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The Weeping Scar

Chapter 1 - Inilek River and Rumbles

by TheSpiralAim

Alistair's boots found purchase where the Scar permitted. The road conditions were better than he'd expected—cobbles set tight, crowned, and cambered to send pooled water off the cliff into the river. It made the footing steady, if not any kinder, on foot. A few stones dropped from a nearby cliff. He had heard them, not seen them. They echoed off the nooks and ravines that were hidden from view. Something he had already learned to associate with the region.

He was not a noteworthy man. Clean-shaven, nondescript, and slender—Alistair had the classic build of a bookworm. To keep the Scar's ever-damp air off his clothing, he wore an oil-soaked cloak. Leather boots, gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat composed the rest of Alistair's outfit. This sort of gear wasn't what he'd wear back in Sibiu. Out here in the Scar, the look of a wizard didn't matter as much as functional clothing did. The long ironwood staff he was using as a walking stick pulled double duty as an arcane focus.

Two weeks on the road had been slow going for Alistair; Sibiu was not close by. Caravans and coaches didn't ride into the Scar from the capital. In fact, most didn't even want to get close to it. Books he'd read on the area had been dire: dangerous fauna and numerous mythic creatures, too. They had included harpies, werewolves, and Jaegerclaws, just to name a few. As such, it was no surprise, really, that people who valued their lives would avoid this place. Alistair doubted how true those claims were. Most far-off places exaggerated their mythic creature problems. A few more pebbles clattered down the cliff face behind him.

He turned.

The feeling of being watched was overwhelming. In the distance, a high-pitched sound deepened into rumbles.

A Scar wyvern?

It was very far away, probably hunting something. That would be an interesting creature to study, if he got the time. Regional variants of lesser dragons were always a ripe subject for academic prestige.

He turned back to the road, his mind stirring with new notes. A scale sample? Maybe a few of their air element glands? That might go a long way. Perhaps the people of Eforia had tamed a Scar wyvern? That would be absolutely ideal!

Something moved in a way that made the world seem to twist.

The movement of a sheet of rock was disorienting, as if it had shed a skin. Alistair fell back onto his hands with a gasp. Another peeled away from the cliff right next to him. Both made pebble-like clicking noises as they moved. Their seemingly mouthless faces were at eye level with him.

Had he heard of these creatures? They moved with quick, jerky motions. It was difficult to track the motion with his eyes. His mind skipped a beat, and he froze with fear.

The two creatures quickly circled him. Long tendrils with sensory plumage swayed in the surrounding air. The click-clack of their noises unnerved him. With a burst of jerky precision, the being was nearly on top of him. Its feathered antenna fronded out and brushed close to his face. Specks on its chitin shifted and changed as his eyes tried to focus on them. A cool blue glow emanated from softer places between the chitin ribs along its flank. It was bright enough to cast a halo on the damp stone.

Alistair's breath caught as his palms scraped along the rough stone. His fingers clasped at his staff clumsily. No syllables or formulas came to his mind; they refused to form. In his chest, his heart pounded so strongly that he could hear it. No fangs or teeth were visible on the armored face of this creature. The sense of dread and danger didn't go away, though. There was no doubt in his mind this thing could kill him if it wanted to. A few hollow clacks came from under the plates on its face, but nothing moved as far as he could tell. Why was it so close? How did these things hunt? Clearly it didn't have eyes, only two slots that were likely airways.

The two beings lifted their heads, and a windblown and mournful cry echoed out of their carapaces. It carried a raw melancholy and reverberated on the stone walls. Distant replies piped back. Another blur of motion followed as the two of them hopped down the escarpment towards the Inilek River. That sound of pebbles falling marked where they moved off to. Shifting carapace specks made them disappear a moment later.

He got back on his feet. Alistair brushed himself off and shuddered. Slowly his heart calmed down and his breathing steadied. A few spells that would have been helpful came back to his mind. Great, just in time. Alistair steadied his mind and recounted what he had seen.

