Mark of Blood and Alchemy: The Prequel to Curio

CHAPTER

1

Olan’s chest ached with the fury of an incensed war god. he put one pelt-wrapped foot in front of the other. Sinew and bone ached with the effort. Up, always up. Away from the ruin in the valle below.

Flee, Olan. Mor’s raw voice bled through his mind. For your far and me, son. Flee and live. She’d touched his cheek with fingers blue as the smoke from the death pyres. This was never our home. Go now. Take your far’s name, his legacy, take it from this cursed place.

No, Mor. Far would not wish a coward for a son.

Your far would not see the Havard name die. Eyes as gray as the northern seas lashed him. He felt the welts on his heart as surely as he’d felt the sting of Far’s strap on his back as a young boy.

Olan had left her deathbed and packed the last of their provisions. But at the threshold of the house his father built, he’d stopped. Who did he know but Mor and Far and their neighbors? What did he know but life in Montpietro? What could he do but cut and carve wood? Olan Havardsson had no place in the wide land.

Mor’s choking gasps followed him out the door.

Now the rasp of his own rupturing throat mingled with the constant roar and rush of the spring watershed. Maybe a cold draught would ease the fire in his throat and chest. He staggered toward the thunder of unseen water beyond a copse of evergreens. Mud swallowed his foot, dragging him to one knee. The rocky terrain around him swayed and dipped as though he gazed upon a swelling sea rather than unmoving land. Racking coughs bent him in half, and red-flecked spittle sprayed his breeches and left him gasping.

A howl shook his bones. The sound echoed off the cliffs above the trail and bounced among the boulders. Surely Garm loped near, teeth bared to drag him to the death he’d tried to escape.

Grasping the cord wrapped around his ibex hide boot, he tugged with the last icy shred of strength left behind by Mor’s gaze. His foot came free of the mud and the shoe, and he sprawled backward. Hard earth forced the breath out of his body. He lay with an endless blue above him, the rush of the swollen river in his ears, and the futile workings of his mouth his only link to life.

The bay of a great hound reached into Olan’s empty chest. He gagged and sucked at tendrils of air. The ground beneath him shook as a massive head blocked out the sky and a warm stench blanketed his face. Olan dragged in weak breath after weak breath, grateful even for tainted air. A wet nose snuffled at his face, hair, and clothes. The hound prodded his limbs then pushed his shaggy head beneath Olan’s limp right hand.

When he didn’t move, the dog wriggled away, stood, and lowered his muzzle to prod at Olan lips. The groan Olan loosed spurred the beast into action. Rear paws at Olan’s shoulders, and powerful front legs bracing his head, the dog took a stance over him, alert as if guarding a bone. Olan stared upward at a small, barrel-like contraption affixed to the beast’s chest.

A rescue dog. He’d heard the stories of monks who bred giant hounds able to leap drifts of snow and drag lost travelers to safety. But the monks were long gone from the settlement straddling the Saint Gerodi Pass, and no one had glimpsed one of the legendary Sennenhunds in ages.

The head swung to the right, revealing handsome white-and-red markings on the face, a broad, white-furred chest, and a velvety black coat covering most of the animal’s body. Again, the throaty bark rang out. Once. Twice. Thrice. As though the creature signaled a hunting party. Indeed, an answering shout rang through the dale.

Olan struggled to rise, but the fever in his chest and the weight of his limbs pinned him to the earth. Above him the dog returned to a watchful stance. When it raised one enormous paw, Olan recoiled, shifting his face away from the threat of trampling. But the hound merely scratched at a lever on the side of the barrel hanging round its neck. The powerful leg again lowered to gently brace Olan’s head.

A faint ticking emanated from the dog’s cask. Vein-like carving decorated the curved wooden surface. Olan squinted at the unfamiliar symbols.

Click. Scrape. A tiny door opened in the front panel, right above Olan’s face. His eyes widened. A wooden bird no bigger than his thumb emerged from inside the barrel. It carried a thimble-sized vessel in its beak, and when it reached the end of the track, it tilted its head, sending a trickle of liquid onto Olan’s nose and upper lip. He sputtered. A spicy tang invaded his nostrils. His tongue darted out as soon as the scent of brandy registered.

The bird disappeared inside the cask once again, but the ticking continued and in a moment the door opened again. This time Olan opened his mouth, catching and swallowing the measure of brandy. It burned the back of his throat but deadened the pain in his chest.

Five times, the carved figure appeared to deliver the restorative elixir. Olan gulped each dose, his chest loosening with every drought. When the door closed for the final time and the ticking noise quieted, he stared up at the marvel. Surely a powerful magicker had distilled this brew, for no ordinary spirit had such an effect.

The hound dropped back on his haunches, and a weighty tongue bathed Olan chin to brow. He jerked away, scrubbing at the slick layer of spit left behind on his face.

Ugh! He pulled himself to a sitting position. Stop, beast.

The dog gave him a short bark and launched into a lumbering gate, intent on figures scrabbling into view from behind a crag.

Peregrine, what have you found? The voice spoke in the language of the Valle d’Aosta but with a drag on certain blended sounds that hinted at a foreign heritage. She—for the speaker was certainly female—was an outsider like him.

Halfway between the crag and Olan’s position, the mass of black, white, and mahogany fur slid to a stop. The beast loosed his echoing call, and then turned and thundered back to Olan’s side. Thoroughly sniffed and tongue-bathed, Olan pushed the dog away and struggled back into his boot. Though the burning had lessened, his breath came in shallow intakes as he forced his legs beneath him.

