by Tora Moon
Without looking, he dug into his backpack and pulled out an innocuous looking herb. He ground it into a powder in his hands while muttering a spell to add potency to it.
“Wait, wait,” he told himself when he’d rather run. “Let it get closer.”
The runner inched its way toward him. When it was an arm’s length away, it began to rise, waving hypnotically side to side. Blazel threw the powdered herb at the runner vine. It hung in the air momentarily, burst into sparkles of light, and then zipped into the vine. The runner immediately began to turn orange, starting at the tip and quickly running back to the mother vine. Leaves shook violently and other vines wiggled, trying to escape the poison. Fifteen milcrons later the tangle of vines was a rusty orange and the leaves dropped to the ground.
Blazel walked to the vines covering the path and stomped on one. It crackled and disintegrated into a cloud of orange dust. Satisfied the deadly vine was dead, he covered his nose and mouth with his shirt and strode through the vine.
The next morning—two chedans after leaving his tree cave—Blazel finally stood at the swamp’s edge. Black sand glittered before him, stretching into the distance, and he shielded his eyes with his hand from the harsh reflection.
Before him lay the Barrens, an area of utter desolation. It wasn’t a desert; deserts held life. Once upon a time, the legends said, this land had been a great forest. Huge trees had covered the peninsula that was now swamp. The last battle of the Great War had been fought here. In a desperate attempt to end the war, the White Priestess Shandir had gathered all the magic from the Posairs in the area and from the land. When she had unleashed the tremendous force, only a vast, deep crater and the Barrens were left. And the ghosts of the dead, or so Blazel had heard.
Water was nonexistent in the Barrens, whereas the swamps had an excess of it. One of the side effects of Shandir’s magic was that the great river Storengher—which traversed Lairheim’s entire length, from the ice fields in the north to the marshland at the southern tip—dove deep underground in its journey through the Barrens.
He didn’t relish the thought of crossing the Barrens. The journey to the crater and then around to the northern edge would take nearly a chedan, that is, if he were very lucky and didn’t encounter any Malvers monsters along the way. Wishful thinking, he knew. For some unknown reason, the crater spewed the monsters out every few days, whereas in the north it took at least a chedan for a nest to reform after one was destroyed.
Without a horse, the only way for Blazel to travel through the Barrens was in his wolf form. His stomach twisted in knots at the thought of spending so much time as a wolf. The last few times he had shifted from wolf to human had been easier and not as painful. After a solid eight or nine days as a wolf, will I even remember I am a man?
Turning his back on the dark sands, he returned to the swamp. He killed a family of swamp rats and a twisted rabbit and put them over a smoky fire to dry. Then he found a marsh with cattails lining the shore and gathered the roots and seedpods. He whooped with joy when he found a marsh ragtile tree with juicy, ripe fruit hanging on its branches. New blossoms filled the air with a spicy-sweet scent. He found a fresh-water pond and filled his water bottles.
That evening as he played a mournful tune on his flute, Blazel hoped he had enough food and water to make it across the Barrens and to the plains beyond.
* * *
By the pale light of dawn, Blazel packed, put out his fire, and stood at the demarcation from swamp to black sand. On the horizon, a butte jutted into the sky—Shandir’s Crater.
It sat in the middle of the narrow neck of land connecting the southern peninsula to the continent. The Barrens encircled Shandir’s Crater from coast to coast of the isthmus, and even the coastline was barren. He briefly considered going through the crater—it would cut his journey in half—but an instinctual horror washed over him.
He knew there was no way around the Barrens or Shandir’s Crater to get to or from the swamp. Sharp reefs that no boat could pass cluttered the coast. He breathed deep to settle his roiling stomach.
At this perspective, the Barrens appeared to be flat, but he knew they were hills and valleys. Using the natural debris, he had managed to avoid the guard-packs that patrolled around the crater. He’d have to be watchful as he ran; the guards wandered away from the crater rim when chasing Malvers monsters.
