Curse of the Bloodmage

*Author's note: This story is quite long and, while there is some hot incest sex in here, it is quite a slow-burn with an emphasis on the story. It has a slight fantasy setting and there are elements of non-consent, but they form part of said story. Just a head's up for anyone not into that kind of thing. Enjoy.

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The morning had started with a dark omen, or so Bethel's mother would have said. When tending to the turnip patch Bethel had seen black spots on a leaf of one of the plants. Fearing a blight, she pulled the plant up. Instead of the bulbous tuber she had expected she found only a black, gnarled root. It was fibrous and twisted, Its many, long tendrils clung tenaciously to the soil and took considerable effort to be extracted.

Fearing it may spread she checked the rest of the crop, but found only two more of the afflicted plants. Her mother would have seen a sign in there being three of them, but her mother had seen signs in everything.

Such an ill foretelling would have sent her mother to her bed for a week, but Bethel shrugged it off. She had even patted herself on the back for catching whatever it was before it took over. She had tossed the roots into the hearth to be burned later when she needed to heat the pot.

Perhaps the strange growth had something to do with the weather. This summer had been hot by anyone's standards, but up in the North, as they were, these sorts of temperatures were unheard of. It had the humid swelter of one of those sprawling mazes the Southerners call cities.

Still, a flash of those ominous roots came back to her later that morning when she first saw the dust of an approaching cart. Apart from the mountain to her back, the land in front of the farm was flat and the trees were sparse. The only place these grew in numbers was down by the creek. So she saw the two men on their cart from a long way off.

She thought to hide, as Eanon had told her to do if the house was ever approached by strangers. Their family farm was a half-hour from the nearest homestead and over an hour from town. Beth knew naught of weapons beyond, perhaps, her ability to swing a frying pan.

The fear subsided into bemusement, however, when she recognized the insignia on the tabards of two men atop the cart. They wore the duke's colors, crimson and gold and, though she could not see it, she knew at each tabard's center there would be a tilted golden chalice pouring out a red liquid. It was a symbol she had seen often enough in her childhood, in visits to the town and, once, to the city of Fryburg itself. Its true malevolence had escaped her until her late teens when her brother had, laughing at her naivete, explained that it was not wine but blood that forever poured from that motionless chalice.

She could never again see it the same way and, as the men drew nearer, it's dark power seemed to hold her there on the rough planked porch. Nevertheless, they were clearly a part of the Duke's army, perhaps they had news of her brother.

At last, she woke enough from her trance to look around her. She saw her father's walking staff, resting in a purpose built stand beside the front door. She had not touched it since his death a year previous and, even now, doing so felt like it might taint her memory of him. Jasomen Calfman had been a kindly man, never one for violence. But, as the cart crunched up outside the house, its wagon wheels spitting out loose gravel, Bethel took up the staff and turned back to grimly face the men. Since the war had begun its inexorable approach down the highlands, the hamlets around Fryburg had become restless and many strangers, some with ill intentions, roamed what had long been a peaceful place. These were almost certainly Duke's men, but it paid to be cautious.

"Calfman?" The cart driver enquired loudly without preamble. This seemed to awaken the man slumped over beside him, who sat up with a snort and then rubbed the back of a hand across a wet mouth.

"Who asks?" Bethel knew her voice sounded thin and high in the hot air filled with the screech of summer insects.

"Duke bloody von Fryburg, that's bloody who," The man growled, though it was without real malice. He was a grizzled, portly man who wore faded tan clothing beneath his ill-fitting tabard. Clasped over this was a belt, which his belly bulged over, and fastened to this was a dagger in a much-used scabbard. It was a knife of utility rather than a soldier's weapon. Neither of these men looked like anything like what Bethel thought soldiers should look like.

His companion, eyes seeming to find their focus at last, blinked hard and then looked at her. Whereas the cart driver had an amiable, avuncular appearance, this younger man had a lean, feral hunger to his look. He at least wore the Duke's black beneath his tabard though. Beth felt her skin crawl as the man's eyes scoured over her body. She gripped her staff tight pushing down on it until she heard one of the porch floorboards creak.