The group of figures neared. Four. All but one as tall as he, though not possessed of the Norse breadth of shoulder. Their dark, layered apparel and fur-lined caps gave no hint as to origin or loyalty. Olan fought the miasma clouding his wits, and stretched his aching frame to its full height.

The group slowed their approach a moment, until the shorter figure took the lead.

Greetings, traveler. Dark eyes swept Olan. She wore the same garments as the men in her party: a long coat made of thick wool dyed black, a tunic beneath, close-fitting breeches, and fur-lined boots. Pouches, tools, and instruments dangled from her sash and belt, and she carried a walking stick carved with the image of a rooster eating a fox in turn eating another rooster.

A young man with small bones decorating his cap stepped out of the swarthy band. Who are you and what is your business on this trail?

Olan had no reason to lie and few valuables in his pack beyond food and tools. Nothing that would interest this well-equipped band. He raised his chin. I am Olan, son of Ola Havard. He gestured to the valle. I come from— A fit of coughing snatched his words. He swayed with the suffocating spasms. Gray hillsides skirted with spring green spun into blurred brown then tilted as though the earth moved beneath him. His knees trembled, but a furred bulk came to his side. Warmth seeped from the dog’s body through Olan’s clothes. He stretched his fingers to the animal’s back, propping himself up as the horrible cough shook his bones.

The girl rushed forward as the other three fell back. She reached for a satchel at her hip.

Auriana, what are you doing? The one in the bone cap clutched her sleeve.

She pulled away. He is ill. Peregrine has already tended him, but I will add what little skill I have.

And when the pestilence takes you—?

My father will tend me.

Will he thank you for wasting his elixir on this yellow-haired oaf?

She produced a cask, similar to the hound’s contraption but smaller and equipped with a spigot. She held the vessel out toward Olan.

It will ease the pain. Peregrine has already given you one drought, yes?

The dog panted, eyes following the drink. Olan took her offering, raised it to his mouth, and with trembling fingers released the flow. Strangely spiced brandy stung his throat and eased the fit.

When Olan lowered the now empty cask to his side, the dog licked the spigot, the wooden casing, and Olan’s fingers.

Peregrine has a taste for his own medicine. She scratched the hound’s saggy ears and a smile lifted her lips.

Visions of primroses, white dryads, and alpine snowbells invaded Olan’s mind. He shook his head. He must be very near death to imagine flowers where none bloomed. And yet, the pain in his body numbed. He straightened, dropping his hand from the dog’s solid support.

Her smile disappeared and the thin black brows drew together. You are from Aosta, then? What of your family? Why do you travel alone?

Her companions drew closer. Two flanked her but another held back, his stance unsure.

The bone-capped lad raised his chin. Hard eyes settled on Olan. Did your family die of this ailment? Others in your village?

Olan could only nod.

The three males shrank back, their arms crossed over their chests.

And you would bring the plague to us?

Alaric! The girl whirled on him. We are far from the source of this illness. And even if we were not, you know what my father would have us do. You know what Saint Gerodi would’ve done for this poor traveler.

You speak of the legend of Saint Gerodi, Olan broke in. How is it you’ve heard the tale? Have you come from the old hospice?

Alaric turned, black eyes sweeping the rugged cliffs edging the valle. We reside at Saint Gerodi Pass. We do not hail from there.

You live at the hospice? Olan shook his head. How is that possible? I thought the place abandoned.

Auriana lowered her lids in what seemed a brief prayer. Her tone sparked with a mixture of amusement and frustration. Forgive my cousin. His manners elude him. What he means to say is our people are visitors in this country.

Olan rubbed the pulsing spots on his forehead. He’d heard no talk of strangers living in the hermitage, and the stories of the monks and the man who founded a hospice high in the treacherous mountains were tales told to children. He must be missing some private jest, but one thing he did know; Alaric wanted nothing to do with him. I thank you for your kindness. He gestured to Auriana then to Peregrine. Your remedy has restored my spirits. Perhaps our paths will meet again at the hospice if your journey takes you there in the coming days.

He moved to step around the group, eyeing the other members of the party. They could be siblings with their similar height and swarthy features. The two youths he’d not spoken with carried strange contrivances on their backs. One bore a carved box with two iron grapple hooks affixed to the top so that they perched on his shoulders like strange animal claws. Levers and switches hinted at some wind-up mechanism inside, and a clutch of leather straps hung from the bottom. A harness perhaps? The other lad, the most reserved of the four, carried a twisted horn and a mishmash of equipment—rope, a shovel, and lengths of carved wood tied together. When he raised his head, eyes the color of pine needles studied Olan a moment then shifted away.

Auriana’s implements jangled as she hastened after him. Wait. You are too ill to travel alone. We are returning to the hospice. She looked to the green-eyed one, and he shifted his weight as if testing the firmness of the ground. Jorn predicts a coming storm.

The strange boy looked up, sniffed the air with his long, hooked nose, and muttered words in an unfamiliar language.

Alaric and the other lad looked from Jorn to Auriana. Alaric placed a gloved hand on the sleeve of her coat and spoke hurried words in the same garbled speech Jorn used.

He will die, Auriana snapped back.

She stood, shoulders rigid, between Olan and the three reluctant rescuers. An icy wind skimmed the sweat on Olan’s neck and snatched at the wisps of sable hair that escaped the brim of Auriana’s hat. The silent dispute ended when Auriana put a hand to her chest, tapping her fingers once in an unspoken signal. She called to Peregrine, who left his sniffing and bounded to