by RG Long
But now it was all charred. The homes she had walked past and lived and played in for years were gone. Burned to the ground or in ruins. Her home. Everything she had ever known.
Gone.
“We mustn’t focus on the sad reality we face, Olma,” the tall man said.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Instead, let us allow those who have ventured ahead of us to guide us.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Olma felt the two little lumps in her pocket before following her uncle away from the only home she had ever known, down a familiar path that now looked like something out of a nightmare.
They started south. The scenes they passed were no better than the ones they left. Fray was a small town, barely recognizable on any map. They had lived in peace for so long that Olma was sure any passerby would be hopelessly lost in the jungles of Ladis. They hardly ever had strangers in their midst.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, everything had gone wrong. They had heard the drums in the middle of the night. The incessant, constant, beating of drums. Then the fires started on the edges of town. Men and women went running everywhere, trying to extinguish the flames. Instead of finishing their task, however, they were brought down by spears.
Those throwing spears were deadly from a long range. Olma had never seen anything like it. Her village trained themselves in the sling. They were good hunters with rocks and leather. But these spears were new. They hardly had any experience with metal and what precious small bits they had were rare.
But the spears were tipped with the stuff and cut deep into their victims.
Her parents being two of them.
She had watched them run to the fires that started to consume their house. Her father had fallen first, shielding her mother from a deadly shaft. Her mother wasn’t forced to mourn for long, though. Before Olma could even stretch her hand out to run to them, her mother had taken a spear to her chest from another direction.
It had been her uncle who had saved her. Olma could remember the tears that fell from his eyes as he tackled her to the ground. Her dad was his younger brother. Olma was his only niece. His only family.
And in the entire village of Fray, they were the only survivors.
Olma hadn’t seen who had brought down this destruction on them. They had spent the rest of the terrible night hidden behind a stone wall, shielded from the flames, but not the screams of those who were dying.
They had spent the entire day gathering whatever supplies they could find and burying Olma’ father and mother. The rest of the village couldn’t be given such a luxury. It had taken them enough time to get this far. Now they needed to travel. To run. Because the drums were still in the distance. They still beat their calls in the fading light of the day, reverberating into the night.
“Must we travel at night, Uncle?” Olma asked as they passed the last house and went underneath the wall that surrounded their village. This was made of ancient stones, pulled from far away mountains many years before Olma was born, before her father, or even her father’s father. As strong as they looked, they hadn’t protected them from the spears in the night, or the fires that came to destroy their home.
“We must walk far if we are to get to Arranus,” her uncle replied.
“Arranus?” Olma replied, shocked.
That was the ancient capital of their kingdom. The place where the Priest and Prince ruled their province with the blessing of the King and High Priest. What would they do there?
“Yes,” her uncle replied as he put a hand on the stone wall and pushed forward onto the jungle path. “We will tell the great ones of what has happened here. They will want to know of the drums. And the burning. And the fate of our village. They will want to know so they can protect others from our fate.”
“But who did this, Uncle? Who will we tell them did this to us?”
Olma was confused. They saw no one direct the spears at them. Who could they say attacked their village? And who would they be able to attack in order to avenge their fallen family and friends?
“I know who did this,” his uncle replied, his face set and his jaw clenched. “I fought them once. Long ago. We thought they had been all driven out. We thought they were defeated. But they’ve returned.”
Olma knew her uncle had gone off to fight in a war when he was Olma’s age. Her father had often talked about how brave his brother was. How he fought with valor and honor and had saved their village on more than one occasion from giant panthers that stalked the dark jungle and from raiders who often went from village to village, terrorizing those who could not defend themselves.
“Who, uncle? Who would do this to us?”
There was a pause in which her uncle took several more steps into the jungle. He didn’t make any effort to walk softly. Olma had gone on several day trips with the man. He was a hunter, able to move quietly through the woods without making a sound, even with the injury that brought him back from Ladis’ wars to the south. This was not one of those times.
He stopped and bent down over the dirt path that led to the village. It was the only road Olma had ever known and she had never traveled more than a day down its dusty path. It looked long and intimidating now. Especially since she felt that this would be the last time she would come this way.
Her uncle had his hand in the path, feeling in the dirt. Olma had watched him do this often when they were tracking prey in the jungle. There were no tracks that Olma could see. No tips of spears. If Olma hadn’t lived through it, she wouldn’t have been able to tell why the village behind her had burned down and all its occupants killed.
There were no tracks on the path. No spears. Nothing. It struck Olma as strange to see that there wasn’t a sign, to her eyes, at all that would tell her who was responsible.
Her uncle nodded and then stood up, as if something had been confirmed in his mind. He let his sling out to his side and placed a stone in it. He then looked down at Olma and narrowed his eyes.
“The Veiled Ones have returned.”
9: Old Friends Don’t Forget
Ealrin was overwhelmed by the thickness of the trees they were traveling through. On the second day, the air began to feel heavy in his lungs. As the third came to a close, he was beginning to wish he could see the suns rise and fall, rather than just guess the time of day based on the hue of the light that filtered down to them as they continued to head north.