What were those creatures? Had he missed something in the field guide to the region? Not unlikely. It was easy to get distracted with more interesting beings. One thing was for sure. Alistair wouldn't be assuming sounds were random or innocent anymore. Well, at least the clinking of small rocks sliding down the cliffs.

The road wound around a dark stone buttress that had choked the canyon down. Below, the Inilek roared where the channel narrowed. Once cleared of the buttress, the valley opened up a lot, and in the distance was his goal. That was, if the maps he memorized were correct. Given that his inattention to the field guides had left him blank on a creature, he could only hope he had memorized the map correctly.

The rivulets at the canyon walls started to flow with more vigor. A distant roaring of water followed. Not the kind to be concerned about, as there was plenty of room in the Inilek.

The land here really did weep.

Without much ceremony, Alistair found himself in a steady rain. The abruptness of it caught him off guard. What a place! What kind of city survives where the rains come so suddenly?

The road continued on much longer than he had expected; the rain kept him just short of comfortable, a soft chill that made his joints ache despite his young age. Shadows grew long, and the chill only got stronger as he finally rounded a spur to see the Black Quarry Inn in full. It was set in a carved alcove that was too geometric to be natural. The stone was very dark, especially when wet. Old construction of heavy beams, wattle and daub walls, a thatched roof, and heavy ironwork on the doors. Outside was a small stable that could hold a few horses and a cart, should it need to. A dim light shone through the weather windows, now so frosted from wear and smoke staining that only faint shapes could be seen.

To Alistair's surprise, the door opened with little fuss or ceremony. The room was less dull than the window had implied it would be. Globe-covered oil lamps hung here and there from the ceiling. An old cranky-looking ratten was behind the counter, and two human men were seated a bit further down. The smell of damp wool, oil, rendered lamb fat, and whatever the local herb blend was filled the area.

"Welcome to the Black Quarry Inn, traveler. Take a seat and warm up," the ratten man said in a gruff voice.

"Thank you. How much is a bunk here?" Alistair asked. He approached the counter in a hurried way. The old wood of the building and the locals were worn and tough. It creaked a little. The other guests hadn't paid him any mind; it made him feel out of place.

"A fig and two crowns. That buys you a meal and a pint too," the ratten replied.

That was a change; he hadn't expected things to be so inexpensive. Sibiu likely was pricier for many services. That was, if the cost of a bunk and food here was anything to go by. His hands fumbled to the smaller coin pouch that was nestled in a larger belt pouch. "It's nice to be out of the rain," Alistair said and handed the coin over.

"Don't get used to it. If you're new to the area, rain is the way of things. Occasionally we get sunshine. Keep your cloak oiled. Find a spot to sit. I'll get you a bowl of stew and a cup of ale," the ratten said. The tone wasn't caring. It was like an older man teaching a younger peer the way of things. Not unkind, but the edge was firm.

Alistair took a seat two stools down from the locals. Crowding them seemed like a bad idea. That, and he was sure he smelled like mud and lanolin, more than the room did. A sharp but distant rumble made him look up. It wasn't exactly like thunder; it seemed fairly distant. He scanned the room and checked to see if anyone else was paying attention. The old, gruff men didn't even lift their eyes to look at him.

He sighed and turned back as a bowl was placed down in front of him. The stew looked hearty. It was barley, a root vegetable, and maybe some meat. The bowl shook a bit as a rumbling grew louder. Alistair lifted his head up right as the wall blew in. Wood splintered in every direction; the locals had barely responded as everything fell inward. It all went dark, and the weight followed.

Sound came back, but light did not. Something heavy was pinning him across his ribs. Merciful enough not to have crushed them, but unyielding enough to keep him in place. He spit out wooden splinters and plaster. Air didn't come easily back into his lungs. The pitter-patter of heavy rain, some kind of melee, and voices carried through the wreckage. Alistair yelped out; he had intended to say something, but only a terrified noise came out.

"I hear one. Damn it, I wish we had brought a keireth handler," a deep masculine voice said.

