Chapter CV: Scars

"Blood," Guttler's unmistakable voice cried out, "Me want more blood!"

"Blood," North's voice echoed, and the ragged sound of his own breath slowly draining from his chest scratched at his ears.

He was stripped to the waist, ankle-deep in mud as rain slicked down his taut, powerful muscles.  The Sanctuary of Zi'Tah was silent save for the constant beating of the late summer storm upon the canopy of trees.  The soft forest loam mixed with centuries of fallen leaves and undergrowth now formed a thick stew of muck at his feet.  It was cold, but steam rose from North's arms and torso as his palm dug into Guttler's rigid hilt.

As rain washed over him, the blood coating his forearms and torso ran down across the white fur coating his legs, staining it red and brown.  He blinked water from his eyes, looking out at a world tinted the same colors.  His breath escaped from him again, slow and ragged, rattling like an animal trapped in a cage.

Yards away from him, desperately clutching at the staff held in its thin-fingered grip, the remaining Goblin cast its gaze about for the escape which had eluded its fellow.  Four others lay face down in the mud, the dark blood pouring from their wounds mingling with the rain and soil.  The ground was red around their corpses, and the stench of death rose up, clinging to the blood-smeared trees.

"Please," the Goblin pleaded, its knobby knees shaking in the mud, "please don't kill me."

"Blood," North spat, watching it run from his hands.  Without it coating his body he felt the chill the rain ushered in.  His steely, gray-eyed gaze settled on the Goblin.  He needed more blood.

Raising Guttler's silver blade, he took a step forward.  The Goblin reared back, a sob escaping from behind its leather mask.

A tree fell behind him, the deep trench Guttler had cut in it finally giving way.  The flames licking at its bark were quelled as it splashed into the muck.  Ash swept up past North's feet, but the fire and the smoke were quickly being suppressed by the rain pouring down from the sagging gray sky.  A wave of heat did nothing to warm him.  Only blood could thaw the ice in his veins.  Guttler's deep voice urged him on, guiding his hand towards what it desired - what he desired.

Panicking, the Goblin threw lightning from its staff.  North stopped, his vision blurring as the muscles in his chest constricted.  The stench of his own sizzling flesh filled his nostrils.  His lip curled back, saliva dripping from his teeth as his arm pulled back of its own accord, dragged by Guttler over his head as he felt his legs keep pumping.  Mud sucked at his feet as he pulled them free, advancing on the beastman as a howl he was barely aware he was making escaped his lips.  It screamed, terrified, placing its hands in front of its face as North bore down upon it, Guttler still drenched in the blood of its companions.

The mud struck his arm like a lash, wrapping around his forearm with a tautness it should not have possessed.  He lurched, halted in mid-stride as his feet flew out from underneath him.  His whole body twisted, trying to anchor itself to something as the dirt and water pulled him down.  Tendrils of mud wrapped tight around him, and he sank into the bubbling goop which greedily swallowed him up.

He opened his mouth, snarling out a protest, when his tomb of muck sealed up around him, embedding him beneath the ground as rain continued to pound down upon the Sanctuary of Zi'Tah.

All at once, the ground hardened and cracked, the mud becoming thin, fragile clay.  A great pulse of heat boiled away rainwater and turned the dark-brown loam a pale tan.  The flames surrounding them roared higher, defying the downpour as they exulted in the new life being breathed into them by Guttler's rage.  North tore free of his earthen constraints, his bestial eyes searching for the power which had dragged him down.  With a throaty grunt, he spun round, the muscles in his arms twitching as he laid eyes on his attacker.

November was nearly doubled over, her hand clutched across the gaping wound splitting open her side.  Her eyes were glassed, her face haggard as she breathed in slow gasps.  Her green robes were stained with mud and blood.  She was leaning heavily on her staff, the golden jewel affixed to the top of it sparking and pulsing intermittently.  Behind her, the normally monstrous body of the Earth Avatar, Titan, appeared ephemeral, as if only halfway between this world and the next. 