He dreaded running into any guard-packs and having to fight them for his right to be alone. The clan-packs didn’t understand someone like him, who chose not to be part of a pack. Lone wolves were usually considered rogues and not worthy of being in a pack. He had never been in a pack, and after being alone for ten years he wasn’t interested in joining one. It meant he avoided contact with most Posairs; he only went to the large territory keeps where a strange, lone man traveling from one pack to another didn’t attract undue attention.
His ruminations were interrupted by Chariel’s voice whispering in the back of his mind, ‘hurry, hurry, hurry.’
Blazel tightened the straps of his backpack more snugly to keep it on while he shifted. He took a deep breath for courage. Although he was terrified of staying in his wolf form so long, it was more practical to travel as a wolf. His wolf feet were much faster and surefooted than his man feet.
“I am a man.” The words came out hoarse and croaking.
“I am Blazel.” This time his voice was stronger.
Even knowing the sound would attract unwanted predators, Blazel filled his lungs and shouted, “I am a man! I am Blazel.” With his shout ringing in his ears, he allowed the magic to flow through his body. He shook his fur to settle it and raced into the Barrens.
As a wolf, his long, loping strides ate up measures and could be maintained for a long time. He ran for a few octars and then dropped into a walk. He stopped only for a short time to eat and rest, shifting back to his man form to eat, then took off again, following the same pattern. The low hills and barrows made running difficult. As he leaped over another petrified log, he could believe the legends that this area had been a large forest before the cataclysm of magic formed Shandir’s Crater. The amounts of petrified wood strewn across the ground made Blazel leap over or twist around the resulting boulders. The slick sand made him slip and stumble. He’d flail to regain his stride, and then took off again.
A large patch of sand-glass caught him unawares. His steps tossed glass shards into the air, striking his legs, body, and even his face. His wolf pelt protected him from getting too badly cut, but the pads of his paws were shredded. After passing through the patch, Blazel was forced to stop and rest. Shifting back into his natural form, he rubbed an ointment made from swamp plants onto his cut hands and feet. The ointment stunk of old animal fat; he hadn’t had any purified fat or oil to make it while he was in the swamp. It smelled nasty, but it healed his wounds.
His trip down to the southern swamps hadn’t been this difficult. He’d traveled along the coast to keep away from the fighting-packs guarding the crater’s perimeter. The rocky shore had provided him some protection from the Malvers monsters, but it had taken him over three chedans to cross. He wasn’t at leisure to follow that route, or pace, this time.
Blazel ran in a course parallel to the crater keeping it in sight but far enough away—he hoped—to not draw the guard-packs’ attention. Other than the natural hazards, he was able to move quickly, and during the first two days he covered twenty or thirty measures.
On the third afternoon, snarls and growls accompanied by clicks and hisses echoed across the Barrens. A fight was in progress! Blazel topped the hill he was running up only to scurry behind a massive piece of petrified wood. Tremors shook his body as he suppressed his instinctual urge to shift into his warrior form. Transfixed, he watched the age-old battle between Posairs and Malvers monsters.
Eight-foot-tall warriors roared, revealing mouths full of sharp teeth, and their six-inch long front claws dripped with venom. Blazel saw red, brown, gold, and even a few green pelts. He knew the warrior
form was a perfect blend of wolf and human, but seeing the ferocious and deadly men in action—doing what they were created to do, kill Malvers monsters—he finally appreciated the sacrifice of his ancestors. He often lamented his fire magic wasn’t as strong as a Reds, but the strength and the ability to become a warrior was worth it.
A janack trundled along the ground, its ten tentacles forming a ball with the head always on top. In an orchestrated move, one of the Reds sent a line of fire bursting in front of the escaping janack. Heat stalks on the top of its head swiveled toward the woman, its maw gaped open, as it clicked in irritation, and then it seamlessly turning back to the fight. A tentacle flicked toward the Red, not quite reaching her. She grimaced and gripped her glowing helbraught tighter, the blade pointed at the monster. She scowled, and instead of leaping to attack the janack, she waited for it to come to her. Spittle dripped from the janack’s sharp, jagged teeth, and the ground hissed from the acidic saliva. Blazel tensed, wanting to jump to the woman’s aid. At the last moment, she leaped forward and plunged the sharp blade of her helbraught into the janack’s belly. It screamed as the blade tore a hole in it, the edges smoking from the heated blade. A warrior jumped on the head of the careening janack and ripped into it, his claws pumping venom.
