Cold obsidian

“Listen, Vlada!” Kangassk remembered all of a sudden. “I wanted to ask… Well, I heard a lot of scary stories about the Burnt Region back in Aren-castell. Do you know what happened there for real after the gold rush?”

“It’s a long story, Kan,” said Vlada in a saddened voice, scratching her purring charga’s chin.

“Just tell it to me in a nutshell. Pretty please?” Kan pleaded, with the cutest smile he could manage.

“Okay. In a nutshell,” Vlada gave in, “This region fell into complete anarchy during the gold rush. Lots of people from South and North flocked there. Little villages sprang up along the banks of the mountain rivers. People washed gold, traded gold, fought over gold. Add the region’s unique properties, those considering gunpowder, to the mix to get the idea what local wars looked like. You’ve seen the shell cases on the old road… In the end, half of the region turned into a burned wasteland. That was when it had gotten the name.”

“What was its name before?” Kan got curious.

“Green Hills Region”.

“Okay. Sorry for interrupting you. What happened next?”

“One of the gangs took over the region in the end. A man from Kuldagan, Crogan, was the leader. I have no idea which city he came from, but it sure wasn’t your Aren-castell. His thugs destroyed whatever future the region had. People prefer not to enter it any more. That means no trade. Everyone who could leave has left this place. Now the Burnt Region is just Crogan’s base where he returns after raiding the neighbouring regions.”

“What’s that guy like?”

“He’s a bloodthirsty monster if you ask me.”

Crogan had had hiccups for the whole day as if someone, according to a popular superstition, was thinking of him and not in a good way. His old wounds started aching, too, which made his mood even worse.

The leader of the dark horde poured himself a goblet of wine and sprawled on the sofa by the fireplace. His pet hyena, a gentle puppy to her dear owner but a vile, snappish creature to everyone else, rested her shaggy head on his feet. Crogan always had a soft spot for hyenas, preferring them to dogs. Once in a while, he let his pets tear some unfortunate prisoner apart to keep them happy. He was a kind master.

Crogan’s stone house looked quite cosy, at least until his guests learned that there was a torture chamber in the basement. Judging by all the hunting trophies and furs in the rooms you could think it belonged to an old hunter. A very religious old hunter, you might add after noticing the exquisite porcelain statuettes of the Three in the red corner. No servant was allowed to touch them. Crogan himself dusted the statues every day, before the prayer. He prayed quite often and with passion. It helped him to feel better about himself and always made his conscience, whatever left of it, shut up if it tried something.

“My lord!” someone shouted behind the door. “Your son has arrived!”

“Send him in,” ordered Crogan and took another sip from the goblet.

Young Crogan, named after his glorious father, was just twelve years old but looked like a proper thug already. His father thought the lad had a great future. He didn’t tell his son this, of course. Presumptuous kids are too much trouble.

“Well, well, son,” the crime lord smacked his lips, “I’ve got some news about your new adventures today. Would you kindly remind me what I told you to do?”

“You wanted me to collect the tax from Goldygate,” mumbled young Crogan.

“Yeees. And you did what?”

“Dad, I…”

“Shut up!” old Crogan roared. “The Three will punish you! Do you know how they punish those who disobey their parents?”

“But I…” the son tried to defend himself again.

“They will throw you into a fire pit,” he smashed his fist on the armrest, “The hottest fire pit, high in a…”

That was the moment when Crogan’s pet hyena heard a familiar word which made her jump with joy, eyes burning with hunger, teeth snapping. She thought it was that time again! Time to tear somebody apart! Fun time!

“Dad…” Young Crogan turned marble-white. “Dad, please, no hyenas…”

The crime lord stopped dead mid sermon. It took him a whole minute to realize what had just happened. All this time his son was staring at him with wide eyes, absolutely terrified, while his hyena was dancing about, yelping, snapping, waiting anxiously for the command to kill.

“You little fool!” Old Crogan roared again, this time with laughter soon followed by his son’s relieved sniggering. “Okay, you’ve learned your lesson,” said old Crogan, almost good-naturedly now, “What was that you wanted to tell me?”

“Well, about why I led the guys into the forest…” Young Crogan scratched his head thoughtfully. “I saw two strangers on the old road. Some brown man and his chick. No guns. We wanted to take them to you, but they went into the Haunted Woods before we could catch them. I can try catching them again once they’ve re-entered our territory.”