They weren’t walking as quickly as Holve would like them to. Ealrin continued to fight for Blume, who was struggling to recover from her overuse of magic. The best thing for her would be to sleep and rest for a long period, perhaps a whole day, but Holve wouldn’t have it. He kept pushing them forward, deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle.
It was fortunate he knew what they could eat. Twice he had stopped Gorplin from reaching out to even touch a red berry. Holve had told the dwarf that even a drop of the liquid would mean terrible burns. Unfortunately, a berry that looked nearly identical was a good source of their food. Ealrin still couldn’t spot the difference, but Holve kept finding the right ones and handed out bunches.
Serinde had brought down a few large, black lizards for meat. They were tough and chewy, but they were edible, unlike the green ones they often saw. Holve told them that these lizards were completely harmless until you tried to eat them. Only then would the animal be harmful to you. Apparently, it was a painful three days before your eventual and messy death.
He had also ensured that they stay quiet. It was hard to listen for anything approaching them, what with the teeming jungle life making noise all around them. But, with Serinde and Silverwolf’s expert ears listening for telltale signs of danger, Ealrin felt like they could be alerted before anything pounced on them.
Whether or not Blume would benefit from not being attacked by a vicious jungle animal was another story.
She walked, but it was a plodding type of march. Her feet often dragged along the dirt path. Ealrin kept an arm around her as they all kept moving afte
r Holve. He still led them like he knew these jungles like the back of his hand. Ealrin supposed that was true, but he didn’t know how.
The man talked of wars he had fought in the past. Ealrin had once thought those wars were only in Ruyn. Now he was sure he missed something in his mentor’s history.
More surprising, however, was Silverwolf’s admission. She had been here before as well. Not that she knew what path to take or which way was the safest, but every so often she would bend to pick a flower, or feel of a vine, or put her hand on a tree. She wasn’t exploring something new, like Gorplin and Jurrin were at every new stone and root. She wasn’t enamored with the trees like Serinde, who kept looking up almost wistfully at their tall canopies.
Silverwolf was remembering something from her past.
“Have you walked these paths before?” Ealrin asked her after she paused a particularly long time at one flowering tree. The flowers bunched together, making a small ball of white and purple. It was a delicate plant and seemed at odds with the thick trunks of the massive trees that shot up into the air like mountains of their own. At times, they were either climbing over roots as tall as they were or walking underneath branches that seemed as large as a bridge.
Silverwolf took her hand away quickly and shot Ealrin a look that told him he was in dangerous territory. She had, on occasion, not been horrible to him. The fact that he was still alive in her presence had to count for something as well.
But this time, he didn’t press her. She didn’t offer up any information either. Ealrin guessed he would learn more about Silverwolf when she was ready to tell him.
“Up here,” Holve called out from a few paces ahead in a much louder voice than he had used their entire journey so far. He was standing on one of the giant roots of the jungle and looking onward.
Ealrin helped Blume up, who smiled weakly at him while he guided her climbing.
“I could really use a nap,” she said in a quiet voice.
“You’ll get one,” Holve answered, still looking out. “Right here.”
Ealrin and Blume crested the root and saw the view ahead of them. A village lay ahead, just a short walking distance away. Smoke rose from a few chimneys of stone buildings, probably people cooking their evening meals.
“An inn,” Gorplin sighed as he looked down at the town. “Bah. What a welcome sight.”
“For people with coins,” Silverwolf muttered under her breath.
“I make no guarantees,” Holve said as she stepped off the root and started towards the settlement. “But I once knew someone in this small town. With any luck, she’s still here.”
“She?” Blume asked, raising her eyebrow in Holve’s direction. Either Holve didn’t hear her or he chose to ignore her. Either way, they all moved forward together.
“Reckon Holve’s got himself a lady friend?” Gorplin asked Serinde as they trailed behind Ealrin and Blume.
Ealrin smiled at the thought. He had never known Holve to be interested in romance. The idea was funny at best.
Serinde didn’t respond. She only kept her pace next to the dwarf.
“How does Mister Holve know people from everywhere?” Jurrin asked from in front of Ealrin.
“You know people on two continents now, Jurrin,” Ealrin answered truthfully. “Looks like three soon enough.”
“I didn’t think about that, Mister Ealrin,” Jurrin replied, scratching his head. “I must be the most traveled halfling there ever was!”
“You’re the only halfling I’ve ever known to leave the forests of Thoran,” Silverwolf said cutting across them. “And, to be honest, I don’t think the world could handle much more politeness.”
Holve turned and looked back at them all. He was scowling, but that wasn’t anything different. His words, however, were clipped.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve traveled this way,” he said, looking them all in the eye. “Things aren’t like they were when I left, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But I’m not sure exactly what the climate of the area is yet and how they would feel about outsiders. We stick out enough as it is. Don’t draw any more attention to yourself than you already do. And watch your mouths.”