A yowl tore through the air, and a brecha raced toward the killers of the dying monster. Its back claws threw black sand, its huge mouth opened wide, and its back spines stood straight up. Both the Red and the warrior turned to face this new attack. The warrior bent in a ready position, his arms outstretched at his sides and his knees bent. The brecha released a barrage of spines. The warrior ducked and dodged but couldn’t avoid them all. A spine pierced his throat and, gurgling blood, he fell to the ground. The Red’s eyes widened, and she dropped behind the downed warrior. The brecha didn’t stop its charge. It barreled into the warrior, head down, intent on eating. The Red surged up and drove her helbraught like a spear into the monster’s head. It dropped like a stone.
Blazel dragged his attention to the rest of the fighters. The Reds wielded their fire efficiently and sparingly, only using it to drive the monsters toward the warriors, rather than surrounding and holding them in the fire-ring, as he’d seen them do elsewhere. Blazel surmised it was because there wasn’t anything to burn other than their own fire energy.
Two octars later the brutal fight was over, and all the Malvers monsters were dead. The one warrior was the only one killed, although there were several others injured, including two Reds. The fighter’s feet dragged with exhaustion as they mopped up after the battle.
He stayed hidden until the fighting-pack was out of sight, then came out of his crouch and ran again. He hadn’t gone more than a few measures before he had to stop again to wait out another battle with the monsters. Throughout the day, he had to stop to wait for battles to be fought before he could continue on. After using all of his self-control to stop from shifting into his warrior form at the sight and stench of the Malvers monsters, a raging headache plagued him. But the fighters wouldn’t want his help; he’d only get in their way. He didn’t train day in and day out fighting the monsters.
As he hid yet again, he reflected on the stories he’d overheard about crater guard duty. He had believed they fought frequently, but nothing like this. If it was like this all the way around the crater, it would take him more than the one chedan he planned.
He made up for the lost time by running through the night, even though the darkness made traveling more dangerous. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ dogged his heels as he ran.
* * *
The next two days followed the same pattern; Blazel could only travel a few measures before he would come across a battle and have to hide. Then he’d move on until he came upon the next one. As he barreled across the Barrens, several times he didn’t see the battle raging until he’d nearly crashed into the fight and had to scramble to find a hiding spot. More often, the loud clash between Posairs and monsters would alert him, and he’d creep until he found the battle—he didn’t want any marauding monsters behind him—where he’d wait until it was over.
The waiting gave him a chance to rest. At night, he stopped only when he was stumbling with exhaustion. As soon as he recovered somewhat, he’d take off again. His nerves jangled and his body hurt from the constant struggle to keep himself from shifting to his warrior form. He needed to get past the crater soon before he made a mistake and was seen, or found himself in the middle of a battle.
The afternoon of his sixth day in the Barrens, Blazel passed the invisible boundary between the eastern quadrant guard-packs and the northern ones. The fighting-packs he now ran into were fresher, more alert, and stronger than the others he’d seen. A hint of pride warmed his heart.
Warriors from the north and northeastern packs, especially those from Strunlair Province, had visited the Sanctuary often just to teach him and ensure he was a trained warrior. Histrun had been a favored teacher. For several years after his mate died, Histrun frequently stayed many lunadar with Blazel. But he hadn’t seen Histrun since he’d left the Sanctuary at seventeen. Maybe he should stop at the eastern fortress where the Strunlair guard-packs were stationed and ask how his old mentor was doing. By now Histrun would be past his century mark. Then he remembered they would consider him rogue, and would probably chase him away, if he was lucky, or kill him if he wasn’t.