“Do this. I want those two alive and unmaimed, understood?” Crogan was grim and serious again. “I’d love to hear some news from our guests and possibly a tale about how they passed through the Haunted Woods unharmed. Go!” He paused. “No, wait! I’m coming with you. I don’t want you to screw up again.”

Old Crogan gave his orders at once. Soon, the party of twenty riders gathered in his yard. There were no chargas at his base for they didn’t get along with his favourite hyenas, so Crogan’s thugs rode taranders instead: huge, hulky beasts, horned and cloven-footed. Taranders didn’t care about the hyenas yelping and snapping before them, at all.

The weather was properly murky and foggy that morning, perfect for the manhunt. The fog filled all the lowlands like spilled milk. You could hide an army in that fog if you wanted. Old Crogan led the hunting team. He rode a white tarander harnessed in gold and silver as a glorious leader should. It’s been a long time since he went for a manhunt himself, so he felt great, the ache in his old wounds all forgotten. Once in a while, he threw a glance at his son, noticing how well the lad rode, how tall he became, how clever and shrewd his eyes were. Rebellious though he was, the young Crogan was a good son, worthy of his sire. Too bad he was so afraid of hyenas, but it couldn’t be helped: a rabid hyena tried to eat him when he was a toddler, that had apparently scarred him for life. Of course, Crogan gutted that hyena himself so all his other pets would see what awaited them if they tried to hurt his heir, but the fear remained, deep buried in the lad’s heart. Back in the house, when Crogan chastised his son for disobedience it was not the promise of burning in the hellish fire pit that made the young Crogan turn pale, it was the hyena. His father could only hope his boy would outgrow that fear one day.

“That’s where Crogan’s thugs mark the edge of the Haunted Woods,” Vlada was explaining the thin white dotted line on the map. “They’re afraid of these hills, so they don’t go there. Today we’re leaving the safe territory, Kan.”

“This is bad, right?” He sighed.

“We’ll be fine,” Vlada smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “We’ve already passed most of the Burnt Region through the safe land. Now we just have to cross the river and be off. There’s a bridge, but it is guarded, so we won’t go there. We will ford the river in its widest place where it is shallow.”

Kangassk couldn’t bring himself to read after they made their last camp on the safe land. He lay in the grass and watched the sky go dark. Lots of thoughts buzzed in his head: about Aren-castell, so distant now it could have been a dream, about the journey he got himself into, and about the purpose of everything. He envied Vlada. The girl had a clear goal ahead of her. He didn’t. He just tagged along, trying to be helpful. Not that she needed his help much…

The morning was foggy and damp. The travellers’ clothes and chargas’ fur were wet with morning dew. The beasts didn’t like being wet at all. They stopped now and again to shake the silver droplets off. Their riders didn’t have that luxury.

It was hard to tell in the fog whether they had already crossed the thin border between the Haunted Woods and old Crogan’s territory. Kangassk just assumed they were no longer safe, so he kept his bow ready. Fog made him feel uneasy, especially after the stories about sylphs, the fog dwellers, Vlada told him yesterday. They were nasty critters, those sylphs! Kan would rather meet bandits again. At least bandits were human and he knew how to deal with them.

Sasler left the hills he had been watching the strangers from. Up there he could move at a walking pace and still see them from the top thanks to the scope. Now, after they had turned to the river, away from the hills, he had to follow them closely, so he needed a ride.

A wild charga answered his call. The beast had been very fond of the old hunter since the day he saved her from the snare. Back then old Crogan’s thugs were still bold enough to enter Sasler’s territory from time to time and even put their snares there. Sasler hated snares with passion. He never used them himself. He also never hunted the hunters, other predators, that is. He rescued the little charga that day and nursed her back to health. Since then, whenever he needed a ride, she had been willing to help.

Holding onto the thick fur of the unharnessed beast Sasler rode down the hill, right into the milky fog. He very well understood how hard it would be to find the kids there and keep up with them, yet he had to try.

Old Crogan planned the ambush very carefully to provide the best possible example for his heir.

The river, Fervida, was fast yet shallow there, on the wide rocky bed, barely knee-deep. The strangers took their boots off before fording the river. They shivered as they entered the icy cold water leading their chargas behind. The poor beasts hated every step of the way by the looks of them.

