“It’s rather fun, actually,” Wideleaf admitted. “We were quite surprised at the effect it had on the Alon when they first got here. We made them wine, after they taught us to speak in their language.”
“The legendary metlarmarin!” gasped Lilastien. “Our ancestors praised it beyond all other brews for its wholesomeness and vitality!”
“I made some for Ameras, once,” Bomoadua boasted. “She got so silly, and on so little!”
“I preferred making the humani liquors,” Strongbranch said, as the rain poured over us. “I got quite good at it, approximating their ethnic favorites. I was quite a popular Lesh, around their camp. It was exciting, back then. Very inquisitive fellows. Yes, they could get very silly, at a cocktail party,” the Lesh said, with what I perceived as a chuckle. “They played music. They wiggled. They even did so around a fire,” he said, with a hint of scandal in his voice. “Animals are so amusing.”
“That was an interesting time,” reflected Wideleaf. “Would you like some?” he asked, suddenly. “I can make some up in just a few moments. Where are my manners?”
“It is raining,” agreed Strongbranch. “Where is my pod . . . ?”
A moment later a large, smooth pod that looked a bit like a wild beehive descended from above, while another limb presented us each with a split-open husk of a gourd of some sort for a cup. Then the pod tipped over and secreted a clear liquid into it, filling it neatly. He tipped it in another direction, and a pore opened to spill a more milky-looking substance into Lilastien’s gourd.
“This is the one I remember best, the Vilthrastas wine that the Avalanti loved so well,” he murmured while he poured. “It has a nutty flavor, of course, with a bit of tart berry and a delightful floral bouquet. This is a purer ethanol mixture with some tannins and a hint of citric acid. A Manhattan, your people called it. Please tell me how you like it.”
Lilastien and I gave each other a glance before we hesitantly brought the husk cups to our lips. I was nervous, of course – I was drinking something secreted from a fellow I was talking to. The human equivalent would have been awkward. But I was committed to being as congenial with the Leshi as possible.
“Your health,” I said, automatically, as I sipped.
It was good – surprisingly good, and cool in my mouth. It was like a spirit, a distilled liquor that was kissed with a bitterness on the front of my tongue and finished with a pleasant stinging on the back. It was deliciously potent, too.
“That’s terribly good!” Lilastien said, as she sipped her milky mixture. “Like a walk in the forest during a rainstorm!”
“That’s very near to what the researchers said!” agreed Wideleaf, happily. “I do miss those fellows. How is yours, Minalan?”
“Delicious,” I agreed. “I have never had the like.”
“It’s traditionally served over ice, of all things, if I recall correctly. It was a favorite of a man named Martin, who studied fungus. A mycologist,” he corrected himself. “We spent weeks working on it, until I got it just right,” he said, proudly. “He was a merry fellow, at cocktail parties.”
It was odd, I reflected, as I sipped the potent brew, to be discussing my centuries-dead ancestors with a tree, while sipping a Manhattan in the rain. I live an interesting life.
“Would you like to try mine?” suggested Lilastien. “And I haven’t had a Manhattan in centuries!”
“Of course!” I said, and traded husks with her. The Vilthrastas was milky and nutty at the same time, and there was a decided flavor of berries in it, along with some spicy sweetness I couldn’t identify. It flowed across my tongue like a golden river, and when I swallowed it burned pleasantly down my throat, over the harsher Manhattan. Perhaps it was the aftereffect of the spores, but it might be one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted.
“Cocktail parties were a common social gathering in Perwyn,” she explained, as we traded back. “Particularly among the professional classes. They didn’t usually start drinking until early evening.”
“The music was the entertaining part, apart from watching the humani get silly and talkative,” reflected Strongbranch. “We missed it when it was gone. Rhythms you could really feel in your roots,” he recalled.
“I can offer you some of that,” Lilastien remembered. “I acquired one of their devices, recently, and can play you something, if you like.”
“That would be lovely,” agreed Bomoadua. “I’ve heard of the humani music, but never heard it, myself. That was before I was mobile, back when I was just a sapling.”
