Heir of Iron

"Not as much room for want and hunger in a world of farming and trade." Bart mused, getting a sly tap to the side of the nose from the elder.

"Nae, not one bit. Ol' Rawhead has weaknesses there, soft spots ye can drive at tae push 'em off."

"Do tell, it seems my companion here is destined to meet this beast and its minions in battle, and I would arm him with all I can!" Nazir said with fervor, looking up at Bart with a grin; "I daresay he has the martial side of things well-handled already." Bart felt a sense of shame, as he felt that uncertainty creep into his guts — did he? Was he strong still? He cast a glance back at where his horse walked alongside Naima's wagon, where his axe hung and his armor rested. He had not lifted it since that day with Rashid, and his armor had gone unworn, he could not bear to look at it easily as of yet — the tremors began whenever he did, the Wendigo's influence, or his own fear?

Who was to say? He did not know himself.

"It's nae so simple as a place tae stick a blade or some alchemist's incense to smudge an' purify a place wit', iffin' that's what yer askin'." Whitt said, his kind face growing somber; "Ol' Rawhead's a spirit, a bein' o' th' Astral. It nae has flesh to cut nor senses tae muddle, it is a creature o' wills, an' will is what ye need to defeat it."

"There must be more to it than that." Bart groused suddenly, feeling the darkness between the trees as if it were a living thing, the shadows were not empty; "It has broken kings and saints, surely they were strong of will!"

Whitt looked at him with a steady eye, and Bart realized he had blurted the words the Wendigo itself had spoken to him, he swallowed heavily as the old man seemed to assess him and shook his head.

"Nae, many who 'ave fallen tae it are willful, strong men o' quality — but all tae a one were whittled down, winnowed bit by bit til they were not but onion skin inside, an' then chomp." Whitt clapped his teeth together with sudden, surprising violence and a loud click of enamel that jerked all eyes to him.

"All in one bite."

The shadows cackled, a raw, hacking sound of mockery and twisted pleasure, none seemed to react to it, Bart however felt it keenly. The hot breath of fetid, clammy rot washed over the back of his neck, and the man froze.

KINGS, SAINTS, AND THE WEAK, FORGOTTEN, AND UNWANTED. I HAVE CLAIMED THEM ALL IN MINE KINGDOM.

Its jaws yawed over Bart's shoulder, and he went stiff as a board, tremors starting up his arms as his fingers clenched, his teeth clamped tight around the desire to scream, to rage and whirl — to lay his fists and fury into the monster. He knew he could not though, could not acknowledge it as its overbearing presence stressed his very soul.

THY WORLD IS A POISON, CORRUPTING THE WAY THINGS ART MEANT TO BE. I WILL RETURN IT TO THE ORDER OF THINGS, THE WEAK BOW TO THE STRONG AND ARE EATEN. THY ART STRONG. THY WILL FEAST.

Bart felt its claws rest on his shoulders, the words screamed in his mind and blurred his vision as he struggled to endure the sheer mass of its attention — its weight was incalculable, impossible. A gasp escaped him as he stumbled and fell to one knee, teeth clenched as he fell into the grip of a fit — body shaking and convulsing as his spine slackened and his frame teetered, unable to bear its own weight. A shout went up as that looming presence behind gave a low, hungry exhale. Black slavering ichor drooled down over his line of sight as he struggled to keep from pitching over as weakness flooded his body, the oozing ebony pus running down his arms, across his face as the presence drew a too-long, too-flexible talon along his jawline in an obscene parody of a lover's touch.

THIS IS MINE KINGDOM STILL

Then, it was gone.

"Bart!" Nazir's voice called to him, he heard a scuffle and managed to raise a hand as the dandy came running to his side, the rest of the party having continued forwards as Bart's encounter had lagged him behind.

"It... it's just another... another fit," Bart protested, his chest heaving as the weakness dragged at him, pulling him downwards to the floor as he struggled to remain even at one knee.

"Just a fit! You stubborn Church Knights would undersell death itself!"

"I... got better..." Bart rasped laconically around a ghastly smile as he took a deep breath.

"Oy, somethin' ails ye lad?" Whitt asked as Bart struggled to his feet, Nazir bracing what he could of the larger man's weight — he was a small fellow, but his lean body was whipcord fit, stronger than he looked.

"I... I was very near the grave some days ago. Naima brought me back, with her mantle's power." Bart admitted with clenched teeth. "It has... weakened me."