"Run," she rasped at the lone Goblin, which had stumbled back against the trees, clutching and sobbing, scratching at the bark with yellowed nails.  It blubbered at her incoherently, looking back and forth from her to North to its dead companions, bleeding out in the dirt.

"Run!" She screamed at it again, and North's powerful legs carried him forward, growling insanely as he swung Guttler towards her.

Titan's fist caught the blade in the air, and a great shockwave shook the trees around them.  The fire immediately surrounding them died as the wind rushed away, starving it in an instant.  Black flames ran the length of Guttler's blade as North pressed forward, racing up Titan's arm and sinking beneath his rocky skin.  The Avatar's figure faded, losing substance one second and gaining it the next as November's staff erupted in a fountain of golden light.  Sweat ran down her face, black hair clinging to her in matted clumps as she forced all of her might into maintaining Titan's presence.

North tore Guttler free and struck again, and with that second strike the mountainous form shattered like glass, all that he was dissolving into the mud beneath.

November collapsed forward, but instantly North's hand was on her throat.  The breath left her body in a rush as she was slammed down, sinking into the mud as the Beastmaster clenched down, a froth at his mouth as he raised Guttler up again.  She stared feebly, no power left in her to resist.  North was choking the life from her, the silver-bladed axe crying out to have its thirst slaked.

And then the Goblin was there, a flurry of shrill screams and furious strikes with its staff, engulfed in an aura of air so cold that North's skin turned black where it struck.  The Elvaan rolled off of her, tumbling through the wet sod.  Leaves and mud clung to them as they struggled, North caught off-guard by the ferocity of the attack.  It struck at him with its tiny gnarled staff and scratched at him with long, broken fingernails, leaving jagged scratches in his skin.  Between gasps and sobs and foul curses it beat at him with arctic air.  November found the strength to roll over, trying with flagging strength to push herself up from the muck.

The assault lasted all of a handful of seconds before North lashed up like a snake, his teeth sinking into the Goblin's neck.  It cried out in agony as he bit down, tearing away with a bloodied chunk of flesh in his teeth.  It staggered back, but before its feet had fully sunk down into the ground, Guttler separated its head from it body.  The two pieces hit the ground with a wet thud, turning the mud a murky red.

North hunched his shoulders, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.  It was a slow, aching rasp, the rattle of a starving beast.  His skin was burning, even where the Goblin's ice had frozen his flesh to the point of hypothermia.  With the hand not grasping Guttler, he brushed the coarse and bloodied strands of hair from his eyes, grunting as he sniffed the air.

November was standing in front of him, he realized, and even as Guttler reflexively came into the air, she smeared her hand across his shallow and unshaven face.

"Here, North," she choked, "here is my blood.  Take all that you want."

A coppery taste filled his mouth as November collapsed in front of him.  Her hand left a crimson trail down his neck and chest, cutting off at his abdomen as she fell face-first into the mud.  He stood still, rolling the taste on his tongue, letting his mouth hang open as blood ran down his cheek.  Another flavor mingled with it, a bitter, salty tang which left him numb.

Guttler sank into the ground, its hilt toppling into the mud as North fell to his knees.  A wail broke from his lips, a mournful howl which was carried by the wind through the Sanctuary of Zi'Tah and into the weeping skies above.

"November," North sobbed, his tears disappearing into the rain, "what have I done?"

She gave no response.  She only hung limply in his arms as he clung to her.  He looked at his hand in horror as it slid up the side of her robe, covered in blood from a wound he had dealt her.

"Keftenk," he muttered, and then raised his voice to a shout.  "Keftenk!"

The forest was still, rain squelching the last of the flames borne from Guttler's rage.  Then, from behind a charred cedar a figure stirred.  Keftenk, his face ashen, peered uncertainly out from behind the tree, eyes darting about the scene in abject terror.

With a mighty heave, North took hold of Guttler's hilt, screaming as black fire raced up his arm, and hurled it towards the other Beastmaster.  It splashed into a brown puddle, and Keftenk looked down at it in wide-eyed horror.  He clung to the tree, his words coming out as incomprehensible blubbering.

