Awful. Simply awful.
It’d been three days since they left Cormorant and Crow already felt like he was going to lose his mind.
He wasn’t sure why he was stupid enough to take this job. Sure, the pay was well and good. Even better to stick it to the Triune, too. But oh, how he wished they would’ve just sent him to a city instead. It was much too quiet out here for his liking. He missed the sounds of drunken, off-key songs, rats scurrying down stony streets, and ale. Oh, how he missed ale. He vowed to himself that he’d drink his birth weight of it the moment he got paid.
“It’s just around the hills ahead,” Pigeon reassured him. “By the time they see the smoke, we’ll be halfway to Old Ludlith!”
Hawk, the tall, brutish enforcer of the group, shot her a glare. “Yeah, mention home base a little louder, Pidge, will ya? Sure the eavesdroppers’ll love to hear that.”
Of all the aliases she could’ve chosen, Pigeon had to be the stupidest. Crow had worked with her in the past, but all the codenames she’d chosen never ceased to underwhelm him. Sea Slug, Daffodil, Magenta…ridiculous, all of them. Damn good at her job, though. A little too good, in all honesty. The thing she’d probably seen slithering around in his mind…he dared not think about it. Last time around, he slept with an eye open that night. Having a Purveyor did give them a tactical advantage, but the price was never a pleasant one to pay.
Crow was convinced their employer had chosen Pigeon and Hawk as his partners for the sole intent of torturing him. Pigeon couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Hawk couldn’t hold a conversation to save his life. If Crow ever saw either of them again after this mission, it’d be too soon. At this point, he’d take a week at sea over another hour with them.
“Sooner we finish this, sooner we won’t have to worry ‘bout any eavesdroppers,” he suggested, throwing the last of his supplies in his pack. He’d gotten quite good at packing. Years of mercenary work had callused his hands and his mind, training him to take only what was needed, when it was needed. This time around, he’d brought three day’s worth of dried goods, a tent, fletcher’s blade, and a jar of sourdough starter he’d secured from a merchant in town. That, in his opinion, was the most valuable object they had between the three of them. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he hovered over Hawk as the man slowly and meticulously bundled each of his items.
“Right,” he remarked, assuming the role of the reluctant leader. “You all know what you’ve got to do, right?”
Hawk stood, looming over the archer. Hawk the Vorthali was lucky his skin was made of stone. Otherwise, he would’ve surely slugged him by now.
“You the boss all of a sudden?”
He’d seen many back away from Hawk before — and he couldn’t blame them. The man was practically chiseled out of a boulder and looked like he could tear a grown man in half. Carver wasn’t keen on being the next victim. He held his hands up. Time for diplomacy.
“Not at all,” Crow remarked, adopting a measured tone. “Sooner we get this done, sooner we get paid. Right?”
“We can’t make sloppy mistakes,” Hawk reminded him. “I’ve heard of how you do your jobs. Sloppy. Like you’ve got no appreciation for the craft.”
He took a step forward until he towered over the Southerling. His hot, heavy breath felt like he was peering into a furnace.
“No sloppiness this time. Got it?”
Crow was many things — a cretin, a coward, and a lightweight, among a few. But he wasn’t stupid. Only someone with a head as thick as Vorthali skin would pick a fight with this brute. Rather than engage any further, he nodded affirmatively.
“The moment you see the smoke go up, finish the job,” he replied hurriedly. “Okay?”
“I. Know. My. Role.”
Crow thought him a very poor conversationalist. He must not have been the only one to think this way, as the man’s eyepatch and scars that split his craggy skin betrayed his bravado. As far as Crow was concerned, you don’t earn a few of those injuries without pissing off the wrong person.
And then there was Pigeon.
He much preferred working with women. Crow always found them much less likely to make impulsive mistakes. They were less concerned with glory and, in his experience, made sure to help their companions if they ran into trouble. He quite liked that. But Pigeon…well, she was a few sailors short ofa ship. She’d always been a little too curious for comfort, and Crow was far from fond of that.
