“What is it?” Dissy asked.
“That’s where the fight with Malig will likely occur,” Dech said. “Rain seems drawn to battle. I do not envy them.”
“Maybe it’ll clear off long before then,” Mayhaps said. “Still, rain and battle seem like bosom companions.”
Lauril led off once again, moving as fast as she could while being watchful. A few halts to allow unknown creatures to pass by in the distant brushwood delayed them, but all knew such stops were inevitable.
. . .
“Stash your bowstrings and shelter the staves,” an elder bowman shouted as the grey skies poured water in sheets and the land shook with thunder.
Beings of all races and occupations ran for tents or climbed under wagons as the storms raged.
Not far from the camp, a lightning bolt struck a coppice of broad leafy trees growing at the peak of one of the many rolls in the land, the crack of shattered wood making everyone wince at the power of nature.
“Capricious is the weather upon the fields of battle,” Allan said from his place near an open tent flap. “Our move west will be delayed no doubt.”
“That it will,” Gerald said as he stood beside his friend. Grimacing at the sky, he shook his head. “Unless this lets up or stops soon, we’ll not be going anywhere this day.”
“Nor should we.”
A woman wearing a hooded oilcloth cloak walked toward them. Raising her head, she smiled and the two returned the expression.
“Muriel Durham,” Gerald said as he stepped aside to allow her entry. “You enjoy this sort of weather?”
She pulled the hood from her blond hair and laughed. “I do if it allows me to corner the two of you. Something I would have mentioned when Dech’s expedition departed had there been the time. In short, I am a bit miffed.”
“Would we be the source of this displeasure?” Allan asked.
“You would.”
Gerald cleared his throat. “Robert is old enough and possesses the skills to be a part of this. I cannot justifiably leave him in Spring Shire.”
“Make that two issues I have with you.”
“Two? I cannot for—”
“Dech Crouse,” she said. “Prior to seeing him in camp, I met him not long ago at Cashel Abbey.”
Both men looked upward with pained looks.
“We could not speak of what happened, lass,” Allan said. “The works of kings and dukes. It has never been an easy subject to deal with.”
Muriel smiled. “I know that. I work with sisters in the contrition order teaching healing. It was a shock seeing him. I simply wanted you to know that I know. We can talk when these crises are over.”
The two men nodded.
“Now,” Muriel said with raised eyebrows, “let us discuss young Robert’s presence here.”
. . .
To the west in Nevar, Malig swung atop his horse. Looking over his camp, he saw those with him were nearly ready to march.
“Messengers sent, Sire,” one of his retinue said as he stopped his horse next to Malig’s. “With the mud it will take them some time to reach the other two camps with the orders to march east.”
“I know,” Malig replied. “We have the farthest to travel to reach the crossroads at Taller. Should the others move as they should, we’ll meet there in time to put ourselves in order.”
“The roads are still a mess, Sire,” another said. “Makes for a tiring journey, be it man or horse.”
“No matter,” Malig growled. “Harold’s forces wallow in the storm as we speak and we follow in its trail. We’ll be well east of where they think we might be. This weather plays merry havoc with scouts and I seek to make the most of it. Come, we return to Arataine.”
. . .
Later in the day, the group in the Brosalean stopped at a spring to rest, refill water vessels, and eat.
“You had met the banshee before,” Dech said to Lauril as he corked a water bladder.
“Yes. Twice on the occasions it mentioned. A despicable creature who revels in causing pain. It knows it speaks the truth concerning death. That fact makes it all the more sweet for it.”
“Why did it not specify who amongst us will die?”
“I cannot say. I know not what passes through such a creature’s mind.”
“Are banshee predictions always true?” Mayhaps asked.
“No, not always,” Lauril said. “Some say when the banshee tells a person they are to die, it is often not true, but the worry it brings hastens a death. Some say they feed off the sorrow they bring be it truth or lie. I am no expert, but if there were a way to rid this world of them, it would be a path I would follow.”
. . .
Chapter 28
The band was soon back on trail. Despite Lauril’s misgivings about Wherow’s chosen route, they had not had any encounter that presented a danger.
Entering an area with little underbrush but waist-high ferns, Lauril picked up the pace because of extended sightlines and hoped they might hear any small attackers obscured by the fronds.
Well into the area, a soft hiss brought Lauril to a halt, those trailing her stopping after only a step or two.
“Who goes?” she whispered.
“Ranger MacGorry and partner,” answered a deep and surprisingly close voice. “Coming up.”
Dense fronds just a few steps away grew a grinning white-haired dwarf and a small man of half-human and half-gnoman parentage—a halfling as such were called.
Lauril smiled affectionately. “Never an inkling of your presence, old man. There never is,” she said as the group moved closer to the pair.
“You traveled quiet enough we barely had time to find concealment,” the ranger said returning the smile. “For such a large and assorted group, that’s a feat.”
Lauril pointed to the old dwarf. “This is Ranger MacGorry, one of the most senior beings in the service. I was under his tutelage when I started as a ranger some years ago.”
MacGorry brought his right fist to the breast of his mottled green and brown tunic and dipped his head at the group, his companion doing the same.
“Welcome to the Brosalean,” the old ranger said looking over the outsiders. “Awfully far from our best hospitality. The settlement near the Great Oak features far more amenities.”