This last phrase he said as his gaze lingered on Silverwolf and Gorplin. Ealrin saw her stick her tongue out at him as he looked away.
“Don’t give up any more information than is absolutely necessary. And by the blessed suns, Blume,” he said as all eyes turned to the girl beside Ealrin. She grabbed her elbow with one hand and looked back at them all, an eyebrow raised.
“No magic,” he finished. “Ladis isn’t a place friendly towards Speakers, as you’ve probably picked up on.”
Blume nodded, but Ealrin could see the concern in her eyes. She was normally quite in control of her magic. Or she used to be. Then it all started sprouting out of her without warning. How could she refrain from magic if it would leap out without her permission anyways?
Holve nodded, as if to steel himself, then turned and walked down the last few steps of the dirt path that led right to the village’s gate. Like Arranus, this town had a stone wall and wooden door. Both were much more diminished than the port city, but they looked stout all the same.
He knocked hard three times, then took a step back. His eyes met Ealrin’s for a moment and he winked at him. Ealrin took that for a good sign. In the meantime, he placed his arm around Blume. Hopefully he could get her some rest soon. And a good meal.
“Who goes there?” came a thin male voice from the other side of the gate. A lot of clattering could be heard through the wood, as if a pile of things had been knocked over onto the ground. Scuffling and scraping sounds followed this first one.
Ealrin saw the old man wince, then begin to speak slowly.
“Holve,” he said, quietly at first. “Holve Bravestead and company. I was wondering if...”
The rest of his sentence was cut off by a shrill voice on the other side of the gate.
“Holve Bravestead, you thick-headed, irresponsible, sneak of a friend and fair-weather pit fighter! How dare you show your face in this town!”
Ealrin looked from Silverwolf, who was pulling her sword up, to Serinde, who was already reaching for her daggers.
“Bah,” Gorplin said, reaching for his ax. “I thought you said you had a friend here.”
“Friends!? In Porut? Not a chance!” said the voice from the other side. From the sound of things, more items were being thrown onto the ground and even some against the gate of the village. A small commotion was beginning to form on the other side, as best as Ealrin could tell. The quiet musings of villagers and the stamping feet of a few gawkers began to drift over the wall.
Holve sighed.
“That’s her alright,” he said. “Hasn’t changed much either, from the sound of things.”
EALRIN ATE HIS SOUP warily. For starters, some of the chunks he found in it were indistinguishable from clumps of dirt. Secondly, he was fairly certain he had found an eyeball from what he could only guess where the edible black lizards outside. Last, the claw that he just picked from his teeth had the distinct ability of taking away his appetite completely.
On the other hand, the flatbread that they had been served was more than edible; it was good. Ealrin took a large bit of it and tried to get the taste of claw soup out of his mouth. He chased that down with a swig of the purple liquid they had placed in stone cups in front of them. He hadn’t asked what that was and wasn’t keen to find out.
The jungles of Ladis had already proven odder than he had bargained.
Taking a large gulp of air after being headfirst into his food, Ealrin took the first proper look around the place since they were led inside of it by Holve’s ‘friend’. This friend was Martta Shell and she was a fiery woman, even though she looked to be pushing eighty. Once she ordered the guards to open the gate and let them in she had laid into Holve like Ealrin had never seen done before. And he had known generals who had fought wars against him.
“Of all th
e foolhardy, ill-planned, nincompoop plots, you find yourself back on Ladis? And with things the way they are? What a sight you must think you are! Humph! And you’ve brought other troublemakers with you, huh? Follow me then.”
That had been the extent of their welcome into the village, which Ealrin had gathered was called “Three Ways.” This must be because it took three days to get there from any of the three larger cities that surrounded it. No more, no less.
This he learned from people who looked at their group with pity as they passed by them. The guards at the gate especially looked keen to get out of the way of Martta’s scolding. They looked like young, unseasoned boys, not real guards like they had escaped from back in Arranus.
As soon as their group had cleared away, they had shut the door and begun to gather all the things that had fallen from what must be their registration table. They only cast pitying glances at the company as they were led away by Martta. The old woman had brought them down the main road of the town. From what Ealrin had seen, it was the only road in town. Just a few stalls lined the market area, selling meat and plants, cloth and skins.
She had then taken them into a small, two-story building she had called an inn. Ealrin supposed it was used more for its food than its beds. Its ceilings were made of long grasses, but the beams supporting the second floor were massive planks of wood. Ealrin tried to imagine chopping down even one of those giant specimens outside. It seemed a great feat. One that would provide enough timber to last a village this size all year. Lots of things were made from wood or stone. No creations made from clay that Ealrin could really tell.
The place had small wooden tables and benches, several of which they had dusted off before setting down their bowls of soup. Ealrin stomped down on the floor, finding the odd hollow knocking there to be quite foreign. Everything in the village was up on stilts, assumedly because there were seasons of great flooding in the jungles of Ladis. The walls to the city were built to let the water in, but not those traveling by boat.