The elder stared at him with kind eyes, but his face was an impassive mask. Bart realized after a moment he was not staring at him — but rather the place the Wendigo's spectral presence had occupied a moment past. Could the old man see it? Was he aware of its presence?

"Aye... ye got better," he said quietly, Bart drawing himself up as he turned his head slightly, flicking his gaze behind him... and for a moment between two shadowed trees, he saw the glimpse of the animal skull, jaws wide. Grinning at him.

"Y-you were saying there were... weaknesses you could exploit, to fend off this 'Rawhead' as you call him." Bart prompted, Whitt's eyebrows went up into the rim of his skullcap and he nodded.

"Aye, I was sayin' that he is a simple creature and tae struggle against him is a struggle o' wills." the old man said, walking with a purposeful step now, short staff clicking mutely on the hard-packed dirt of the trail.

"Ain't no man born then or yet who can endure him on his lonesome, tae feel his grasp on ye is to feel the grasp o' the very idea of decay, none born cannae endure."

"So is there no hope?" Bart rasped, Nazir's eyebrows furrowing at the fervor in his friend's voice, Whitt shook his head and laughed.

"Oh nae there's always hope, I said nae one man could endure him alone," the elderly man said, tapping his nose once more; "Ol' Rawhead is a limited, sad thing and the one thing he dinnae understand, cannae understand — is faith."

"How can that be?" Nazir challenged as Bart felt the last of the weakness leave him well enough, straightening the big man out, the lean dandy raised his own eyebrows once more; "He's a servant of the Empty Queen, is that not faith in a deity?"

"Nay, that is nae faith that is power." Whitt corrected, reaching a hand to comfortingly grasp the eye and crook symbol about his throat; "Faith is selfless, laddie. It is an act o' pure trust, nae exchange nor contract. Ol' Rawhead cannae bear th' presence o' true faith — it repels him, harries him with the agony o' denial."

"Denial?" Bart asked, and Whitt nodded.

"Tae act o' faith is anathema tae such a simple, sad creature. He only knows what for he can take, nae even tae concept o' giving. He cannae understand it, and that harms him. Like a hot brand tae its flesh."

The idea rang Bart's mind like a gong. Invoke her not it had screamed at him in his dream, the very act of prayer, of supplication to his Lady — merely naming her title before it — had harmed it, driven it back. Faith. Was this why it gnawed at him? Why it chewed and worried at the protections of his soul? To break his faith, to rob him of his only weapon against it? Bart's chest swelled with defiance as he idly laid a hand over his breast — the Eye-and-Horn almost warm beneath his hand. Old Whitt grinned and nodded.

"Aye laddie, every man from the Black Times what resisted an' denied Ol' Rawhead was a faithful man. God an' his blessed name drove tae hunger from their hearts and fired their bellies wit' righteousness." he said, almost as if he had been there. "It gave us hope in tae dark, an' a shinin' example to live up tae."

"God is great." Rashid rumbled from his place ahead of them, Whitt nodded sagely.

Bart focused his eyes ahead. In the shadows, he saw the flicker again, the grinning skull. The waves of malice, he fixed it with a glare.

"Lady's might protect us," he said aloud... and the darkness seemed to quiver. Anger and hatred oozed out... yet it ebbed away like a skulking stray, kicked away from the door.

"Amen."

CHAPTER 5

The journey was otherwise fairly quiet, the valleys of the Middlelands seemed to exist in a hush all their own, secluded away from the bustle and crush of civilization — it was a piece of an older, simpler life — and in many ways, Bart envied such an existence. It was as his father and mother sought out, a quiet place to simply be.

Callum left them after a spell, kicking his feet off the wagon and waving at Lidia all eagerness and bright-eyed enthusiasm. The little changeling seemed loathe to let him leave, looking up to Bart at the time and remarking; "Makin's o' a proper Redcap there, he's canny, brave, an' true."

"Makings of a proper Paladin, to my eyes." Bart had countered, and truly — all the slight girl could offer in rejoinder was a smile. Neither was wrong.

Bart was glad to see the boy go, even as he waved and grinned, running off down a well-worn trail towards a house sunk deep into the nestling hills of the valley — not for a dislike of his company, but for the continuing presence of his dark passenger. The Wendigo seemed to take a particular interest in appearing when it was spoken of, the appellation of 'Ol' Rawhead' almost seemed to amuse it. As Whitt spoke of its history it lingered — a glimpse of a skull or its two-chambered chest heaving between the trees, its breath wet and fetid as it leered at Bart from the shadows, always the shadows. He'd begun to become wary of dark places. It seemed unable to truly touch him, affect him — but it made a damn convincing illusion of such, fooling his senses and winnowing at his mind as it had promised. Hours passed, and the stories wended and wound along tall tales and hearsay before coming back around to the hard, bitter truth of things as the sun began to edge towards the far horizon, deepening the shadows and reddening the skies.