“Pidge,” he remarked over his shoulder towards her, “don’t go rummaging around too much this time. Got it?”
The woman, finishing her rendition of the Purveyor’s Eye, returned the white chalk-like substance to her handbag. Deftly avoiding a stray tuft of grass, the woman deposited herself within the iris of the Eye, holding her hands out at the runes on either side of the pupil. The Spotlighter was quite the effective Purveyor, but that didn’t mean she had any right to his thoughts.
“Can’t help that you think so lewdly when I’m in there,” she replied.
The woman straightened her back, placing two of her four hands at either side of the Eye. Muscles twitched. Eyes rolled in the back of her head, the large one upon her chest performing the same motion. Her open palms trembled like cats ready to pounce. Crow shuddered. It was like watching a ship sink. The very sight horrified him, but he couldn’t look away. Pigeon writhed about the Eye like a slug doused in salt. Crow wondered if it hurt.
“Ugh,” he muttered, begrudgingly procuring the knife from his belt. “Hate this part.”
Hawk stared at him blankly. “If you hate it so much, why did you take this job? You know the advantages of having a Purveyor.”
Crow considered turning the knife to his thick-skulled companion. The only thing that prevented this were thoughts of a world where he’d never have to see the dolt again. Placing the sharp end of the blade to his palm, Crow drew blood, carving along the same line he used each time. At this point, he should’ve been used to it - the pain, the irritation, the Purveying, all of it. But, no matter how many times he felt the blood trickle into her hand, it always made him feel sick.
Wincing preemptively, he smeared his bloodstained palm against hers. She sprung to life, clutching his hand, enveloping his palm with an iron grip. The air grew thick and heavy. Foul, almost. Breathing became difficult. This was the worst part. Sickness followed by shivers. A strange, sludgy sensation creeping up his arm. The first time they’d done this, Pigeon recommended he closed his eyes. He’d only made the mistake of looking once. When he saw what crept beneath his skin, he chose to never open them again.
It felt as if a slug had tracked a thin film of slime and gunk up his spine. Something slithered around his skull, resting squarely atop his head. Crow itched at his scalp reflexively. The thing seemed to shudder at his touch. He pulled away hurriedly. Her hand grew limp, brushing blood against the rim of the Purveyor’s Eye. As soon as it met the dirt, roots burst from the ground, enveloping her wrist, burrowing their way up the tendons of her arm.
“You done yet?”
You’re experiencing alcohol withdrawals. Are you sure you can handle this?
Thought I told you to stop rummaging around up there, he thought to himself.
Hawk, despite his berating of Crow,, seemed less than thrilled to follow through on the ritual. He wondered what she’d see up there in the Vorthali’s mind. Probably a whole lot of nothing. He wondered if knocking on the man’s skull would produce a hollow sound. He laughed quietly to himself as Hawk shuddered and shivered.
You looked like that, too, you know, Pigeon assured him.
Right. Forgot you’re squirmin’ ‘round up there.
Patting the quiver at his belt emphatically, he turned his attention to the forest ahead. Brigan Way. He’d heard rumors that these woods in particular were haunted. In all likelihood, that rumor had been started by the people that bought property out there. Better to keep the costs low, eh? Then again, if he did see something haunted…he could get a tattoo of the experience.
Crow loved tattoos. It was Southerling custom to adorn yourself in the ink of your experiences. You could always tell how well a person had lived based on their ink. In Crow’s case, his arms and legs were blanketed in black. Great battles, beautiful women, six of the Seven Isles…he’d seen quite a bit in his steadily old age. Still, he’d yet to adorn his chest and back, much less parts of his face. This experience would be the start of his neck.
“See you on the other side,” he said to Hawk. The Vorthali responded with some foolish grunt of a phrase, but Crow didn’t bother to wait around to hear what he’d said. Way he saw it, this would be one of the last times they ever had to interact with one another.