"Focus, we have to do what we can. What direction was the voice?" a stern but small female voice said.

"Over here, give me a hand," another masculine voice replied.

Light broke into where Alistair was. A ray fell where his chest was, revealing two men in brigandine armor, Karpatian colors, with an insignia he assumed was Eforia's guard force. He tried to yelp again, but nothing came out. Breath was too difficult to draw, and he started to see black at the edges of his vision.

From what seemed a tunnel, the words "On three" came. What followed was a rush of blood to his head and his lungs greedily filling with air. Naturally, he started coughing. The world slid, and Alistair was hoisted to his feet.

Alistair wobbled.

"Just the one?" the small, feminine voice said.

The world came back into focus about as fast as it had faded. When he turned towards the voice, he saw a light-framed female ratten with pure white fur. Her garb was black with red livery of some kind. At her hip was a whip; the opposite hip had a cat-o'-nine-tails thing.

She approached briskly and felt around his body. The small hand knew right where to press to make him wince.

"Aside from the bruise you're going to have in the morning, do you feel anything sharp, wrong, or out of place?" she asked.

"N-no? I think I'm fine to walk. Lucky you all showed up," he said.

The ratten woman turned and headed back out of the wreckage towards the road. "Good, we'll need to double-check for surv--" she was cut off as her torso jerked forward, and her right foot stepped to balance whatever happened.

Nothing appeared wrong at first, but then he saw it. A quarrel's point protruded from under her right collarbone. She hissed and wrapped her hand around it and yanked it through.

Blood ran out of the wound and disappeared on her black dress. Her eyes snapped to a position just above Alistair's head. The ratten's hand was drawing her whip; it had an unholy red glow to it. He turned to see what she was looking at.

Two men dressed in worn-out-looking armor and rain gear were rushing down the debris and onto him. One had dropped his crossbow in favor of a poorly maintained sword. From the corner of his eye, a ribbon of red trailed a curtain of sanguine light as it snapped. It wasn't the sharp crack of a whip; the report was muffled, wet, and more like a tear. The trail of the whip traced from the man's hip to his shoulder. For a moment, everything held together. The man's face focused on fury at the ratten lady, his chipped tooth, his expression in a battle roar.

He folded backward at an impossible angle for a body. The rest of him slopped out onto the ground. Lamb broth, wet stone, iron, and bile filled his nose in a toxic mixture that almost cost him his lunch.

It wasn't over; the lash came again.

This time it coiled around the other bandit's neck. The man's eyes went wide; he screamed briefly. Skin wrinkled around the leather cord and went too tight. Blood welled around and obscured the whip as it was pulled away. His eyes lacked whatever was behind them a moment ago. A heavy thud followed when his body hit the ground.

"Check the flanks," the old guard said.

"Vessel, are you injured?" the younger guard asked.

"We need to gather and get back to the caravan. You there, are you ready to walk?" she asked Alistair.

He snapped back into himself and looked around. "Give me a second. I… I need my staff," he said.

Damn it, where was it in this rubble? He shifted some wood, thatching, and the remnants of an old stool. So much mess; it had been so orderly when it was whole. This inn would never look whole again, would it? His hand found the dense wood of his staff.

"Got it," he said and clumsily tried to trot up to them.

"Good, there's a covered wagon a few hundred paces up the road. Are you sure you're okay to walk?" she asked.

Alistair nodded and looked back at the inn. A piece of the cliff high above had fallen next to the inn and toppled onto the back half of it. His eyes tried to see the top of the cliff in the bad light. Nothing was there.

The older guard guided Alistair forward with a gentle hand. "Looks like Father Tavren was right. Bandits had scoped this place out."

"Indeed. Shame we did not arrive sooner; from the sounds up on the cliff, we need to be moving, though," the ratten said.

Alistair didn't really hear anything, only the ringing from nearly being crushed and the heavy downpour of rain. What were they even talking about? Wet stone met his boots as he took the hint and continued to move with the three, up and around the switchback to where this caravan supposedly was.