"So, this 'House' of this creature you spoke of, what is it exactly?" Nazir asked, always at the forefront of the queries with the elderly man, Whitt turning his eyes towards him appreciatively. Nazir's rapport with the man had grown in the short time they'd followed the same path — the southerner was a natural diplomat, and his successes in life were clearly owed to his gregarious, infectious courtesy.

"Aye, I suppose nae much to call it else but a temple. A place o' worship fer his thralls and supplicants. Ol' Rawhead dinnae keep faithful in th' way our Lord does. He marks ye," he tapped his chest with gnarled fingers, "Makes ye his creature, tae do wit' what he wishes, tae consume or drive tae war it matters nae tae Ol' Rawhead, so long as ye cast away ye humanity and return tae the wild ways."

The talk of marks made Bart's blood run cold, it fit together nicely with the beast's constant, harrying presence. Was it truly near him, upon him in a physical sense... or had he been marked, at some point in his journey — in his battle against evil. Whitt carried on. \

"His house was a place o' worship, center o' his power in th' deepest parts o' the hills — some hour or so ride west o' here, where the mountains and the valleys meet, the wildest, most primeval parts o' the land. 'Tis a confluence."

"A confluence? Like old mysticism, leylines, and the like?" Nazir asked and Whitt nodded.

"Somethin' tae that intent. It's a place o' power, a dark, fetid little moor near a stagnant spring. 'Tis Ol' Rawhead's element writ in stone an' soil."

"Sounds like a miserable place for a miserable creature," Bart growled, feeling the monster's eyes upon him, hearing its fetid, hacking laughter echoing from the trees. He curled his lip in disdain, Whitt only nodded.

"Aye, well we should be hittin' the outskirts o' the clanhome nearin' the old stompin' grounds," Whitt said, gesturing ahead of them, the trail wound and meandered along natural concourses and old dried game trails. In many places the cart and wagon had struggled with uneven ground rife with exposed roots and moss-covered stones — the woods this deep traveled on foot or by steed — far beyond the reach of common traders.

"Iffin' ye want tae know more, Tarja knows th' grounds o' the place tae the stones. Her clanhome 'ave kept eye on the ol' monster's house fer generat-" He trailed off with wide, stunned eyes as they rounded a bend in the trail, the trees opened up and gave way to the outlines of yet another sleepy little hamlet... and a sight of grim horror.

COME. WITNESS MINE OWN SPLENDOR. KNOW ME BY MINE WORKS.

The monster had loomed out of nothingness, crawling up out of Bart's shadow to narrate the horror they witnessed. Its arms had swept wide, and its cavernous, skeletal maw leaned down close to Bart's ear, causing the Knight-Brother's teeth to clench and his gorge to rise. He refused to look, refused to tear his eyes from what he saw to acknowledge the creature. Black tarry ichor oozed from its jaws, pattering across the Eye-And Horn across his chest, staining it with its black words.

YOU WILL KNOW ME BY THE END.

The little township was ravaged. No larger than the mere hamlet they had passed through before, it had been all but flattened — like a massive singular force had simply driven itself through it bodily. Planks and splintered timber lay strewn about, not a single home nor building's door hung intact, ripped and hammered down, the frames themselves bent inwards — like something far too large, too wide had forced its way through with unnatural strength.

"God's Blood," Bart whispered, the Wendigo's laughter echoed in his ears.

The smell of blood hit them all at once, the party struck silent by the sight, Whitt's eyes wide and staring as he walked through the ruins, stopping in the middle to turn around with an expression of loss incalculable on his face.

"... I 'Twas but a day gone..." he breathed, the aged man suddenly looked truly old, his body bent under his own weight as he covered his eyes with a shaking hand, turning away from something casually tossed aside to the ground, something smeared in unidentifiable gore — yet its form was clear as day.

A simple wooden doll.

The sound of drawing steel echoed between the trees, Rashid's grim tulwar coming to hand as he rode into the midst of it, Lidia and Nazir similarly drawing steel. Bart hesitated, his eyes looked to his axe in its loop alongside his saddle, his fingers began to tremor and tremble as he tore his eyes from the hilt — and forced himself to look. To see.

