Hubris - 10. Tannhaus

Crowe woke up to the feeling of warm digits twining through his hair, pulling at the greasy strands until his scalp tingled, brought him back into a quasi form of consciousness. His instinct was to play dead, slip back into dreamless black. The familiar drone of the Okanavian anchored him to his body. He relaxed. Once he stopped fighting it the ministrations felt…really good.

He dared himself to open his eyes. He looked up at the twin suns looking back at him. Barghast’s tongue dangled out of his mouth. He lowered his muzzle long enough to nose at Crowe’s cheek; his snout felt cool and wet. His fingers continued to stroke with great care. We made it, Crowe thought. We made it through another day.

The practitioner tried to clear the sand from his throat. “Water,” he tried to croak. “I need water.” He raised a curled hand to his cracked lips, miming the gesture. To his relief he felt the lycan shift, felt the hand at the back of his head lift his lips gently to the rim of the water skin. He drank greedily, eyes rolling back in his head in rapture. The last thing he’d had to drink had been the ale and that had been hours ago; beer wasn't exactly the best deterrent against dehydration. For now he was simply too happy to be alive.

Alive and in pain. A reluctant examination of his arm showed that the bone had been popped back into place. It would take a few weeks before it was fully healed, but he was grateful. The Okanavian was smarter than he looked. The Theocracy would do well not to underestimate the Okanavi people. Barghast pulled the water skin back before he could choke on the water. Crowe’s head fell back. He gulped for air.

The door opened. Cenya hobbled in with Rake following close behind her. “Good, you’re awake.” She spoke in a tired voice that said she'd been up all night. Her skin held a gray cast. She gave the Okanavian a sharp look. “We weren't sure what your condition was. Your lycan friend would not let us in the room.”

“He’s very territorial,” the practitioner murmured offhandedly. With Barghast's help he managed to sit up. He blinked against the pale morning light coming in through the window. A thought tugged at his mind but the yarn kept slipping from his grasp before he could catch it. Why did we do it? Why did we risk our lives for these people? After a moment in which time seemed to slow to a crawl he remembered. He looked at Rake. “Did you do it? Did you manage to catch one of them?”

Rake’s grimace turned his lips into prunes. “We did. We got Tannhaus. We have him tied up somewhere secure.”

Crowe nodded, trying to store the thought away. A low ache throbbed behind his eyes, remnants from last night’s pain. He managed to get to his feet with a grunt of effort. “The bear…where is it?”

“Dead. You killed it last night. Don't you remember?”

The sorcerer did remember. A familiar jolt of panic shocked his heart; he ran a hand over his face. He wished he didn't remember. That final terrible look the beast - the demon gave him before it blew away to ash. Is it truly dead? I don't think it is. I don't think it will be until we find what Tannhaus and his team found at the temple. He felt something inside him clench at the thought. Whatever the true form the source of this evil came from, he suspected it would be far more dangerous than the bear. We need answers. We need them now. How long was I out? How long before nightfall?

“I want to see Tannhaus.”

“You are in no condition to do anything.” It was not Rake who had spoken but Cenya. She gave him a knowing look that lingered seconds too long. It made the sorcerer want to look away. “Eben and I felt it when you destroyed the creature and we saw how you looked when the Okanavian brought you back in. We practitioners age faster the more we use our Monad-given gifts, a flaw I imagine he didn't foresee when he molded us from the Void. I don't need to tell you what happens to us when we age.”

Petra's unseeing, unmoving face appeared before his mind's eye. He shoved it away. Determination held his conviction firmly in place. “There's no time. The bear may be dead but there's still more of the infected. I’ll be fine.”

“It's your life,” said Rake, unfolding his arms. “Still…” To Crowe’s surprise the man grinned at him. “What you did, defeating that bear…that was a Monad given miracle.”

The sounds of screams echoed in the practitioner's mind. “Clias…”

“Clias’ death was a tragedy,” Cenya interjected. “We will mourn him greatly. I was there when he popped out of his Mama's womb; there will be no shortage of tears spent for him, but we will not lay his death at your feet. Not when there's hope on the horizon. Rake will take you to Tannhaus if that is what you desire.”

The practitioner nodded eagerly.