Out here, the world grew on its own. There were neither gardeners nor developers to carve swaths from the woodlands. Nature ruled the frontier. And nature, last he checked, was far from democratic. He imagined plenty of folk wound up food for vultures or mushrooms out here. Bandits, bad herbs, and any manner of disaster could cut ones’ life short in the frontier. People were predictable in the city. They had motivations, an impetus behind their action — no matter how foolish it may be. Here, things happened because that was how nature worked. Simple as that.
Avoid the poison ivy.
A thicket of three-leaved plants barricaded his journey. He sidestepped the roadblock, grunting in thanks to his unseen observer. She’d probably done that for her own sake. When she Purveyed, she saw what he saw and felt what he felt. He wondered if she truly felt everything. For example, if he were to picture a beautiful woman, would she-
Yes.
He felt his cheeks burn. Like I said, he reminded her, best not to dig ‘round up there.
There’ll be a hill ahead. Ascend it. But keep your head low. Something’s not right.
What do you mean?
Just…take it slow. I can’t sense any shoes walking among the dirt. But there’s something there. That much I know.
True to her word, the hill lay just ahead. He figured that she’d have a little more foresight than something being “off”. After all, she’d just bound herself to the nature of the area. Then again, he supposed, that’s why she’s the Purveyor and he’s the one with the bow. Dry leaves crackled beneath his boots like tens of tiny bonfires. He was glad he’d donned the brown cloak today. When he approached the crest of the hill, he dropped to a prone position, pressing his chin against the cold dirt below. When he finally reached a suitable viewing point, he saw the outpost.
Now that he finally had a chance to see it in person, he understood his employer’s decision. This one stood betwixt Cormorant and the western reaches of Anderthal. It was a key trading outpost for those entering the frontier. Destroying it would cut off the rest of the colony towns from their source. It’d surely be a costly endeavor for the Triune to clean up. But what confused Crow was his employer’s impetus. Surely they’d send out crews to repair it. This destruction would only be temporary. Was something else in the works? It didn’t matter, he supposed. Not his chicken, not his eggs.
The outpost itself was rather underwhelming. He’d expected the corporate dogs to have outfitted it with better protection than this. They’d usually been so…consistent. This one was set up the same as the others: two towers, a quartermaster’s shack, smithy beside the armory…but it seemed oddly empty. The place looked like it hadn’t been occupied in quite some time. Surely their inspectors would’ve fined them for the shabbily torn tents, the ivy that sprung up the side of the walls…even the watchtower was unoccupied. In fact, the more he thought about it…
Come back.
What’re you talkin’ about? It’s right there.
We need to leave. There’s something terribly wrong about all of this.
She had a point. The outpost was, by all accounts, abandoned. Not a single shred of evidence suggested that the Triune occupied the place. But why abandon such a key location? What would possess the largest corporation in the Great Ocean to tuck tail and run? He frowned.
Don’t care, he finally replied to her. I’m gettin’ paid.
Vorthali tech never made much sense to him. But, then again, he didn’t really care to learn. All he needed to know was that it worked. He lifted a twisted, barbed arrow from his quiver, nocking it on the thin twine of the bowstring. Never missed a target with one of these. But this one smelled strange. Damp, almost. Blackpowder. Had to be. Really volatile stuff in untrained hands. He took aim, choosing his target: the dry stack of firewood at the center of the camp. One shot separated him from the future. Deep breath. Just like how you always do it. Yep, just like that. One quick draw and one shot. Moment you see smoke, get back to Pidge. Hawk’ll handle the rest. Then, you can all laugh about it over a flagon of ale later. Ready? Good.
One…two…three.
Boom.
He’d used blackpowder plenty of times. Once, he’d even managed to scare a Palescale away with it. But this was something altogether different. It was supposed to be a quick, controlled explosion. This was a roaring inferno. Tongues of flame licked at branches above, engulfing dry, decrepit leaves in its embrace. The dull, misty morning was now alight with color as flames overtook the outpost. Birds scattered from treetops. Rabbits darted away below. Before he knew it, branches came tumbling down, the roaring blaze spreading across the forest. Crow had to leap to his feet to get a better glimpse of the destruction.