"We have nothing for you here. Your men came through less than a month ago. They took most of our supplies and they took my brother for your war."

"Aye that's right," The cart driver replied. He glanced to the man beside him when that man gave him a subtle nudge. Suddenly Beth felt a prickle of sweat as they both focused fully upon her at the same time. The second man leered at her, but the cart driver remained impassive.

"My father will be back from the village soon," She lied, hoping her voice sounded steady. "Speak your business and then kindly be on your way."

"Pretty thing," the man who had been sleeping moments ago said with a small grin. This lifted his dark mustache, which drooped thin and limp past the corners of his mouth.

"Aye, she is that," The coach driver replied without looking back at her, "Still, we got Duke's business to be about. No point in troubling the lass any more than we need to."

"And what business is that?" She demanded, hoping her attempt at authority was believable.

"We bear the wounded back from battle. Got your brother back here. I should warn you though, I don't think he has long to live."

"Impossible," She nearly laughed, the very idea of her handsome, vital brother being in the back of some cart was ridiculous, "He has been gone three weeks. He won't have finished his training, never mind have reached the front."

"Training?" The mustached man guffawed, "Ain't no training to be had, love. The Spreechen kill men faster than they can be trained. Battle is the only training a man gets these days. They give you a spear and point you in the direction of the enemy and tell you to try and kill as many of them as you can afore they kill you. Not that it matters even if you do, because they are a bloody endless tide." He chuckled again, "Training, indeed."

"It can't be Eanon," She insisted, "The front is leagues away."

"Aye, that it is, but enemy scouts pop up everywhere and your brother was just another of the misfortunate." The cart driver gave a small tip to his broad-brimmed leather hat as he said it.

"Or lucky," The other man interrupted, "He was one of the few from his company to survive. I heard the Spreechen had a Bloodmage with them."

The title stunned her. She wanted to laugh again then, tell them they had to be joking. Bloodmage's weren't real. They were terrors out of storybooks her father had read to her growing up. Dark wizards, twisted by their own magic, they were marked on their arms and bodies by black veins, or spiderwebs, or tattoos, the stories could never agree. What they did agree on was that to meet a Bloodmage was as good as stepping into your own grave.

The cart driver shrugged, "Lucky or unlucky, you can decide for yourself, lass. The only luck he had was that he was brought back to camp no more than a few hours ride from here. The medicos wouldn't touch your brother, said he had the blood taint."

"You ever seen a man with the blood taint?" the mustached man asked, his expression macabre in its enthusiasm. When she shook her head he continued, "Turns them right mean it does. He's going to die, they all do. He'll either break his back in the fever or slip away quietly during the chills. Personally, I would choose the second one, but what you really got to look out for is the in-between. Blood magic is proper dark magic. It seeps into the soul of a man, turns him against everyone, even those he loves. If you ask me I reckon you'd do better to put him out of his misery yourself. Captain should have done it when they carried him in. Ain't no cure for it."

"The captain is soft, but he does right by his men," the cart driver interrupted, "We were coming past within a league or two of here on a supply run and he said we should bring your brother here so he could die at home. Apparently, he had a soft spot for your brother. No other man at the front has had the privilege."

"He thought the sun shone out of his bloody arse, he did," the second man reiterated.

Bethel shook her head. That really did sound like her brother. Eanon had been just the sort to befriend his superior officer and engender special dispensation even as he died. She hated that they spoke of him in the past tense, even more so that she had started to think of him in the same way.

She had to be certain. With a deep breath, she stepped off the porch and strode up to the wagon. Moving out of the shade she suddenly felt the heat of the sun, and sweat immediately began to form on her back and under her armpits. Still, she held tight to the staff, wishing that its well-worn grip would gift her more courage and confidence.

It did not.

Cautiously she moved around to the side of the low cart. She gave the two men on the cart a leery look, still expecting this may somehow be a trap. Then she saw her brother. If she had not been told it was him she would not have recognized him at first.