"Take it," North growled as he stood, cradling November in his arms.  "Take it to the dragon's treasure, and leave it there."

"M . . .Master . . . " North's apprentice stammered.  His eyes were still filled with fear, but now also desperation as he bit his lip.  His diremite familiar was pushed back into the bush, unwilling to venture out. 

"DO IT NOW!"  The Elvaan's voice shook Zi'Tah, and before he knew what he was doing, Keftenk had stooped down and taken hold of Guttler's handle.  He swallowed hard, holding it like a live serpent.  The axe was spouting furiously at North as he turned his back.

"I'll make this better," he was whispering to November, "I promise, I promise, I will make this right."

Keftenk watched his Master disappear into the Sanctuary of Zi'Tah, holding the Summoner close. 

When next they met, it would be in the Valley of Sorrows.


North awoke to the feeling of a cold spray hissing as it drizzled across his face.  His eyes squeezed tight once, then opened to find the strangest thing greeting him.  A ray of sunlight was streaming down from above, and the sun peeked out from behind a string of puffy white clouds drifting lazily across the sky.

The pain in his cheek and his chest were stabbing at him, though they felt dulled today.  Whether it be that it had actually subsided or because he had grown used to it, he could not say.  His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he slowly sat up, taking care of an ache in his back which was explained when he realized he had been sleeping on rounded wooden logs.

He looked out at his surroundings, and inhaled deeply as a warm breeze blew over him from across the sparkling depths of the blue sea.

"November," he said, "I notice we are now quite far from Onzozo."

His response came in the form of a smart rap on the back of his head.  He turned, rubbing the spot she had struck as he turned to look up.  The Summoner was there, hands now gripped tightly on the tiller of the wooden ferry which bobbed up and down on the waves gently buffeting the craft.  Gingerly, he started to stand.

"Don't strain yourself," November warned him.  "You'll pass out again."

"I'm fine," he replied, bracing himself against the railing.  With some effort, he managed to upright himself, surprised at how weak he still felt.  Contrary to his physical weariness, he was more alert and awake than he remembered being in a long time, even during their trek through Buburimu.  Squinting across the sun-dappled sea, he peered off into the horizon.  All around them the water stretched, frothing happily around their small vessel as it rocked them to and fro.  The gentle hum of the motorized engine driving it forward was interrupted only by the calls of ocean birds.  He breathed in the sea air, savoring its taste. 

"The darkness hasn't stretched this far," November observed, voicing his thoughts.  "I'm glad you're awake.  You've been in and out for days, I hoped you'd be able to enjoy the sunshine."

He did not reply, only stared out into the sea.  The last few days were lost in a shroud of pain and half-remembered flights from the Baronet Romwe and his demons.  He remembered November carrying him onward, always onwards, as they moved south.  Of how they came to be on the open water he did not know, but he was thankful now to be awake again, and once more aware of his surroundings.

Slowly, his eyes slid down the craft towards the shaggy furs he had been laid out upon.  The kraken club was resting in place, laid out beside his gloves and horned, fur-lined helm.  It twitched occasionally as the waves rocked the ferry, the enchantment upon it amusingly reacting to the motion.  The weapon seemed almost puzzled as to what it should be doing.

Then he found Guttler, on the opposite side of his blankets as the club.  The axe was still, eerily so, making not a move or sound.  Just the sight of it made the scars across his chest and cheek begin to ache.  Unlike everything else on the ferry, it had not a drop of water on it, and the logs it rested on were bone dry and peeling.  As he looked upon it, the gleam of its silver blade flashed in the sunlight, and North averted his eyes.  He could look no more upon the cursed thing.

Instead, he made his way to the front of the boat, watching as it cut through the water, feeling the pulse of sea birds and schools of fish and crustaceans and reefs; the immense and intangible force of life which was now so absent from land.  He drank deeply from that well, relieved to once again feel in such magnitude the thoughts and impulses of the animals.