You seeing this?
What have you DONE?
You wanna get paid, or not?
Fine. Wait for Hawk to finish.
Depths take him, he replied. I’m not stickin’ round here. He can clean up on his own.
A high-pitched screech echoed from all around him. A cold sensation crept up the back of his neck. He shuddered, the hairs on his arm standing taut. He’d recognize that sensation anywhere.
Something was watching him.
Triune? No, they lacked that panache for subtlety. Coudln’t be a rabbit or critter, either. They’re creatures of instinct. Probably halfway across the forest by now. This was something different. Crow spun around, nocking another arrow.
“You want one, too?!” He shouted to the woods. “Got one with your name on it!”
If it wanted him dead, it would’ve struck by now. Instead, the observer remained passive, making no indication of its intention. No matter what its intentions were, he wasn’t keen on finding them out. Turning his back to the carnage, he trudged back from where he came, careful to keep his bow at the ready. He wasn’t here for glory. He was here for money. Or, at least, that’s what he’d tell anyone that asked.
This wasn’t about the money, of course. Rarely was anything about the money. Anyone that claims they’re doing a job for money is lying. They’re doing it for the freedom money grants them. Some like the influence of a high-paying position. Others like the way money can open doors for them. Crow wanted neither. He’d been tired of money since the moment he learned about it — tired of seeing it, worrying about it, hearing it jingle around his bag when he walked….he wanted to be through with it. Today would be the last day he ever had to worry about it again.
Crow never saw himself as a run-of-the-mill mercenary. Sure, he’d worked a few unsavory jobs here and there, but killing and conflict was never his passion. In fact, he didn’t even like killing. Or sabotage. No, this work was just a means to an end. A way to finance his true passion: baking.
As far as Crow was concerned, there was nothing quite like the sweet relief of baking bread. He’d spent years stowing money away, developing a business plan so airtight that it couldn’t possibly fail. Hundreds of hours of his life went towards business schooling and baking and honing every aspect of his craft. Once this was done, he’d open his bakery. He’d call it the Scone Zone, a place where travelers and regulars alike could get their fix on the tastiest of treats. He already perfected the recipe — and, once he got paid, he’d have enough to retire from mercenary work once and for all.
The world would be fine without another mercenary. But it was always in shortage of quality baked goods.
The inferno behind him reminded him of a great kiln on the verge of tipping over. It’d already started to spread. At this rate, half the forest would fall victim to it if someone didn’t do something. A shame. If anything, the Triune’d probably thank him for clearing out half the grove for one of their stupid little towns. This was someone else’s problem now. Crow had enough to worry about on his plate as is. There were plenty of forests for the rabbits.
Left. Right. Behind the thicket. Keep going, now.
Another screech forced him still. Closer this time. Then, he heard Pigeon scream. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his skull. More slithering around. She was burrowing deeper. He tasted oil on his tongue. Saw the face of his mother. Smelled the ocean. Pain. Dull at the back of his head. Sounds of rustling leaves. He looked around, firing an arrow at its source.
The arrow reached the ground.
Enough, he told her. Out of my head or I’ll force you out.
Oh? And how do you propose you’ll do that?
This was new. A little arrogance from her. Surprising. Still infuriating, though. Once I get back, I’ll-
Another jolt of pain. This one felt like acid bubbling in his skull, filling his ears with fluid. Her voice boomed, but something about it felt different. More authoritative. Vindictive, almost.
You and your kind have tarnished these woods for the last time.
Something was speaking through her. Speaking to him. Crow swallowed dryly, attempting to gather his bearings. Just have to make your way out of the woods, he thought. Out of the woods and you’ll be fine.
Best of luck with that.
A thick veil of fog enveloped the trees around him as if the very clouds had fallen from the sky. He could barely see his hand in front of his face, much less the trees that burst through the earth. Something was watching him. Was in his head. He tore at his skull, hoping that it would break free. The slug slithered around his skull, deftly dodging his every strike.
“NO!” He shouted. “GET OUT! OUT!”