Here they went, all four, two people and two animals, right into the trap. Crogan waited until they had reached the middle of the river before passing the signalling horn to his son. Blowing it proved to be hard for the young lungs, but the lad did his best. He managed to produce a weak, but distinguishable sound. The team, following the order, let the hyenas loose.

The fastest of the hyenas died first, it got an arrow between the eyes. Kan was quick. The second-best runner got an arrow to the side and yelped, spinning in circles and biting at the arrow shaft in a desperate attempt to get rid of it. Kan had drawn the third arrow, ready to bring another snappy monster down, but lowered his bow as he saw the bandits emerging from the fog at both sides of the river. Every single one of them had a gun.

The trap had closed. Here they stood in the middle of the river, with hyenas raging on both shores, anxiously awaiting a command to tear them apart, and the silent bandits standing behind the beasts, guns ready. The chargas hissed, baring their teeth, bristling their fur. Kangassk, not knowing what else to do, tried to shield Vlada with his body.

“Drop your weapons!” somebody cried to them from the western shore. The voice was young, impudent, and boyish.

“Do as he says, Kan,” said Vlada in a chilly tone.

They threw their swords, bow, and arrows into the river. The swords sank to the bottom, but the bow and arrows were carried away by the bubbling water.

Thanks to his wild friend’s acute sense of smell, Sasler had finally found the kids after a couple of hours. He climbed a lofty rock to rise above the fog a bit and took a closer look at them through the scope. That was when he had realized he came too late.

Two black figures stood barefooted in the middle of the river, their hands in the air, their weapons at their feet. Crogan’s thugs watched them from the both sides of Fervida.

Sasler’s heart began to race as he zoomed in to examine the bandits’ faces: both Crogans, father and son, had been there! The boy looked so much like his sire there could be no mistake.

“My revenge will be terrible, Crogan,” he thought, aiming at the little bandit’s leg…

Young Crogan uttered a shrill scream and fell to the ground, clutching at his leg. All the thuggish insolence he had been so proud of washed away in an instant, he cried like a child he was. His pants were soaked with blood and the stain was growing wider and wider.

“The ghost shooter! The Wood Ghost is here!” the bandits around him shouted, their fear quickly turning into panic. A moment later they broke the formation and started shooting in all directions in a desperate attempt to reach the unseen hunter in the fog.

The second bullet bit the young Crogan in the palm, adding to his agony. Then it was the thugs’ turn. The ones who had carelessly removed their kevlar cowls in the heat got shot in their heads and died instantly. The others weren’t so lucky and shared the young Crogan’s fate: the Ghost shot them in the legs.

Vlada and Kan froze where they stood, with their hands still up. Both were afraid to move at first but soon realized the ghost shooter was after the bandits, not them. They, on the other hand, had a new problem to deal with: the hyenas. The beasts, maddened by their masters’ panic, decided to go for the kill and charged.

“Kan, pick up your sword!” Vlada came to her senses first, just in time for the spotted monsters were already advancing from both sides.

The chargas took the first two hyenas and were busy ripping them apart, rolling and splashing in the reddened water. The rest of the pack targeted Vlada and Kan. Whoever that “ghost shooter” was, his attention had obviously been somewhere else at the moment, so they were on their own.

The outer world where people shouted and died, where two strangers fought back to back against the hyenas in the middle of the river, where everything that could go wrong did go wrong, no longer existed for old Crogan. There was only him and his dying son. The boy no longer cried. He curled up in the grass, gasping for air, his face as white as chalk. There was nothing the mighty gang leader could do, nothing.

When Vlada and Kan had finally crossed the river – Kan walking with a limp because one of the hyenas had bit him – they saw not the famous leader of the dark horde, but a broken old man devastated by his grief. Crogan wept, wept inconsolably, helpless and defeated for the first time in his life. His son was dying in his arms, nothing else mattered. Crogan's gun lay beside him in the grass, thrown away and forgotten. He took off his kevlar cloak, his only protection against the ghost shooter's bullets, and covered the boy with it so the Ghost would not torture him any more. One of the hyenas that survived the fight by running away in time snapped at the young Crogan's arm. Old Crogan broke its neck with his bare hands, his strength magnified tenfold by the grief.