For a long while, they were both silent.  They listened to the whir of the engine, to the calls of the birds, to the endless rolling of the restless sea.  The sun was dipping west, but sunset would still be some hours off.  All was peaceful, and they were content.

A sharp pain like an electric shock against his cheek jostled North, and he put a hand to his jaw as he winced.  A sigh escaped his lips as the feeling passed, not fading away entirely, but becoming tolerable.

"We're going to Purgonurgo Isle."  It wasn't really a question.

"Yes," November said simply.

He turned towards her, a shame he had long thought buried in his eyes.  "November, I," his head dipped as words seemed inadequate.  "I had a vision as I slept.  I saw . . . I saw Zi'Tah, again."

Her face did not change, she merely adjusted the till again as they crested a wave.  Her eyes scanned the horizon, unreadable, and North looked away.

"Was Keftenk's fate my fault?  Would he have never gone back for the axe if I had cared enough to find him again?"  She gave no response, but he wasn't really looking for one.  He let himself slide down to a sit, turning his head towards her as he leaned against the ferry's rails.

"I failed many people when I took up Guttler.  I failed myself.  I failed you, November."

"You came back to yourself," she replied, making obvious effort to keep her tone steady.  Emotion choked her throat.  The memory was a hard one.

"And if I hadn't?  If I were a mindless slave of Guttler, no better off than Keftenk?"

"You did," her tone spoke more than her words, "that is all I wish to speak of this."

The pain came back to his chest, but as he squirmed in discomfort, he saw November wince as well.  Her breath was suddenly labored, and she shuddered slightly.  Her knuckles turned white on the till, but after a few moments she composed herself, relaxing her grip.  He grasped the rail again, pulling himself back up with a hard gaze directed her way.

"It still pains you?"  He asked in surprise.

She shook her head.  "I have not felt it in years, not since last we came here," as she spoke, her eyes moved towards Guttler, and then she closed them fiercely and turned away.  "But ever since you recovered the axe, it has ached again, off and on."

"Let me see."

Her head slumped slightly, damp black hair forming a veil around her face.  Slowly her hand drifted to her side, and she lifted the side of the short black-and-white robe she wore up to her midriff.

It was no more than a single red line now, but the scar from Guttler's bite remained.  He shuddered, the memory still vivid.  He could feel the shock of resistance up his arm as mystic steel met fragile flesh.  Her scream still echoed in his ears, the scent of her blood was fresh, the taste of her fear and terror.  As if sensing what was happening, Guttler suddenly gave a low rumble.  North's own scars began to burn, and in two quick steps he had made his way to the weapon, taking hold of it with a new-found fury.

"I should toss you into the ocean," he growled at it.  "I should rend you in the fires of Ifrit's Cauldron, or toss you into the Attowha Chasm.  I should rid this world of the blight you bring once and for all, and to hell with the oath I took!"

"North," November's tone was placating.

He stared at the axe, which was making biting and snarling sounds in his hand.  Disgusted, he tossed it back down, the blade sinking an inch into the wood and staying there.  His face a storm cloud, the Beastmaster stared out at the water again. 

"I forgave you a long time ago, North," she told him.  "You are a fine and noble man, and you took on a terrible burden."

"I might have killed you - "

"But you did not.  You regained yourself, and you have not gone down that path since.  You are a Beastmaster, not a beast."

He looked out over the horizon.  They would still be many hours on the water, with this painful topic between them.

"Let us change the subject, North," she once again could read his thoughts.  "The sunlight seems to keep Romwe away, and by nightfall we will have reached Purgonorgo Isle and be safe.  If we are to have a moment to speak of lighter things, this is it."

"You're right," he said, nodding.  The sea was dazzling, innumerable points of light dancing across its surface where the sun caressed it.  The air was warm, the water was cool, and they were surrounded once again by life.  It was a good day.

"What shall we discuss?"  November was smiling, seeing the change in North's demeanor as he relaxed.