Rake led Crowe and Barghast out of the tavern. Their progress across the town was slowed by the practitioner's laborious movements. Each step he took sent alarms through the backs of his legs and up his spine. Rake made no comment on the state of their progress or lack thereof. The sorcerer refused to go back or give up. He kept walking even when his body wanted to crumple to the ground. When he stopped he distracted himself by focusing on his breathing. He listened to the sounds of voices. Again the people of Timberford were back at it, running between the houses, and carrying buckets of water from a nearby stream. The air this morning was different from the previous morning. It didn't feel as if the village held its breath waiting for tragedy to strike. He felt hope. Hope bolstered him. Tannhaus will have answers. I’ll do whatever it takes to get them out of him.

They stopped outside a small one story house; the shutters had been drawn so no one could see inside. Rake banged the flat of his palm against the door. “Elle, Jim, it's Rake! Open up! Got some company for ya!”

A moment later the door creaked open. A pale faced mousy haired woman peered out from the shadows interior of the house with wide black eyes. She looked at Rake and then at Crowe and then back to Rake. She opened the door further, revealing a slight petite body. “It's a good thing you showed up when you did!” She flung her arms around Rake's narrow shoulders. “You will not believe the night we’ve had!” Her eyes jumped back to the practitioner. Despite the bruised-looking sockets that made her round face look hollow her smile had a curious tilt to it. “You're the fellow who risked your neck for us! A Monad given gift you are…” Her eyes widened when she saw Barghast. She stopped in her tracks. Her face turned two shades paler. “What's that?”

“That is a lycan,” Rake answered with a sigh. He arched an eyebrow at the practitioner before turning back to the woman presumably named Ellie. “You know those beasts-folk we heard the merchant talk about that have been coming here from the desert?” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

Barghast's ears twitched.

He can hear you. The sorcerer bit his lip.

“Is he coming inside?”

Another arched eyebrow in the practitioner's direction.

“He goes where I go,” Crowe said with more heat than he'd intended. He stepped deliberately back into the Okanavian's shadow. We go in together or we don't go in at all…the village of Timberford be damned! He cleared his throat. If he was going to have any hope at solving the mystery of the temple and Tannhaus could point him in the right direction, he needed the woman's cooperation; that meant securing her respect. He reminded himself he was a stranger entering her home. She could very well choose to bar the Okanavian from entering her home…or anyone for that matter. Still, he had grown used to the lycan's presence. Maybe even overly reliant on it. Just in the week since I found him we’ve been through so much together. The thought of entering the house without him made the practitioner feel sick to his stomach. “I found him on the road a few days ago,” he explained to Ellie in what he hoped was a more reasonable tone. “He was attacked by Theocracy scouts. We’ve been traveling together ever since. He can be rather…mistrusting…of others but he's not dangerous. Without his help I never would have been able to defeat the beast.” We’re both outsiders. We all are.

“Alright,” Ellie said after a long agonizing moment of silence. The deepening of the brackets around her mouth said she wasn't entirely convinced. It wasn't until she turned to face the house that Crowe saw the full swell of her belly; she was carrying a child and soon she would be a mother. The practitioner understood her reluctance. Guilt burned at the back of his throat like bile. It was too late to make Barghast stay now. Already Ellie and Rake were stepping into the dark recesses of the house.

The bear's face flashed before his mind…that final look before darkness took a hold of him. He knew that same evil awaited him within the house, the same evil in a different form. Did it spread from host to host like a parasite, the way the organs of one's body worked in conjunction with one another or did the host retain some form of their individuality? He cast a hopeful glance up at the sky, hoping to find the Eternal City perched on the sky’s shelf. It wasn't there or at least it was not visible to his eyes, but he imagined it was there and felt a swell of courage bloom inside him. I’ve gotten this far. I am not alone. Even in his eternal slumber full of dreams, Monad watched me from the Void. This time Barghast did not stop him to investigate the dwelling first; he seemed content to let Crowe lead the way.

A shiver raced up Crowe’s spine the moment they stepped over the threshold. The temperature dropped, the air seeming to dance with a pale glow. Dread coiled in the lower regions of his belly like a black worm. Behind him Barghast began to pray in the tongue of the desert; he dropped his voice low enough so only the practitioner could hear it. The sorcerer held firmly onto his own prayers, reciting the few he knew in his mind.

Rake’s teeth chattered audibly. “For Monad's sake, Ellie, put a flame on, will you? It's colder than a witch’s tit in here!”

“I would but putting on a flame doesn't work. Not since you brought that man here. T’is why it's so cold.” The short black-eyed woman nodded intently in Crowe's direction, hugging herself; there was a childlike wideness of the eyes, much like Barghast's, that he didn't like much. With the lycan it was tolerable but not from this half mad woman. “Perhaps his light won't be so easily extinguished.”