"Please…" the boy whispered, "No hyenas, dad… I'm afraid." He went silent.

That was the moment when old Crogan went mad. He cried, tearing his hair out one moment, praying the next, he cursed, he begged his son to wake up… Then the world went dark for him, literally, for Crogan went blind.

Kangassk caught a glimpse of a dark figure walking through the fog. Soon, a stranger emerged from beyond the misty veil. He wore no kevlar, just a green woollen cloak over his worn leather clothing. The gun he carried had a black, bulging “eye” on its barrel. Uncovered, the “eye” blinked with every step. Kan couldn’t stop looking at it.

“This is your punishment, Crogan,” said the stranger, “Do you remember how you tortured my son to death? He was about the same age as yours. Does it seem fun to you now?”

The old man didn’t answer. He kept raving – praying, cursing, begging… but suddenly there was a glimpse of consciousness, so brief yet so bright.

“Kill! Kill me as well!” demanded Crogan.

“No,” the ghost shooter shook his head. His voice was icy cold, merciless. “I want you to live. And suffer, like I did.”

That said, he stepped over the dead boy’s body and approached Vlada and Kangassk.

“I’m Sasler,” he introduced himself. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you left the old road, wanted to keep you safe. Little did I know where you would lead me, kids. But I’m grateful. I dreamed of revenge for years. It feels good to be free again… Now, take the guns from the dead and be on your way. No one will hurt you any more.”

He didn’t wait for the answer, he just turned around and walked away. Soon, he was no more than a dark silhouette in the fog. The “eye” on his rifle kept glimmering through the white veil long after he had disappeared altogether.

Vlada and Kan left the deadly place with a heavy heart. All the way to the border of the region they kept hearing the old man’s cry.

Chapter 3. White gloom

The wounds didn’t let Kan and Vlada walk far, so they camped as soon as they left the Burnt Region behind them. Making a fire so close to the bandit territory was a bad idea but they needed hot water to wash the wounds, so Vlada decided to risk it.

They made their camp at the foot of a bare hill near a chatty cold rivulet snaking between the stones. Vlada left Kan with the chargas and went to fetch water. While she was away the good-natured beasts licked the boy’s wounds as well as their own. He didn’t protest. He was unable to, being barely conscious with fever. Hyena bites are nasty.

The travellers were lucky that burngrass, a field medic’s best friend, grew in abundance around that hill. It makes an excellent antiseptic when boiled in water. The chargas sniffed suspiciously at the cauldron with the burngrass potion. Obviously, treating them with it was out of question.

Kangassk’s leg, the one bitten by the hyena, swelled so badly it barely fitted into the boot now. Vlada, too, hadn’t come out of the battle unscathed this time. She got a stray bullet to the shoulder. Her kevlar cloak did help a lot, but the nasty piece of lead went through it anyway which resulted in a shallow but painful wound surrounded with a darkish bruise.

Their wounds treated, the travellers ate a cold supper and tried to sleep. It wasn’t easy. Kangassk could only guess what his companion might have been thinking about; as for him, he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the battle again, the old man crying over the dead boy, or a dark shadow of Sasler the punisher walking through the mist, the bulging eye on his rifle glinting with every step.

“Why did he do that to the boy? Revenge or not, that was over the top.” Kangassk muttered, his gaze wandering among the early stars in the sky.

“Snipers are like that. They’re cruel,” answered Vlada in a strangely knowing way.

“Who?” Kan asked again. The word was unfamiliar to him.

“Snipers. That man invented a scope to aim and shoot from afar. He is a sniper, the only one in the world for now.”

“How the heck do you know all these things?”

“Experience.”

Kangassk decided not to pursue the matter further. He felt weird. Something was definitely wrong here but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Vlada seemed as young as he was yet knew a good deal more. Was she older than she looked? It’s not that you can safely ask a girl such a question… Was she a mage? That would explain a lot. No, she didn’t look like one. A warrior’s daughter then? Possibly the only child, papa’s girl that had been given a sword as soon as she could walk.

“Experience!” Hah! Kan would have known a thing or two about the outside world as well had he travelled instead of breathing ash and dust in his master’s workshop.

So, nothing was wrong with Vlada after all? The weird feeling was just the fever getting into his head? There was no way to make sure.

