Famfrit's Jewel - Chapter 8
The Hunt for Marazoth
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Dagnar prowled along the bank of a frothing river with an odd yellow hue. The bubbles and foam that crashed against stone and bank reeked of rot. He had seen no fish in the river, nor frogs along its banks.
Alaea’s map had been less helpful than she had promised, her injuries affecting her mind as well as her body the healer had told Dagnar in private. Fortunate for them both Dagnar was a hunter and Marazoth left a wretched trail. Dagnar followed the north road out of Ankoron passing by numerous farms and cottages. All along the road the crops had died, turned grey and crumbling to dust when he touched them. Eventually the road led into a forest and vanished under roots and shrubs to become little more than a dirt track. The trail of death continued with rotten tree seeds and withered branches dotting the woods. Within a day he heard the river surging, foaming with the melting snows from nearby mountains, even then it had stank of death but not a regular death, not the clean death Dagnar would give a deer, rather it was the rancid sort that lingers on the living long before they die, eating them away slowly.
Dagnar tied a strip of his furs around his nose and mouth to avert the worst of the smell, and to deter the cold. Dagnar tried to still his thoughts, they never helped much, but out in the wilds with nothing to distract him, no prey to focus on, his mind wandered. Marazoth had retreated to the heart of his domain for a reason and a simple stab wound could not have been the only thing, he had snatched Famfrit’s Jewel at the last moment, demonstrating a disturbing presence of mind. Had the ritual achieved its goal? Had he panicked? Marazoth did not strike Dagnar has a man who panics. Marazoth didn’t strike him as a man who did anything without foresight and his magics provided him with powers Dagnar could barely comprehend, let alone prepare for.
Dagnar prowled along the bank of the tainted river, passing by decaying trees, and a forest floor that was much too soft underfoot. With each step he thought he might fall through the ground into caverns below. The land inclined and Dagnar used a blighted tree to pull himself up. Something in the tree moved. Dagnar paused and focussed out the corner of his eye. An eye stared back. The hunter continued on. Marazoth knew he was here, knew how far he had come, but had not sent warriors out to fight him or minions to harass him, that could only mean the sorcerer wanted Dagnar to reach him and Dagnar was happy to oblige.
He climbed up an ever steepening hill. The trees thinned to nothing and the river widened. The ground, once flowers and fruit bushes and heathers was little more than soggy earth that squelched underfoot. The land abruptly flattened and Dagnar found himself on the banks of a lake, a wide, shallow lake with a ramshackle hut in the middle. A series of pathways snaked their way across the water, built from cobbles and pebbles. Smoke rose from the hut’s chimney, light pulsed in the lone window and from the gap beneath its door. Dagnar stepped out onto the stone pathway. The rocks slipped, slick with algae. A few toppled and splashed into the water breaking the restful silence, the ripples waved along the inky surface.
Dagnar felt exposed. His palms were damp and he held his dirk in his right hand, fearful of creatures lurking beneath the impenetrable blackness of the lake, fearful of warriors lurking out of sight ready to pincer him on the rocky pathways, fearful of Marazoth reducing him to ash. He dashed across the stones, eager for solid ground and something to press his back against.
Bubbles rose from the lake ahead. A skull began to rise from the water, eye sockets shining blue. A skeletal hand emerged, dragging itself onto the stony path. Dagnar pressed himself to run faster. It was not enough. A dead man stood in Dagnar’s way, rusted sword in hand, he skidded to a halt, a spray of pebbles skittering and splashing into the water. He glanced back. More hands emerged from the water. He was trapped. The skeletal warrior ahead of him advanced, bones clattering against the stone path. Dagnar raised his dirk. The risen dead swung its corroded sword. Dagnar parried the attack, the shock rumbled up his arm, and punched with his off hand. Bone met bone as two teeth flew free of the dead man’s skull, but little else happened. Clattering sounded behind him and Dagnar rammed into the dead man ahead of him, slamming his shoulder into the ivory ribs. He felt them break from the force and the skeleton fell back in a clatter of bone. Sinews snapped and one of its arms snapped free, sinking beneath the dark waters. Dagnar sprinted for the hut at the centre of the island. More skulls and bony hands emerged from the water, all he could do was run.
Skeletons with ancient weapons and dressed in archaic rags chased Dagnar along the stone path. A deep blackness spread out before him. The path did not reach island. Bubbles spat and frothed from the gap between the path and the island he needed to reach. Dagnar did not slow, nor look back, and when he reached the end of the path he jumped.
Time slowed.
A hundred hands reached up from the water, white and slender. Dagnar arced through the air, his feet stretching for the shore line. A finger caressed his foot and tightened around it. Dagnar reached for the shore, crashing against the muddy bank. He was dragged back. Where one hand at caught him another six reached to grab his legs and other foot. Kicking and thrashing he scrambled against the shore. Mud and grit pressed under his fingernails, his hands slipping against the slick ground. He slashed with his dirk, the steel biting into bone sending off shards of white but still the hands held firm. The skeletons on the path trod into the lake, breathing no concern for the dead. Dagnar kicked and jammed his hands into the earth but there was nothing to gain purchase on, the cold of the lake enveloped his feet. The dead began to emerge from the lake.
Dagnar reached down into the water and grabbed at the arms and tore them off. Tendons snapped, wrist bones exploded, and Dagnar scurried from the lake, a slender hand coiled around his foot. He shook it off and ran for the hut, the dead close behind. He rushed for the door, no thought to what, or who, was inside, and barrelled through it. He landed on a tiled floor and kicked the door shut.
The world darkened.
There was no clattering bone. No roaring fire. No smell of smoke. Dagnar searched for something, anything, to see, but there was nothing, only the darkness. He stood and found, in the distance, the faint flicker of a flame. Dagnar lumbered towards it. Each step the flame grew and before long he had walked much more than the size of the hut should have allowed. He continued towards the flame.
The fire burned yellow yet failed to penetrate the deep shadow that engulfed where Dagnar found himself. He reached out to the flames, lured by its warming dance. The fire vanished, the world swirled, and Dagnar appeared in room of polished stone standing upon azure tiles. The moon shone through tall, arched windows, a man basking in the light, blood dripping from a wound in his side.
‘You have found me, Dagnar, Last Man of Kol, and here you shall die,’ Marazoth said. The sorcerer revealed Famfrit’s Jewel, the once gleaming white light now a hideous black, and began to draw power from the corrupted treasure.
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