Before I even get close enough to peer down into the well’s depths, the spell reveals that it, and the ground surrounding it, is contaminated. It cannot show me if the poisons are the same, so I cannot totally rule out the possibility that the well simply became septic or putrefied by some natural process. As I gaze past the well, into the fields, I get a faint sense that the soil is toxic as well.
Then, the spell fades and I am brought back into the focus of reality. The party has gathered around me and I can see from the corner of my eye that Vong is staring up at me expectantly.
“Poison,” I confirm simply, and walk back to the items to point at the water, pouch, and bottles, then sweep my hand to indicate the surrounding farmland.
“A poison curse!” Vong exclaims, eyes wide.
Pil gasps.
Really? When presented with evidence of something rather mundane, he attributes it to magic. I make a mental note of it. Such a predilection could either be something I want to encourage (when manipulating him for my own purposes) or be something I need to be mindful to shelter him from (when manipulating him for my own purposes).
Twitch seems less easily convinced and gingerly picks up a bottle and sniffs at it, as though she could identify the substance it once contained. Giving it a thorough inspection from several angles she says, “Poison coulda been dumped in th’ well from these here bottles. Pretty potent if it fouled the ground, too.”
I see Rakatha perk up at the word “potent” and then state to Pil, “Power must be respected, even when not honored.”
“Who do you think wanted to hurt these guys?” Vong ponders, looking at the charred house.
I don’t imagine it was personal. After all, we are out here patrolling for Orcish forces who would probably enjoy starving Elysium’s population. Is it just vindictive or is it strategic? Perhaps it’s meant to weaken the enemy so they can invade in the spring. If so, it’s an unusual tactic for orcs who are not known for their subtlety in a fight. Orcish leaders are the result of direct challenge. A chieftain can only rule as long as he can dominate his challengers. Once bested, he will typically be killed. A real waste of power and leadership, when I think about it. I wonder if I can assume control of a tribe and keep the old chieftain as a lieutenant. It might be difficult to convince the old chief to submit to me, but it’s certainly worth a try.
No one appears interested in answering Vong, and it seems his question wasn’t rhetorical because he goes on to say, “Maybe an evil spirit.”
Twitch spits and says, “Don’t believe in ghosts myself. Doesn’t make sense, people’s souls not being swept up by the Gods. Like they ain’t good at housekeepin’.”
“Level will want to know about this!” Vong declares and starts walking as though he will simply saunter off to let him know. Has he forgotten that Nodkis is two days away, as the bird flies? Besides, we were sent to investigate and have several days with which to do so before we are expected back. I would prefer we come back with a clear lead instead of a single clue.
“Perhaps we should find the culprit,” I offer, not moving.
Vong turns and smiles, “Yeah, great idea!”
I sigh inwardly. How has this boy reached adulthood?
He walks toward the well and starts looking down at the ground all around it. I really can’t guess what he’s looking for in the fading light of the day.
I glance at the others. Rakatha has a far-off look and seems only partially aware of his surroundings. Pil is looking in the same general direction as Rakatha, but seems confused as to what he should be seeing. Ralith has barely moved the entire time and seems unsure of what to do with himself. His hands are tucked inside his cleric’s tabard and it reminds me of a turtle holed up inside its shell.
Twitch, who can’t seem to choose a way to stand, walks over and asks, “What are we looking for?”
“Well,” Vong says excitedly, “I bet that there are some tracks leading to the well left by the culprit.” He glances over at me, seemingly pleased at himself for using the same term. “We’ll backtrack and find their lair!”
I can only imagine how many times a day the well had been visited by the inhabitants of Endolkin.
After some twenty minutes, Vong declares he’s found the right trail. He seems prepared to follow it immediately. Luckily, Ralith speaks up so I don’t have to, yet again, “I’m exhausted and must rest. Can’t we go in the morning?”
Vong smiles broadly, “Of course, buddy! Those tracks aren’t going anywhere. Let me cook us up something special to commemorate our victory today!”
We aren’t dead. I suppose that counts for something.
I get the campfire going while Rakatha, Twitch, and Apul scout the perimeter and set up some traps in case the goblins return. Rakatha also takes it upon himself to set up a watch rotation.
Actually a good idea, really.
The fire is roaring and I use the last bit of daylight and its ruddy glow to further inspect the wounds on my legs. The signs of infection are already apparent. I rummage in my belongings for one of my salves and apply a liberal amount. It stings, but that means it is working.
The sensation takes me back to more than a decade ago, when I was last living in the wilds alone. I got cuts and bruises regularly back then, foraging and hunting. I’d learned apothecary by necessity and never intended it to be a career. These past, quiet years, hocking my wares in a cozy shop in a peaceful town, I’d never had reason to use my own goods. Now, I feel a sense of burgeoning triumph which feels like a dormant part of myself is being awakened once more.
I try not to allow the sense of self-satisfaction put me at ease. There are enemies out there, after all, and my companions are idiots.
The meal Vong cooks in celebration of being led into an ambush by goblins is complex. Rich chunks of beef coated in a sweet, sticky sauce and roasted over the fire on skewers. Accompanying those is seasoned rice and steamed peas. He doesn’t spare the salt and it’s a rather enjoyable spread, not that I will tell him so. I partake and thereby spare the full stock of rations I brought along for the journey. I can’t allow myself to be reliant on his cooking, but I don’t need to abstain either.
Rakatha takes first watch. Vong second. Apul third. Ralith and I are allowed to sleep through the night since it’s well-known that spellcasting—divine or otherwise—is an intensive art that requires the mind and body be in peak condition. I didn’t actually expend much energy on spellcasting, mostly using my staff during the fight, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? I’d prefer to be prepared instead of push myself.
Before sleep, I cast a warding on the area, as usual. My owl has spied what it thinks are couple goblins—perhaps the same ones, perhaps different—a few miles away and moving further away. I clutch my dagger at my waist and drift off to sleep.
I dream about a fleshless man clawing his way up through an endless pit of blood and corpses with indomitable determination. Screams and horrors assail him as he crawls. After what feels like an eternity, he breaks through the surface and climbs out into a dark field. Then I wake up.
I am surprised that I dreamed at all—it is rare. I reflect on the dream as I rise further into consciousness and try to record the details. I know that dreams are common, and usually not prophetic in any way, but this one feels like something I’ll want to remember.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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