Glad no one could see his face in the dark, Crowe remembered he still carried his staff with him. An orb of light the size of a grapefruit took form in the cup of his palm. Barghast let out an “Oh” of fascination as if he hadn't seen the practitioner do this a dozen times before. The air hovered in the air obediently by its summoner, suspended in the air by an invisible cord.

“Where's Jim?” Rake whispered.

Ellie snorted in amusement. “Probably slumped in a chair, snoring his fool head off when he's supposed to be keeping watch.”

Crowe didn't know how the soon-to-be-mother could retain her sense of humor in this dank place. He took an opportunity to look around the room. They stood in a large space that served as a dining and sitting room. The furniture was hand carved out of wood. A spindle sat in one corner of the room gathering dust, a crib in the other. Who would want to bring a child into this world? The practitioner pushed the thought out of his mind before he could give it further consideration. Somewhere in the dark a man’s voice whined in his sleep, the words too jumbled together to be coherent. The practitioner squinted at the man sitting in a chair at the end of a long hallway. The man was half slumped in the chair, his face resting on the crook of his arm. His body did not look the least bit comfortable.

The sound of his voice made Crowe think of the nights he laid awake listening to Barghast mutter in his sleep in exactly the same way. During those nights Crowe would lay awake for hours and wonder at the battles that were being waged behind those fluttering eyelids. When given the opportunity for a sneaky glance the practitioner could almost put together a narrative in the riddle of old scars piled beneath the new.

The patter of feet and the eerie dance of shadows on the wall pulled his mind in a different direction. “This is your fault! You did this to him…You bewitched him with your lustful thoughts…”

“No, no, no.” He turned, shaking his head at the speaker in denial. Tears of anger stung his eyes. How dare you say those words to me! “I would never do something like this to him. I’d never pray for it to happen.” He turned around so violently he almost walked head first into Barghast. He shook himself, stepping back before the Okanavian could begin another intrusive examination for injury. He gawked at Ellie. “What's happening?”

She gave him a sad smile. She ran a hand along her belly and Crowe thought he saw something visibly shift inside her. “Don't worry, you're not going mad. Things like that have been happening all night.” The cheery song in her voice made Crowe's skin crawl. “The demon has a way of getting into your head. He has a way of making you see things that aren't there. That's why I buried the shells and the shotgun out by the tree. Jim doesn't know.” She dropped her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don't tell him.”

“Don't worry Ellie, I won't tell a soul.” Rake gave her the leery wide eyes look one gives the mad.

Ellie caressed the thick bristle of salt-and-pepper hair along her husband’s jawline. Beneath the whispers of her soft ministrations he heard the dry rasp of another behind the door. He resisted the urge to step closer. I’m not ready to have my head full of illusions just yet. The smell of rotted meat wafted from underneath the crack of the door, making his gorge rise. He turned away from the door.

At last Jim rose from the chair, arms stretching in a hallway that had somehow become crushingly narrow. He blinked at them stupidly with the expression of a man who can no longer remember where he is or what his name was. “You don't want to go in there,” Jim intoned gravely. “Even though we've tied him down he’s still dangerous. He can get into your head and make you see things that aren't there. His eyes are all black like he has no soul. He vomits up whatever we try to feed him. He keeps puking up this black ichor…the same slop we’ve seen on the bear from the looks of it.”

“It doesn't matter.” Rake's voice said he wanted nothing more than to be away from the house, away from the smell of human defecation that steadily filled the hallway. Another weary look in Crowe's direction. “I’m not the one who wants to go inside. Are you sure you want to do this? No one's asking you too. This is our mess." For the first time since Crowe and Barghast had stumbled into the village, the practitioner thought he heard something other than suspicion and indifference in the man's voice.

The sorcerer wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. It was too late to back out now; the decision had been made for him. He could feel an invisible hand on his back, urging him to face his next test. “I'm doing this,” he heard himself say in a voice that sounded steadier towards himself.

The doorknob felt ice-cold in his clammy hand. The voice on the other side continued its ceaseless chant; it did not stop even when the door swung open with an audible creak. Crowe peered cautiously into the space beyond the threshold. He held the Lion-Headed Serpent, imagining he could draw courage from it.

The man restrained to the narrow bed hardly looked human. Emaciated, the luminance from Crowe's sphere of light made Tannhaus' skeletal arms glow with an eerie clarity that revealed more than the practitioner wanted to see. Scratches, scrapes, and bruises marked pale flesh stretched tight over bone. Pupiless black eyes stared into space from behind a wild tangle of bright red hair darkened by streaks of dirt and sweat. The knees shifted back and forth even as the strips of bloodied cloth around his wrists and ankles kept him pinned to the bed.