“Those are some quite lovely flowers you’ve grown, Bomoadua,” Wideleaf complimented, waving an eye and a . . . nose? We’ll call it a nose – in the air around her.
“I thought something in red for High Summer,” she agreed, as Lilastien began to flick at her tekka tablet.
“Ah! Just the one,” she decided, with a sigh. A few more flicks of her fingers, and the first strains of a throbbing beat and a soaring melody filled the Court of the Leshi Fathers. It was hypnotic, and under the circumstances it seemed strangely appropriate, though I didn’t know the words. I just stood in the rain with my drink and enjoyed the music.
“Well?” demanded Tyndal, “what did they say?”
“We have permission to take the striekema,” Lilastien declared, as we rejoined our party in the moot meadow, Bomoadua leading us back to them. “The Court of the Fathers consulted the Grandfather Tree. He gave us permission,” she reported.
We exchanged glances. That was far from the only thing that the Grandfather Tree had related, but it was the only portion that they needed to hear, right now.
“Isn’t the Grandfather Tree on the other side of the world?” Ameras asked, confused.
“They have means of communication that are not confined to magic,” I explained. “They’re really quite nice fellows. We had drinks,” I said, feeling a little elated after finishing mine.
“And we played them ‘In A Gadda Da Vida’,” Lilastien said, smugly. “One of your ancient hymns. I figured they’d like the drum solo. I was right.”
“The Court has ruled that you may harvest the striekema,” sighed Bomoadua. “I will lead you to it. Rolof knows where it is.”
“Sadly, I do,” he nodded, rising from the meadow. “And we’d best head there soon. It will not be safe, after darkness falls.”
“It will not be safe even in the light,” Bomoadua said. “But if you are bold enough to risk it, that is where you will find it. At the edge of pestilence.”
“That sounds promising,” Ormar said, concerned.
“It is why my people are here in the first place,” Bomoadua explained, as she began striding in another direction. “It is our duty to guard the world from the pestilence. We fight it every summer and watch it through the winters. But it is our charge to contain it.”
“The Leshi are here to keep the Kurja from escaping,” Ameras explained. “They spawn in the deep caverns in the southeast. During winter they are dormant. In the spring, they emerge and roam the valley outside of their cavern. The Leshi keep them from going further.”
“And they produce the striekema?” I asked.
“No,” Rolof said, hoarsely as he followed the Lesh back into the forest. “But that is where the specimen I know about was produced. I was there when it happened. So was Bomoadua.”
“The night that you came out of Szal the Yith’s cave,” Lilastien recalled.
“That is right,” Rolof said, hanging his head. “I was mad. I was confused. I had seven other voices ringing in my head and did not pay attention to where I was going. There was a hellacious summer thunderstorm, that night, rain pouring down in barrels, lighting and thunder raging in the sky, winds so strong they blew me off my feet.”
The forest around us changed, as we traveled through it to the southwest. The terrain got rockier, but it was the plant life that really changed. It got . . . meaner. There were far fewer flowering plants and a lot more of the thorny ones. We began to see sentr
y trees once again. There were a few large trees I could not tell if they were Leshi or specialized domesticated varieties, but they looked dangerous, somehow.
“Instead of skirting through the eaves of the Leshwood, I blundered into the killing grounds of the Kurja,” Rolof continued, as we came to the abrupt end of the forest. From that point onward, it looked less like a lush jungle of greener and more like a menacing garden of death. And then we came to a thick growth of hedge studded with gigantic, jagged thorns over a foot long, and long, sharp spikes as long as a pike. Beyond was a rocky desolation. This was the end of the Leshwood, I realized.
“They attacked, of course, they will attack anything that comes into their territory,” Rolof continued, quietly. “I should have been slain at once – I often think that I would have been better off,” he said, as we stopped at the edge of the barricade that defined the frontier of the forest. It was a tangled and vicious-looking fence, a wall of thorns and menacing-looking fruits. Along its length, I could see, individual Leshi were posted, overlooking the stony expanse below.