That night he only dozed a couple of octars before pushing himself to continue running. The next day began as bad as the last three. Within a few octars after dawn, Blazel saw another battle between a fighting-pack and a large group of Malvers monsters. He hid again, his sides heaving, until the battle was over and the fighters left. As soon as it was clear, he set off again.
He was so tired he ran over a hill rather than creep up it.
Blazel skidded to a halt. In front of him was the largest janack he had ever seen. It towered over the warriors, its great maw snapping and its tentacles waving. Blazel crouched and slid back down the hill. With his race’s ancient enemy so close, the instinct to shift into his warrior form and fight battered against his mind. Whining softly, he fought the urge. Suddenly, he felt his bones begin to lengthen and his jaw begin to protrude. With all his will and determination, he forced them to return to their normal size.
A woman yelled, “Run!” and without thinking Blazel obeyed the command, running away from the hill. An explosion rocked the ground. Scurrying, Blazel ducked into a hole under a large piece of petrified wood just as the first janack pieces rained down around him. Panting, he scooted back deeper into the hole and cowered, his tail wrapped around his feet, the tip covering his nose.
From his observations, he knew the Reds in the group would be by soon to incinerate any bits not burned to ash by the explosion. He prayed no one would see him. He held his breath when a Red walked by his hiding place. When she continued on without noticing him, he trembled in relief.
That was too close. Maybe I should just hole up here for the rest of the day and only travel at night. The thought sent tremors of fear through is body. The Barrens and its toxins were too dangerous to stay in for long. And Chariel needed him home, now. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry’ banged against his fear of being seen. He waited until he was sure the fighting-pack was gone, then slunk up the hill.
Ahead of him, the crater rim loomed; he was closer to it than he expected—or wanted—to be. He decided that with all the monster attacks, traveling up the rugged coast would be faster. He ran east, toward the coast, forcing himself to keep going when his feet shuffled and dragged. He’d rest when he reached the coast or if he encountered another battle.
A strange humming broke into Blazel’s reverie. He slowed down and heard battle sounds ahead of him. He climbed a pile of petrified wood boulders and lay on top of them, his red-brown fur blending with the rocks. From his vantage point, he could see the battle and not be seen by the fighters.
This fight wasn’t like any battle he’d seen before, not even the many he’d seen the past three days. A hug
e janack stood on two of its tentacles in the center. A strange protrusion on its head stuck out from its sensor stalks. It moved as the battle raged around it. Two dead janacks and six brechas, bodies hacked into pieces, lay strewn on the black sand.
Surrounding—guarding?—the strange janack were eight brechas and a regular janack. Blazel gaped at the oddity. The monsters never did that, especially the brechas, who, once their janack was down, devolved into cannibalistic behavior.
Two Reds raced in, and a line of fire burst between the smaller, regular janack and two of the brechas, driving them away from it. Two other Reds separated three more brechas from the group around the strange janack. Men in their ferocious warrior forms leaped over the fire lines. As soon as they did, the fire blazed and ran around the groups in a circle, burning higher and hotter. Blazel could feel the pop of energy as shields went up within the rings of fire.
Unbelievably, the monsters separated by the fire rings turned their backs on the warriors, lumbered toward the strange janack, and bounced back, roaring with rage when they hit the shield. The warriors savaged them from behind; the monsters were so intent on trying to break the shield and get back to the strange janack, they didn’t even put up a fight. In milcrons the warriors had killed the janack and brechas in both fire-rings.
Meanwhile, the remaining three brechas stayed close to the strange janack, making it impossible for the Reds to separate them. A large dark-red warrior with thin yellow stripes attacked the strange janack. As the warrior harried it, a Red used her helbraught to catapult up to its head, staying away from the teeth-filled maw. Her helbraught blade glowed bright red with flickers of orange from the amount of fire magic she had fed into it. The blade swung through the air, whistling with its speed. The unusual protrusion flew twenty feet away. Another Red chased it down and incinerated it. As it flared, Blazel realized the eerie humming had stopped.