His jaw set, and he looked about.  "Well, for starters," he began, turning to face her, "where did this boat come from?"


The sun had not quite yet finished its dip beneath the western sea when they made landfall   Scents of coconut and wildflowers wafted by, mingled with the tang of the ocean.  Purgonorgo's blond sands crunched beneath their feet as they walked ashore.  Cerulean crabs scuttled past as they waded onto the isle, and a great Uragnite, its browning shell covered in moss and algae, gave them a brief regard before turning away to do things which concerned it more. 

They tied the ferry securely, using a length of rope they had found in its stores to fasten it round a tree sprouting near the beach.  Guttler was muttering angrily, growling out half-formed words and protests, but, relatively, behaving itself.  There had been enough fighting during their flight to sate it temporarily, but as night fell it was growing restless.

North walked ahead, surveying the towering rock formations greeting them at the beach's edge which led to the inner parts of the isle.  It was there that their destination wait.

"We will have to find a way to announce ourselves," November advised.  "She will not like being surprised."

North nodded, feeling a choking fit coming on but suppressing it as best he could.  A few hacking coughs escaped, and November walked towards him in concern.  His scars were heating up again.

"It's nothing," he waved her off.  "I'll be fine.  Perhaps I can send Galahad ahead to alert the witch woman of our presence."

"Perhaps she already knows you're here."

Both of them looked up in surprise, and sure enough, her back to the rising moonlight, was the witch.  She was sitting atop a rocky outcropping, bare feet dangling over the side as she looked down at them.  Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were hidden by shadows, and her midnight-blue hair brushed behind her, carried by a salty sea breeze.  The white robe she had on was illuminated by the pale glow behind her, creating an aura all around her.  Lightly, she dropped down, falling nowhere near as fast as one should, and landed gently in the sand below.

"Welcome back, North," she spoke, her voice deep and smoky.  She was tall, as tall as he was, and though there was a streak of gray at either of her temples, her face seemed ageless.  "November," she nodded to the Summoner, "I am happy to see you again."

"How did you know we were coming?"  North queried her.  "Magic?"

"I keep a spyglass, I saw your boat some miles off."

"Oh," he was a little disappointed.  "We need your help again.  The curse - "

Before he could continue, another fit of coughing struck him.  The sand crunched under his fingernails as he fell to all fours, struggling to breath.  Guttler was laughing audibly, and the scars on his face and chest were burning like never before.  He gagged, and drops of red dotted the white sand beneath him.  November was already at his side, clutching him and saying things he couldn't hear. 

He took an amazingly deep breath.  It felt like all the tastes and smells of the entire island and all the ocean flowed into him at once.  It was the best breath he'd ever taken. Guttler made a noise he'd never heard come from it before, like the yelp of a wounded dog.

The witch removed her hand from his head, drawing it back with a serene expression.

"Thank you," November said fervently, "thank you."

"Do not thank me yet," her tone was grave.  "It was very different with you, November."  North slowly was making his way to his feet, panting as he recovered from the fit.

"Can you help me?"  He asked plaintively.

She nodded.  "Am I not Virtue, the white witch?  Come to my home, we shall begin in the morning."

"Why wait until then?"

"Do not be impatient, Lord of Beasts.  It will take some time to prepare for what must be done.  Besides, you look more than a little in need of some food and good sleep."

He heard a rumbling he knew did not come from his axe, and placed a hand over his aching stomach.  "Perhaps there is something to what you say," he admitted, and both she and November laughed.  After a moment, he joined in, and the three of them were soon on their way.

Dinner was a meal of noodles with butter, mixed in with fresh spinach and carrots and served hot with tomato sauce.  Crystal clear spring water washed it down, and Virtue had an astonishingly delicious dessert of ice cream she made herself from seaweed and antlion's milk, flavored with the cocoa bean which grew on the island.  After eating and talking, answering all the questions she had, Virtue gave him a tonic which sent him off to a deep, deep sleep, undisturbed by any pain or hellish dreams.

The next day, North would learn that the witch's cure was just as deadly as the disease.