“But I caught the attention of a Lesh called Stonetrunk,” Rolof continued, as we came to a halt. “He was a friend of Bomoadua’s. He was on sentry duty that night. He saw me struggle against the Kurja and took pity on me. Instead of staying on the barricade, he ran out to my defense. Alone,” he added. “Most Leshi don’t care much about us animals.”
“Some of us do,” reminded Bomoadua. “Stonetrunk was quite compassionate about the lesser creatures.”
“Yes, of course,” Rolof agreed, with a grateful nod.
“Did the Kurja kill him?” asked Fondaras, quietly.
“Stonetrunk?” Bomoadua asked, amused. “Nay, wizard, it would take many Kurja to overcome such a Lesh as he. He was mighty, only a century or so from taking root. One of our strongest. He had fought and defeated the pestilence for hundreds of years. There are very few things that can kill a full-grown Lesh.”
“One of them, alas, is lightning,” Rolof said, as he peered out over the rocky plain. “When Stonetrunk saved me, he was struck. It slew him instantly, just after he had slain the last of the Kurja. I escaped through to the barricade but was beset by raggi the moment I crossed. That’s when Bomoadua saw me, flicked them off, and brought me into the grove to safety. But if it wasn’t for Stonetrunk’s sacrifice, I would have died, that night.”
“It is fortunate that you didn’t,” Ameras said, tenderly. “It was not your fault,” she added, with emphasis.
“Stonetrunk knew the dangers of his actions and took the risk,” Bomoadua agreed. “He was a brave fellow. And wise. He would have made an excellent Father Tree.”
“So why is this important?” Tyndal asked, confused. “I still don’t know how this has anything to do with striekema.”
“It’s important because when the lightning struck Stonetrunk, it fused his core in an instant,” Rolof reported, grimly. “The organelles at the core of a Lesh contain a fair amount of silica and other minerals. When they are superheated and energized by lightning, they turn into a glassy substance inside their burned-out husks. The one you call striekema.”
“We are harvesting the soul of a Lesh,” Ameras nodded, her face stricken. “A creature that should have lived for thousands of years, struck down by nature before he could mature. A very sad thing.”
“He was my friend,” agreed Bomoadua. “A Lesh of great humor and strong will. He fought the Kurja bravely, every day and night. He laughed with us. He . . .”
“A very sad thing,” I repeated, reverently. “We honor him in his sacrifice, both to save Rolof and to help us on our quest.”
“His body lies beyond that hill, there,” Rolof pointed. “Above it is the entrance to the Crypt of Szal the Yith. Avoid it at all costs. Beyond it is the entrance to the Cavern of the Dark Spawn. That, too, should be avoided.”
“So, we just go dig this glass out of this . . . body?” Ormar asked, skeptically. “How are we going to do that?”
“Well, we’re going to have to retrieve it by ourselves,” revealed Lilastien with a grim frown. “The Grandfather Tree was explicit on that. If we are to take it, then we must do it unaided by the Leshi. If we are worthy, then we will succeed.”
I gave her a long, searching look. She was omitting some very important – and upsetting – portions of the tale, but I did not blame her. Our friends did not need to know such things.
“Let’s hurry up and get this done,” I said, as I joined Rolof, looking out over the wastes. “I don’t know what a Kurja looks like, but this is going to be hard enough without running into them, I think.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Parley with Pritikin
Of all the places I have visited in Anghysbel, none was more awful than the land beyond the Leshwood the Anferny men call the Cursed Vale, where the Kurja spawn dwell. I’d rather than cuddle up with a cyclops and a dragon for a cozy night of drinking than even think of returning there. It is a horrific place.
from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Ormar the Alchemist
After the lushness of the Leshwood, the barren and rocky expanse of the western slope of the mountain that led to the Cursed Vale was a stark contrast. Little grew there, save some spiky grasses. We hiked down the slope in silence, at first, because the Kurja spawn apparently had very acute hearing.