Crowe stepped into the room. He expected to go in alone but Barghast and Rake followed close behind. Ellie and Jim assured them they would wait. "Beat on the door with your fist when you're done." The door closed with a soft whisper.

The muttering stopped.

Tannhaus looked up. He looked up at Crowe with his black eyes. His lips curled in a grin that stretched from ear to ear. The thing behind his lips went still. Barghast let out a low growl, drawing a step closer to the practitioner. The sorcerer drew courage from his proximity.

Dribbles of black spittle dripped from Tannhaus' knife-thin sneer. “The foul smell of your blood sickens us,” he said in a gurgling voice. A wave of nausea swept through Crowe. “Draw no closer if you want to keep your flesh.”

“I am not afraid of you.” The practitioner took a daring step closer to the bed.

This earned him a choking laugh from the evil spirit - if an evil spirit was what possessed the man. “The reek of your flesh betrays you. You are a bird who has only left the nest. A fool who knows nothing of the world. We have looked into your eyes and seen the truth of you.”

The sorcerer steeled himself against the demon’s taunts. He pushed his determination into his staff. It flared into life, white light chasing the dark away. Tannhaus cringed back as much as his restraints would allow. “I have no interest in parlaying with you, demon. You are an unwelcome intruder who has invaded this town and tainted its people. In the name of Monad I have come to vanquish you.”

Tannhaus cackled, shrinking away from Crowe's brightening fury. “We spit in the face of Monad! You serve a careless creator who is every bit the fool you are. We serve Hamon, the King from Down Under. We have been here since the first days of the Third Iteration, before the first settlers of Monad's brood invaded these lands. Our roots dig through the earth all the way down to the black streets of Inferno…”

Tannhaus' voice echoed in the practitioner's mind with a seductive ring. Once more he felt his mind being tugged back beneath the red skies of Inferno where yellow slashes of lightning stabbed through clouds of acid. The denizens of Inferno toiled beneath rain that made their skin redden and smoke; bare limb on top of bare limb, interconnected and separate. The air smelled strongly of sex and defecation. They stood in worship around a dark spire that grew out of the ash-soil of Inferno. A robed figure with a twisted head piece made of steel sat atop a throne at the top of the dark spire. Branches bearing black, worm-infested fruit grew from the top of the figure's head, branching up into the soil on the surface where a temple stood grafted into the side of the mountain.

The figure turned its narrow head to look at Crowe with deep red eyes that bore into him with pure malice. Tendrils of razor sharp steel started to strip away the protective membrane over his thoughts. I know you practitioner. We’ve met before not so long ago…in another place in another body. You remember, don’t you?

Yes, Crowe thought, he remembered all too well. How Jebediah, Bennett’s father had come to the house to deliver the bad news on a day colder than this one. He remembered how Bennett’s blackened eyes had bore into his the way Tannhaus’ did, his best friend gone. Not a trace of humanity.

“Yes,” the demon laughed, pushing deeper into his mind. “You do recognize me.” Before the blades could penetrate a vital organ another force, wild and chaotic, but far more familiar pulled him out of the blow’s path.

Twin o’rre!

Crowe surfaced. He gasped for breath, fighting to regain his hold on reality. He heard Rake take Monad's name in vain but everything else was a distant echo. Somewhere within the echo he heard the name Hamon. It stirred unpleasant memories in Crowe of the stories Petras used to tell him late at night while he laid in bed with his toes curled against the cold.

He glared at Tannhaus. Get out of my head! “The end of your reign of terror over this town has come, demon!” He unsheathed his dagger and held the dagger to his wrist. He drew the blade along his flesh until a red line appeared. Tannhaus tracked the downpour of blood that rained down on the carpet with wide eyes. Crowe marched across the other side of the bed.

Tannhaus thrashed violently against his restraints, making the mattress bounce in its frame. He threatened the practitioner in a language he’d never heard before. The sorcerer grabbed a handful of the afflicted man's greasy hair. A gust of foul smelling wind kicked up in the room, reminding Crowe of the half carcasses Barghast and he had stumbled on a moment before their encounter with the bear. They fought, his wrist pumping blood furiously onto the already-filthy mattress and onto Tannhaus. Barghast broke the match by seizing the man by the jaw holding him steady. Crowe forced the wound between the man’s lips.