This land is not for you to conquer. You shape and mold it as if it were your own.Your brazen approach toward the world will be met swiftly.
Who are you? What do you want?
I should ask you the same thing.
I didn’t mean to do this.
Oh, but you did. I can read your thoughts, remember?
He frowned.
You are a cruel creature. A taker. You claim to wish to give to the world, but can your words be trusted? Your actions are poison and venom. The claw of a bear. Yet you believe yourself a cornered wolf. I ask you this: what makes your life more valuable than that of the hares that have lost their kin? The fawn that must live without a mother?
Never in his entire life had he thought about the well-being of an animal. They were grown creatures, same as him. Couldn’t they take care of themselves? Tragedy struck all over the world all the time. Kraken sink ships. Cities are leveled by soldiers. Why should his life be viewed within the same context of an animal’s?
His thoughts were interrupted by a distant scream. A low, dull howl, followed by the screech. Hawk. Had to be. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but, whatever got him was coming for him now. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of encountering whatever had made a Vorthali scream like that.
He ran and ran, his boots crunching against an ocean of wilted leaves. Trees jutted from the ground like pillars. Ferns and other plants seemed to reach out to him like limbs grasping at his ankles. He ran faster and faster. One way or another, he’d find his way out of these damned woods. Trees can’t go on forever. Forests aren’t eternal.
Are they?
His lungs burned. His legs felt like they were going to give out. How long had he been running? Had he been traveling in a circle? Crow came to a stop beside a gnarled oak, gasping for breath. Smoke. Distant — the fire was elsewhere. It was quieter here. He hadn’t been around silence like this in…well, all his life. It was almost maddening. Was he alone out here?
The sound of crunching leaves eliminated any doubt he was alone. He reached into his bag, taking out the sourdough starter. The thick, sludgy substance looked like a little jar full of paste. Crow held it close like a child, as if doing so would protect him from whatever lay in the uncertain wilderness. Slowly, carefully, he wandered away from the footsteps, ducking low. Sure, there was something in his mind, but whatever stalked him out there didn’t seem like it had noticed him.
Not yet, at least.
The fog had let up, giving him enough view of a few trees ahead. Curse these damned woods, Crow thought. Everything here looks the same. The footsteps were close. He kept low to the ground, pressing on, keeping his breath as still and rhythmic as possible. Closer now. The thing was right around the corner.
Crow had only questioned his existence once before in his life.
Years ago, he’d taken a very expensive - and very stupid - contract. When his wife finally discovered what he’d done and how many people died, she left, taking their newborn with her. Had it stopped him from mercenary work? Obviously not. But it did make him wonder what sort of higher being, if one existed, would ever push him into that line of work. What sort of divinity would force him to fall in love with a woman who couldn’t handle the rigor of his lifestyle?
When he finally saw what was dragging the body of Hawk like it were a doll, he began to question everything he knew about the world.
Were someone to ask Crow to describe what he’d seen, he felt as if he could scarcely put it into words. The very idea of such a thing seemed to defy the certainties of the world that he knew. It was inconsistent, its form changing size and shape the same way one breathes air. Tattered strips of cloth fell from its limbs - could one call them limbs? - and dark red runes seemed to pulsate on its cloak like blood travels through veins. It was at once tall and short, thin and thick, a deer and a bear, antlers and talons., flesh and bone. Merely looking upon the thing seemed to awaken an ancient, primal terror in Crow’s heart.
How could one claim to understand anything in this world when beings like this existed?
It held - possessed? - Hawk by the throat with its talon/claw/hand, depositing the limp corpse on the ground of the clearing. There were no signs of struggle. No evidence that he’d suffered any grave wound. Crow knew he’d never be certain of anything again, but one thing he knew without a doubt in his mind was that Hawk was dead. The being hovered over the Vorthali like a scientist observed an experiment, occasionally poking and prodding the man’s limp, lifeless flesh.
What was it doing? Was it…trying to wake him up?