Signs of their passage were everywhere. Large gouges were torn from the earth in some places, and in others discarded branches bearing long, scimitar-like thorns bore witness to the combat the Leshi did with them. But we did not understand what the kurja were until we made it to the top of the next ridge and found one of their bodies. I very nearly puked.
It had clearly been slashed by some weapon of the Leshi, but it was not the horridness of the wound that caused the reaction. It was the sight of the Kurja.
Imagine a slimy, ghastly white thirty-foot long maggot. A maggot bigger than a croft, with a row of stubby, insect-like legs running along each side of its long, grotesque body. Imagine a head like a horrific cross between a spider and a bat, with a long sharp proboscis or beak surrounded by eyes, a disgusting mane of some sort of fur around its neck. Imagine it covered in a sticky yellow slime, each section of its gently reticulated body. Imagine a vicious stinger the size of your arm in its tail.
Now imagine that it smelled like rotting meat on a hot summer’s day, and you’ll appreciate my reaction. I retched, and barely kept my Manhattan in my stomach.
“That’s a Kurja,” Ameras informed us when we came across it. “They hatch in yonder cave. There is a brood of them, laid by their mother. Their species are vassals to the Formless, brought here long ago to fight the Vundel. Only,” she explained, as we carefully skirted the bloated maggot, “they require magic in order to mature. When the Dark Ones tried to open a breach to the Deeps, through the caverns, the Kurja brood mother was the only being small enough to slip through before it was sealed. She’s been producing eggs ever since.”
“Why not slay the brood mother?” Tyndal asked.
“You are welcome to try,” Ameras shrugged. “She’s five times this size, if not larger. Such a thing has been attempted, over the millennia. But none of those expeditions returned from the caverns.”
“Five times?” Ormar gasped, as his imagination supplied the details. “Five times as big as this thing? That’s as large as a dragon!”
“But nowhere near as nice,” Ameras countered. “The Kurja brood mother has been trying to get her spawn out into the world for longer than the Alka Alon have been here. She will not emerge from the cavern but sends out her young when they hatch. Not even the Leshi will venture into those depths to face her. Her and her spawn.”
“That sounds ghastly,” Ormar said, shaking his head.
“Your people sent expeditions into the cavern to study, but few came back,” Ameras agreed. “Fortunately, the Kurja require magic to mature into their next form. Hatching in the jevolar’s shadow makes them less dangerous a
nd keeps them from spreading. They die before they can mature.”
“What does that look like?” Taren asked, as he eyed the bloated grub.
“No one knows,” admitted Ameras. “It hasn’t happened in the memory of the Alon. Let us pray we never find out.”
“One of these attacked you?” Tyndal asked Rolof, surprised. “And you survived?”
“Two of them attacked me,” he corrected. “And I wouldn’t have, if Stonetrunk hadn’t intervened.”
We moved gingerly passed the bloated corpse and continued behind Rolof, who knew the way. We saw a few more Kurja corpses in various stages of decomposition along the way. Clouds of insects filled the air around them. They didn’t do anything to improve the scenery. Or the smell. Or my mood. But it forced us to keep our rifles out and ready, and our swords loose in their sheaths.
Finally, we came to an ashen mound nearly twenty feet high. Stonetrunk.
The poor Lesh had been a large specimen, for an unrooted male. He was crumpled over in death like a tree fallen in a storm, his bark blackened and charred from the heat of the lightning. While he didn’t have a face, as such, his lifeless limbs were spread out around his body in a pattern that suggested shock and anguish in his last moments. All traces of leaf and twig were gone, after a few years. There were some fungi beginning the decomposition, however. The entire sight was, indeed, a very sad thing to see. It was clear he had been strong in life. His trunk was thick, and I could see how he got his name.
“So, how exactly do we go about this?” Ormar asked. “If I had my wagon here, I could eat through the . . . the body with acid. But there isn’t even enough dead wood to build a fire,” he pointed out. “I’m not even sure our leafy friends would appreciate that.”
“Fire is anathema for the Leshi,” agreed Rolof. “We must cut through his dead flesh with our blades. But we must be careful not to damage the striekema within.”
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