He was grey in color, seemingly drained of blood, but he was alive. She could tell this by the short, sharp intakes of breath he took. His eyes were wide, hardly seeming to blink, and his lips were dry and cracked.

"Ean!" She cried and put a hand to her mouth. She felt tears burning in her eyes as the reality struck her like an ax blow. It was her brother and he was almost certainly dying.

Her vision turned liquid as salty water pooled at the rim of her eyelids. She looked up at the men.

"It's been a long ride, love," The man with the mustache said, "We ain't going to say no to a bit of hospitality if you're offering." The way he pronounced, 'hospitality,' the way his eyes fell to Beth's breasts and stayed there suggestively was like a slap. She burned with fury at his outrageous subtext, but even more so that he suggested it while she was standing over her dying brother. She had to restrain herself from slashing out at him with the staff.

The cart driver put a hand on his companion's shoulder and said in a tired voice, "Now Grimsby, we got a way to go still and the captain is expecting us back before nightfall."

"I know, but I just thought we might expect a little gratitude for bringing her brother back all the way out here. It's only proper." There was something in the sulky way he said the word "proper," which was heavy with meaning.

Grimsby stared hard into the eyes of the cart driver until the other man seemed to catch his meaning. The older man turned to Bethel and raised one eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Then he turned away, his face expressionless.

"There's a creek down there," Beth stated in a wavering voice, indicating down a well-worn path that cut through the yellowed grass towards the trees. The house had a pump out back but Bethel wanted the men as far away from the house as possible. "You can get water for yourselves and your animal. I do thank you gentlemen for your service. I..." She reached into the pocket of her dress and clutched one precious coin tight in her fist. It pained her to bring it out.

"Let me thank you for your service with what little reward I can offer." She wanted to bite her lip with the effort it took to hand over the money, but she thrust it out.

Grimsby, not looking impressed, nonetheless opened his palm to receive it.

He sucked at his teeth as he turned the coin over in dirty fingers before saying, "I can think of another way you can replay our kindness, and it won't cost you no coin."

"My father..." Beth shrilled but was cut off when the wagon driver elbowed Grimsby hard in the ribs.

"Come on," He sighed, "Can't sit out here in the sun all day."

Grimsby glared hard at the man. The cart driver gave him a significant look, his hand came to rest casually on his dagger, but he said no more. After a long moment, Grimsby finally gave a reluctant nod.

Feeling some relief flooding back in, Beth asked in a tired voice, "Would you do one more kindness?" She indicated to where her brother lay immobile.

The men shared another look and then Grimsby shrugged. "Sorry, girlie. We're just doing our job and our job was to bring him this far. You want more then you might have to find a way to thank us proper," the man's voice was more measured as he spoke, and he did not look at her again.

Beth turned her look to the cart driver, but he stared fixedly ahead at the back of his beast. Beth felt her face flush with anger. It was this fury that gave her the strength to drag her brother off the cart and then pull him through the dust, holding him under the arms, up to the porch.

If his body had not already begun wasting she would probably not have been able to drag him even the short distance to the porch. He was so cold he felt dead to her touch, but she could still just barely see him breathing.

Neither man moved as she sweated in the hot sun, dragging the body along. The cart had already pulled away when she finally managed to get Eanon inside the house before shutting and bolting the door. In the dim, marginally cooler, interior of the house she felt safer but knew that to be an illusion. The house was sturdily built, but she was not sure she could hold out long if a determined assailant decided he wanted to enter.

Ean had to survive. She would make sure of it, no matter what.

By the time she managed to drag his heavy body onto the bed, that had once belonged to their parents, she was completely finished. She dripped with sweat and every muscle in her body felt like it had been stretched too far.

She flopped down on her father's side of the bed, next to her brother, and lay there breathing heavily.

She looked down over the body beside her and felt fresh tears sting her eyes. Eanon looked terrible. His handsome face was hollowed out, his powerful muscles were much reduced and, worst of all, was the empty stare of his once bright, intelligent blue eyes.

