea voyage south, as he was stuck, bored in his cabin with nothing else to do. He tried to change it into numerous weapons: knives, spears, and even an AK-47. No matter how hard he tried to envision the image that he wanted the Witch Arm to transform into, the gun in his hand refused to change.
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There had to be some way to do so.
Carter shook his head, then put the gun back down on the desk. Whatever the secret was to the transformation, he knew he would discover it eventually. He had plenty of time to do so, after all. He didn’t have a job, and he had plenty of money. It might take months to discover the secret of the Witch Arm, but he was confident that he could handle it.
Speaking of which, he should definitely get a holster made for the gun. He had been tucking the weapon into his belt, which not only felt unsafe but absolutely lame. It could fall out whenever he needed to run or walk swiftly. Drawing the weapon was also a problem, as it could easily get caught in his clothing.
He looked out of the window again, wondering if there was enough time to go looking for a leather smith. He had pulled into port mid-morning, so it was probably only in the early afternoon.
“Fuck it,” Carter stood up from his bed and stretched. He was eager to get out of the tiny room. Plus, he had nothing better to do.
Carter ate a late lunch downstairs before heading out. Despite Mirilla’s lofty claims, the food her chef served was passable at best. Even if she was telling the truth and her chef was one of the best in town, well, frankly it didn’t really speak much for the quality of the cuisine in Joston.
Thankfully, the proprietress of the inn was able to point Carter in the direction of a good leatherworker. Well, “good” in the sense that the man was willing to do business with foreigners. The quality of his work was yet to be seen.
Before Carter left the establishment, he took notice of something that he hadn’t caught when he had first entered the inn. Right by the entrance was a large noticeboard, and tacked onto its surface were numerous sheets and pamphlets advertising various goods and services. Among these were several requests asking for aid, each one varying in the tasks needed. One wanted someone to go into the forest near the town and dig up several pounds of mushrooms. Another asked for a posse of men to go slaughter a band of goblins to the south. There were also a few wanted posters up, with sketches of the fugitives along with the reward for their capture posted below them.
“It’s like a quest board for a video game,” Carter remarked with a grin as he remembered the role-playing games he played as a kid. He shook his head in amusement as he exited the Fat Kitty.
It was mid-afternoon outside, and the winds coming in from the sea blew the smell of salt and fish into Carter’s face. It was a bit warmer here in the south than it was up at Culvert’s Rock, but thankfully it wasn’t stifling.
Following Mirilla’s directions, Carter headed deeper into the city. He eventually reached a small shop in a residential area that was built into the side of a home. The shop was open-air and had no walls, with various products such as belts, bags, and purses placed on display racks at the front. The heavy scent of leather was in the air, and Carter knew that he had found the right place.
He browsed the selection on the racks for a moment until a heavy-set man in rugged clothing exited the house. He had thinning brown hair and a thick beard, from which Carter could see several bread crumbs spattered throughout. It looked like he had just interrupted the man’s late lunch.
“Good afternoon,” the man said, his hand wiping through his beard to get rid of the crumbs. “Can I help ya?”
Carter nodded. “Ah, yes. I need a holster made. For this.” He pulled the Witch Arm from his belt and held it towards the leather smith, making sure to point the barrel safely away from his direction.
The man eyed the gun curiously. “Oh? What is it?” He reached out to examine the Witch Arm, but Carter pulled it away quickly.
“Ah! It’s a scientific instrument,” Carter lied. He had three weeks on the ship to come up with a good story, one that would allow him to not only explain away the gun but prevent the person making the holster from trying to touch it. “I’m sorry, but it’s very delicate. Only I can handle it safely.”
The leather smith frowned. “Well, that’s gonna be a problem if I can’t measure the damn thing.”
“Oh, I can hold it for you while you take your measurements. That should be fine, right?” Carter asked.
The man shrugged. “Fine. But I’ll be charging you extra fer this nonsense.” He went into his stall and began to dig through his tools.
The man came back after a few minutes with a length of twine. It had several knots tied into it, each at about an inch and a half away from the other. He had Carter hold up the Witch Arm and then used the twine to measure its dimensions. He held the rope along the length of the gun, from hammer to barrel, and used the knots to measure it. He did the same at its widest point for the width, which was along the cylinder.
“I’ll need to be able to grasp the handle here to pull it out,” Carter told him, indicating the gun’s grip. The leather smith nodded and continued with his measurements. “Could I also have a separate belt to hang it from?”
“Sure thing.” The man had finished with his measurements and pulled the twine away. “Do ye have a particular type of leather you’d prefer?”
Carter thought about it for a second. “Uh, I’d like it to be as rugged as possible.”
The man nodded. “Ye’ll want Gnile hide then.”
Carter had no idea what a Gnile was. Before he could ask, the leather smith entered his stall and began to write something down inside a book on his counter.
“Let’s see. One holster for yer strange doohickey,” he lifted his eyes to look at Carter, paying close attention to his waist. His eyes then dropped down back to his book where he continued to write. “One belt, medium size. Both Gnile hide.” He stopped writing in the book and looked up at Carter. “It’ll take me a day to get the hide from my supplier, and about a day or two to make the holster. Come back in three days, it should be done by then. Oh, and you owe me two gold or three hun’red silvers. I’ll take half now, the rest will be due when you pick up your stuff.”
Carter nodded and handed the man a gold coin. “Thank you very much.” He held out a hand, much to the leather smith’s surprise. “I’m Carter Lee, by the way.”
The man raised an eyebrow as he shook Carter’s hand. He had a very firm grip. “Lars Mattrose. I’m surprised you ask, most of your type wouldn’t have cared.”
It was Carter’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “My type?”
Lars nodded. “Aye. Rich folk.”
Carter sighed in relief. He had half expected the man to say something racist. “Well, if it’ll make you feel better, I can shove a stick up my ass and act all snooty.”
The man laughed out loud. “Ha ha! Yer alright, for a rich ponce.”
“Uh, thanks,” Carter said. He figured it was a compliment.
Lars smiled. “Well, you’re welcome to do business with me anytime, Carter Lee. I’ll make sure to make that hoster extra sturdy, you won’t find better craftsmanship anywhere in the south, I guarantee it!”
The two spoke for a few more minutes before Carter had to take his leave. He left Lars’ shop feeling in a much better mood. It was nice to know that not everyone in Joston was a racist prick or was trying to take advantage of him.
With a much lighter step, Carter headed back to the Fat Kitty.