Only when Tannhaus relaxed, his body slumping in the mattress, did Crowe pull away, weak on his feet, his heart pounding in his ears the same way it had when he’d tended to Barghast. Tiredly he wondered how long it would take for his blood to work through Tannhaus’ tainted veins. How long did it take to cure a man who had been under the influence of evil for a month?

Rake stumbled back from him, his eyes wide with shock. “What did you do? What did you do to him?”

Crowe looked directly into the man’s disbelieving eyes. “I helped him. It will take time to settle in but soon he will return to his normal self.” As normal as he can be after the suffering he’s endured, he added silently. “When he starts to talk, come and get me.”

He couldn’t stand to be in the room, in the house, in the town a second longer. He turned to leave. With the giving of blood he’d grown tired of Timberford and its growing list of problems. So far the villagers had done nothing to help themselves. Superstition kept them from facing the evil in the temple; fear of the outside world kept them from taking a chance on the road. In a strange dogmatic way they’d grown complacent with their curse, continuing their lives by day and cowering in the tavern at night while their loved ones were slowly picked off one by one. Only when Barghast and he had pulled themselves out of the stream into their village were the people stirred into half hearted life. He wondered if it would always be this hard to pull them out of the darkness or if there were some like Barghast who would follow him willingly.

He ventured out to the stream that had brought them here, ignoring his body's cries. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know he wasn't alone. A lycan-shaped shadow followed close behind. He sat in front of a wide oval shaped boulder big enough for the both of them to sit on. Crowe closed his eyes. He listened to the water hammer the rocks. He listened to the steady breaths of the person beside him. It had only been minutes ago that he’d woken up, held securely in the lycan’s lap but it felt like hours. I am so tired. I want to lay in a bed. I want to rest my head on a pillow. I want to curl up beneath a blanket. But we don't have a bed to sleep in or a roof to sleep under. We are strangers in a cursed town. We are strangers to each other. Perhaps we are even strangers to ourselves…

His uninjured shoulder rested against Barghast's, drawing in the lycan's heat. He wanted to close his eyes and let sleep take him - he still needed to heal - but there was still an edge of resistance that kept him from being completely vulnerable in front of Barghast. A fear of betrayal that ran deeper than bone.

Barghast must have sensed this temptation and the conflicting resistance for his head swiveled in the practitioner's direction. “Crowe,” he said.

The sorcerer could not bring himself to turn his eyes away from the water. “I’m fine.”

Warm fingers dug into his shoulders persistently. “Crowe.”

How like a dog you are! he wanted to scream then. Whiny and needy and persistent like a dog! But then how could words be used as a weapon to keep discomfort at bay if they could not be understood? If they did not even ring true? Because they didn't. “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say weakly. “I'm just tired.”

The Okanavian put a heavy arm around his unbruised shoulder as if to say, I know. When the practitioner offered no further resistance - Crowe was too fatigued, was in too much pain to resist - he looped an arm beneath his thighs and cradled him until his rump rested in his lap and his head in the crook of his elbow; the other arm supported his legs, kept his feet from touching the ground. Holding him the same way he had last night.

Crowe looked into his amber eyes. Barghast looked down into his. “Why do you follow me around everywhere I go? Why did you come here? What am I to you?” He could feel the sudden heat of frustration mounting within him. It was frustrating not being able to communicate with the only person you could trust.

As usual the Okanavian answered him with actions instead of words; and he supposed he should be content with actions for didn't they speak louder than words? Barghast ran the pads of a finger along the creases in Crowe's forehead. He traced the line of his brow, finger descending along the hooked curve of his nose. He looked at the practitioner with an expression of open wonder as if he had never seen anything like Crowe before and Crowe was powerless to move under his gaze, under his touch. The finger continued to track along the shelf of his cheekbone to the soft flesh of his lip where it lingered.

The practitioner felt the absurd urge to part his lips, to take the lycan's finger in his mouth and suckle the salt. Instead the Okanavian brought Crowe's wounded wrist up to his muzzle. A shudder of pleasure arched his back when the tip of Barghast's tongue touched the wound. Barghast held him in his lap, securing him, perhaps even protecting him, the ever watchful guardian, lapping at the wound where Crowe had cut himself with the blade. At first the wound tingled in protest, but the practitioner couldn't bring himself to move. Barghast worked his flesh with relish, a deep hum sounding within his throat. Not for the first time the sorcerer wondered just what he was to the Okanavian before pushing the thought out of his mind. It felt nice just to be cared for.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until Barghast shook him awake gently. He opened his eyes to a darkening sky. Soon night would be upon them. They had to get back.