Bethel fought back the violent sob that threatened to rip through her whole body. She hated herself for her feelings of pity, mostly because she felt them more for herself than for her dying brother. If he died she would truly be alone in the world, and what hope did she have if the men out there were anything like Grimsby?

She lay there a long while, knowing she should start cooking, should fetch Ean water, but she seemed unable to move. He felt so cold beside her she felt a slight revulsion as she placed her arm over his body and tried to use her warmth to bring him back. His coolness was surprisingly pleasant in the hot day and this, possibly combined with her emotional and physical exhaustion, caused Bethel to drift off to sleep.

She awoke in confusion as she felt something beside her move. She struggled to separate what had really occurred earlier from her dark and confused dreams. Eanon was home, she was sure of that. She was shocked to find, however, that he was sitting up beside her, no longer cold. In fact, she realized, he was burning hot. He was awake, his eyes open, looking down at her.

Bethel felt a rising cheer in her breast. Eanon was awake!

"Ean?" She croaked, her voice dried up from her short sleep.

His eyes did a strange thing, as if refocusing on her and suddenly realizing what they were looking at. His brows dropped in confusion and, in a voice that registered surprise asked, "Ruthie?"

Then it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds and his expression lit up, "Ruthie, you're back. But what are you doing here? You shouldn't be so close to the front."

Beth, confused, opened her mouth to explain, but suddenly Ean took her face in his hands forcefully and pressed his lips to hers.

Her eyes shot wide open as his tongue invaded her mouth. He was so hot his skin fairly scalded her and she could taste something metallic in his mouth. Yet, even as she remained frozen in shock, she felt something shift inside her.

When he let her go she was gasping. Then it was if the renewed fire in his gaze was extinguished and in a sullen voice, he said, "Oh, you're not Ruthie. She..."

"She left, Ean," Beth managed to speak at last. "Months ago, when the first news of the approaching war reached the town, remember? You're home Ean. Home, do you understand?"

"Aye," he said sulkily before slumping back on the bed and turning his back on his sister.

Beth looked over his body, where his spine and ribs now stood out starkly beneath tightly stretched skin. Gingerly she touched a finger to her lips where he had kissed her, still tasting the salt of his sweat, uncertain of what she should do next.

She did not have long to dwell on these thoughts though. For the next several days it was all Beth could do to try and keep Eanon alive. Trying to stop the fever from cooking his brains one minute, and then bundling him in every meager blanket the house had to offer the next to prevent him cracking his bones as he pulled inwards into an almost impossibly tight bundle against the cold.

She dripped cool water between his lips and fed him on gruel, the only food he could keep down. Sometimes she had to massage each mouthful of food down his throat when he was in an insensible state. She had some knowledge of herblore from her mother and she tended him with what medicines she knew and could concoct with what little they had. Yet still, Eanon held on by a very thin and rapidly fraying thread.

If she had hoped for gratitude for her efforts or even a moment of recognition, she soon realized it was beyond hope. When he did talk to her he was either confused or, at times, wrathful and prone to lash out in anger. More than once she had run from the room and barred the door with a propped up chair when he had lunged for her with murder in his eyes.

Yet still, each day, she patiently tended to him. She made no effort to see to the farm, such that it was, and took what little sleep she could get in her own small childhood bed, while her brother tossed and turned in the next room.

Eanon, for his part, seemed lost to her. Mostly he lay trapped in his own world of pain and suffering. Other times he would almost seem lucid, sitting up and talking. Only the talk was to people who were not there and, more often than not, about matters she could not understand.

It went on like this for days. And there were times she wondered why he did not die. Exhausted, she took her only strength from his determination and resilience.

Then it was that she began to take something else as well.

The first time it happened she had been tending to him during a particularly intense flare-up of his fever. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles corded with exertion and his teeth clenched tight. She had a wet cloth in her hand and was rubbing it over his body, half expecting to see steam rising where it touched his skin.

For convenience, she had stripped him to his undergarments so she could run the cloth down to his neck and over his chest, all the while praying to the Gods that the fever would break before he did.