There was nary a sight nor sound but the creak of timber and the whistle of the wind, an errant door swinging in the breeze, clattering against its destroyed frame. The path the invaders had trod was clear as day, the brush and trees trampled and forced aside, and the ground churned up with the clear signs of struggle.

They found the bodies shortly after.

There were not many, and of them, they were all fighting-age men. Scattered hither and yon, perhaps a half-dozen total, each one left where he fell, a weapon of some sort still at hand or nearby, their bodies savaged — hacked and torn, and in some places, their whole heads were simply gone, the stumps of necks and bodies bearing the marks of too-large, gnashing teeth.

"Ghuls," Bart said as he knelt over one such decapitated corpse with a bleak expression — sprawled out before a doorway with a crib visible in the far corner of the home, overturned and empty. Bart's guts clenched like a tangle of snakes, the Wendigo looming above him, having never once left, disappeared, nor faded since they walked into the village, it hung over him like a long shadow, its grating breath and low cackles grinding down on Bart's mind, taxing his sanity. Lidia nodded, her nose curling in distaste.

"Aye, I can smell 'em. That piss an' vinegar stink." she hissed, pulling her hood's scarf-like ends around her nose.

"Aye, ye at least 'ave eyes tae see, Stormcrow." a deep voice echoed from off the path, Bart whirled, unarmed but for his fists he raised them nonetheless to the presence, ready to sell his life in due course. Jules stood there, just beyond the house's eaves. The hunter sat in a half-crouch, a quiver hanging from his hip and a long, heavy bow of Middlelands yew in his clenched fingers.

"There were four o' them, marked tae individual strides and tracks," The tall woodsman said, reaching down to touch the odd, almost dog-like footprints Bart and Lidia both recognized from the undercrofts of Lachheim, "A dozen o' so men as well, nae no one wears boots liken tae these hereabouts." he continued, clearly a master of his craft tapping another print, they were shallow and flat with a series of inset studs but no heel, not like the soft-soled shoes and half-boots that the locals favored. A more primitive, ancient style.

"They went that ways," he continued, turning his head to another trampled-down section of foliage to the west, leading into a darkened tunnel of trees and twisted roots barely wide enough for three men abreast, "We dinnae go tae that place, 'cept the Elders."

"Tarja... aye, Tarja an' I walk th' Ol' Monster's house, keep it free o' anythin' that might carry its fell stones or effects far an' wide. 'Tis a tainted place."

"His old house." Bart breathed, and the Wendigo's fell presence drew a deep breath, letting it out in Bart's ear with a shudder of pleasure leading it.

COME BARTHOLOMUS, I INVITE YE TO MINE ABODE. THE FEAST IS ALREADY NIGH

Bart shuddered, and the palsy trembled up his arm as Jules spat to one side, chewing a long cattail reed anxiously.

"We have to retrieve them!" Nazir said, even the lithe dandy was armed, the stout curved dagger he always carried at hand, its nearly two-span edge wicked and utilitarian — a blade made for fighting, not daily tasks. Nazir's eyes were full of fire, the same blazing purpose he'd seen in them fighting Humbaba.

"Aye, th' tracks are but hours old, th' bodies still warm," Jules confirmed, standing up straight. "I will take ye to th' Ol' Monsters house, iffin' ye have the belly." he said, his jaw lifting defiantly, "If nae, I will go alone."

Bart felt his guts clench, the shaking daring to draw the air from his lungs as the Wendigo pressed down on him with its presence, the black ichor oozing down his arms as its jaws slavered, to his eyes staining his hands with the dark bile — staining his hands with the atrocity done here. They began to quake violently, and his teeth clenched.

"I will go as well!" Nazir answered, getting a flash of concern from Naima and Rashid, but he headed it off with a hard expression; "Mantles or no, the path is not made for horses nor carts, and I have always been able to best you in a footrace, Brother Mine." the little southerner shot back to Rashid, who's eyes widened in surprise at the fervor.

"Nazir, you are not a warrior..." Naima began and he spat, blade in hand.

"I am not, but I am not a simple merchant or some puffed-up dandy either, I am a son of Al-Reza! The charge of God and Heaven lays upon me as much as any born upon its golden sands!" he all but roared, raising that curved blade, "I — we all — carry these for the sake of defending the weak, and the weak are there!" he jabbed a finger towards the ominous shadows and tangled trees; "And they need someone quick of foot and sure of step, and I will not stand idly by as... as..." he turned his head to the interior of the home Bart knelt before, to the overturned and ransacked crib.

"... As mere babes are left to the teeth and claws of horrors."