Then, a tendril/limb/arm emerged from the dark recesses of the cloak. It seemed to dote on the Vorthali like a mortician would his work, brushing the hair from his eyes and laying his arms in a resting position. Crow couldn’t move. He dared not run, nor flee, nor draw any attention to himself. When the thing seemed satisfied with its work, a low rumble emanated from its throat/neck/collar. Every fiber of Crow’s being grew cold as ice.
Something sprouted from Hawk’s brow. A dark grey, almost fleshy lump. Crow recognized it immediately as a second one took its place upon his nose. A mushroom. Fungus began to burst from his flesh, spreading, consuming everything that made Hawk who he was: his armor, his only remaining eye, his very bones. The mushrooms worked like a fire burned a log, rending the very marrow from his bones, transforming his corpse into a puddle of mush until naught but the fungus remained.
It was as if every trace of the man had been wiped from this world.
The being then rose, assuming what appeared to be a more consistent form. It stood at nearly twice his height. A dark shadow that seemed to swallow the very color around it enveloped the shape of its body. The maroon runes pulsated as it seemed to draw in air through two nostrils of a bull’s skull. Its sockets were empty. Teeth clacked together, summoning hollow echoes in the air.
Crow couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t wait around any longer. Sooner or later, it’d find him and make him into whatever it had just made Hawk. The thought of assimilation - of becoming nothing more than food - terrified him more than anything had before. Men could be reasoned with. Creatures could be frightened off. This was something worse. Something unlike anything he’d ever come to know before. It was cruel. Ruthless, like the Great Ocean itself had manifested in a being. It didn’t want for anything. He knew this. It didn’t perform its actions out of a desire to do so.
It simply consumed because that was its nature.
Start running, he told himself. Run as fast as you can and don’t look back. Not for one second. He threw off his cloak, casting aside everything but the jar of sourdough starter. Goodbye, bow. To be fair, you were going to be retired anyway. This was it.
Run.
His body worked on its own. He wasn’t a person anymore. Not right now. Now, all he was was something that had to run. Had to get away from that thing. Pick up the pieces later. His heartbeat rang in his ears as he bounded through the woods, the fog growing ever the more loose as he approached the thicket of poison ivy that barricaded him earlier. Yes! This was it! He was close now. Almost there.
When he finally approached the clearing that led to the main road, he felt his body give out.
It was waiting for him.
At first, it didn’t approach. Crow couldn’t tell if it had eyes, or if it was watching him. When it opened its cloak, a body tumbled out. Pigeon, bound by roots, dangled from the being like a marionette on strings. He felt the slithering sensation in his head again. She was still Purveying? But how?
Interloper, the being spoke in Pigeon’s voice. You and your companions have robbed this world of many lives. People, beasts, even creatures of the sea have fallen in your wake. What do you have to say for yourself?
There was nothing to lose. At this point, he knew what was to come. He was terrified. Crow had been a coward for his entire life. He’d fled battles, disengaged with confrontation, and avoided even the slightest provocation from his wife, all in the name of peace.
For the first time in his life, he decided to be honest.
“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?” He spoke aloud. “Because I’m not. You’ve existed in these woods for Navigator knows how long. You don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s kill or be killed, you hear me?! I was doin’ what I could to make a name for myself.”
How am I supposed to believe you?
Crow opened his mind up, allowing whatever lay within to explore his memories. Nothing in his life came without a price. He never wanted to do this. Were he provided the opportunity, he would’ve avoided killing. The being had to understand. And, even if it didn’t, he would rather die knowing he’d done what he had to than live a day regretting the choices he’d made.
Would you have opened this bakery if you had the ability to do so from the start?
“You’re up in my mind. You tell me.”
The being hesitated.
I believe you, it said in Pigeon’s voice.
He paused.
But…
There it was.
No matter your intentions, the harm you caused is irrevocable. You understand this, don’t you?
Crow had always understood it. Sooner or later, someone would’ve come for him.
“I do.”
The being approached him.
I will ensure your memory lives on. You’ve taken your whole life, but, now, you will give.
Crow understood now.