They stayed in the camp that day to let the hyena bites heal enough to allow the injured to walk again. While Kangassk got just one bite, chargas got at least a dozen. For the moment both were as helpless as kittens. Vlada shared the dry wayfarer meal with the brave beasts and brought them a cauldron of water from the stream. Chargas lapped up the water like cats and looked grateful.

With three of four being in such a sorry state, it took the little group two days to reach the nearest town, Tammar.

The locals took them for Crogan’s bandits at first. Kevlar cloaks and guns kind of suggested that. The fright quickly turned to cheer when they heard the news, though. One Crogan dead, the other retired! Unbelievable! Praises, songs, and a shower of rose petals followed. Neither Vlada nor Kan was happy about it, though.

They gave their guns and kevlar cloaks to the town’s mayor for safekeeping. The grateful local ruler offered them food, meds, and shelter. That night Vlada and Kan slept under a roof again. Their rooms were small and simple but after all the nights they spent outdoors with mosquitoes anything with a roof seemed good enough.

“Reading again, Kangassk?” asked Vlada. She had walked into his room so quietly he never heard a step.

“Yeah, about that Region we’re in now,” he replied with a yawn. He was reading with all possible comfort: in his bed.

“Anything interesting?” she smiled and sat down on the side of the bed.

“Well, it’s the Calid Region. Known for its warm climate. Also, local magical anomalies are beneficial for soothsayers,” recited Kangassk. "Hmm… soothsayers. I saw their tents when we entered the town. Maybe it'd be interesting to pay them a visit, what do you think? Aren't you curious about the future?"

"I'd rather not know it." Vlada shook her head.

"But why?"

"Not knowing what lies ahead makes life less boring, Kan."

"Oh well, whatever you say…"

Kan closed the book and tried to raise himself up on one elbow to get closer to the girl but the elbow sank in the soft pillows.

"So what's the plan?" he asked with a faint hope in his voice. "Are we still taking the shortest road? No detours?"

"No detours." Vlada nodded.

She wore a light nightgown now instead of her usual travelling clothes. She sat on his bed, so near. All that made Kangassk wonder, "Why did she come? Does she want to stay? It would be really nice if she stayed…" His thoughts ran in circles repeating the phrase "She called me handsome!" again and again as fervently as if it were a prayer.

"I came to check how you feel," explained Vlada.

Kan broke into a cold sweat. Did she just read his thoughts? Was he that obvious?

"Glad to see you're getting better," she continued. "Well, good night!"

"I wish you had stayed with me," whispered Kan after Vlada had left the room.

Vlada's "goodnight" didn't work. Hours had passed yet Kangassk was still wide awake, tossing and turning in his bed. He tried counting gryphons, then sheep. Gryphons were a Kuldaganian thing, he knew now that people outside the mountain ring preferred to count sheep instead, so he did. Nothing helped him calm down and fall asleep, though. He thought he had got used to being diurnal during his journey with Vlada. He was wrong. Or maybe the young warrior girl wishing him good night while wearing a thin nightgown was the reason for everything…

Kangassk got up and sat by the window. The view was nice. Hundreds of lights twinkled below. The town seemed wide awake with the echoes of the last day's celebrations. There were happily drunk people roaming the streets, signs shone, highlighted by little lamps, merchants cried out their prices… Going for a walk suddenly seemed like a good idea.

Kangassk got dressed, took his sword with him, just in case, and left the inn. The noisy, almost Kuldaganian night swallowed him as soon as he stepped out of the door. Kan didn't have much money on him, so he just kept walking through the town, looking around, enjoying the noise, and smiling back to the celebrating folk, until he left the highly populated area and entered the dark, serene heart of the soothsayers' town.

He kept walking at a slow pace to avoid disturbing his healing wounds. Unknown to him, his gait looked quite heroic because of that, as if he were an old, tired warrior on a stroll, not a hyena-bitten runaway smith thinking of a certain young lady in the nightgown.

"Hey, hero!" someone called in a thin voice. "Come, I'll tell your fortune!"

Kangassk turned his head to the speaker and smiled when he saw a little girl no more than ten years old. She wore a long frayed dress, a proper soothsayer attire, but along with her skinny figure and messy boyish haircut, it made her look like a funny little sparrow. The girl sat on a squeaky folding chair by the wall and looked very serious. An unlit sign beside her written in childishly crooked letters clearly stated her business here.