“We’re here on ghost-bird business, ranger,” Wherow said. His tone made it clear he did not care for MacGorry.
“Obviously,” the dwarf replied. “If you intend to hold the same course you’re on now, I’d suggest you consider a change. Best bear south a bit. Rend-wolf tracks not an hour old on the trail ahead, a trio of them no less.”
“You don’t run this group, ranger. I do,” Wherow said.
MacGorry smiled. “Never said I did. Go see for yourself, but go solo if you would. No need dragging your party to join you in death.”
Wherow’s mouth curled in distaste. “You don’t—”
“The Law of Convoy, lad,” MacGorry said. “You must abide. You be the captain of the party. On your head rests their well-being.”
“I know the law,” Wherow said. “The party is mine, not yours. I decide the route, not you.”
“Fair enough,” the dwarf said calmly. “If Lauril’s not navigating I’d say you’re making an error. She’s as good a trekker as there is.”
“Worry not,” Lauril said with a smile. “I’m lead trekker on this mission, though Wherow determines the route. We’re bound south and west toward the old castle.”
“Makes sense given what we saw and heard,” the ranger said with a nod.
“We could hear timber falling and ax work when we followed tracks over that way two days ago,” the halfling said.
“Speak only when spoken to, half-blood,” Wherow said with a hard look.
“Gnomes, humans, dwarves, and elves, all split from the same log, so he’ll speak as he pleases,” MacGorry said, his good-natured tone gone. “Adam’s my charge and you’ll not be giving him orders. To boot, he be a ranger and a free
soul like us all, so you have no say of when he speaks. What he said is true.” The dwarvan man’s gaze moved to Dech. “Contrition knight?”
Dech replied with a nod.
“Something’s awry. We followed tracks into Nevar far enough to know they headed for the old castle. Mostly human with a few elvan and dwarvan prints as well. Figure it for a party that wandered into the Brosalean and then back out. Found more recent tracks as well, human, and I’d hazard a guess they were patrols. Most occasions we’d just let them be once it was clear such wanderers had departed. A hunch led us to follow them deeper into Nevar than we usually would and I wondered why. Maybe we know now.”
“It’s a worry for kingdoms,” Wherow said. “It doesn’t involve us here.”
“Yet the Council of Elders sent you to escort outlanders, else you wouldn’t be here. A rare thing that. Never known them to make such a commitment by mistake or on a whim.”
“The elders keep envoys in the courts of the lands around us when we need nothing beyond Brosalean. Now this.”
MacGorry growled a sigh and looked to Dech again. “My old nose smells trouble brewing. Your presence tells me it’s not just any old war considering those accompanying you. This place has felt odd lately and maybe it connects.”
“A Cataclysm has begun,” Lauril said.
“Makes sense,” MacGorry said raising his bushy eyebrows. He paused in thought before continuing. “We’ll be bound for the Great Oak then. I’ll give you my thoughts and you do with them what you will. Bear south and follow the border trails. It’s longer, but faster with less interruptions than the route you’re on. Best you watch for the patrols I mentioned, but they’ll be easier to dodge than the creatures that prowl the Brosalean. As I said, the forest knows something comes and is restless.”
Lauril nodded. “Restless is dangerous.”
“The Council ordered we should make haste,” Wherow said. “We follow the planned route.”
“Be ready for a series of fights then, lad,” MacGorry said. “If not rend-wolves it’ll be something else.”
Adam nodded. “Better to slip through unheard and unseen than leave a trail of dead and blood.”
As Wherow glared at the young man, Lauril smiled and looked at MacGorry. “I’ve heard that adage before.”
“At least some of you listen,” MacGorry said with a saddened look at Wherow.
. . .
At Wherow’s direction, the group continued their journey and soon came upon the tracks the rangers mentioned. Wider than a human foot, the rend-wolves’ prints alone conveyed their size. Expressing her trepidation with a look down the column at Wherow, Lauril pushed on, but slowed the pace out of caution.
The sounds of creatures increased as did the physical evidence of them, tracks crossing the trail, tufts of fur on thorned brush, and abraded bark from territorial marking.
An hour later, the expedition slowed as they came to a clearing, the ground largely covered with ferns far smaller than they had encountered earlier. Pausing to scan the area and sensing nothing threatening, they continued with the hope they could pick up the pace given the terrain.
Lauril held up a hand and stopped just a few steps into the clearing. Kneeling, those in her trail following suit, as Wherow made his way forward. Moments later a raking cry silenced the nearby birds and insects. Lauril looked at Wherow as he knelt next to her.
“A wyggar,” she hissed.
“You’re sure?”
“A basilisk does not utter such a sound.”
“I knew the mages would draw such a creature,” the ghost-bird leader replied.
“They are drawn by sound and scent. Only when near might they take notice of a magic source,” Lauril said with a hard look.
“What is a wyggar?” Erie asked.
“A basilisk possessed by a wraith,” Granum whispered before Lauril could respond. “Wraiths are frightening on their own, but not truly harmful as they are purely spirits. When they inhabit a basilisk, they have a link to the physical world again. If it does draw near enough, a wraith will not be fooled by spelling and will sense Dealan and me. The wyggar is a most interesting phenomenon, though one I’d hoped to never encounter. I can sense it.”
Dealan nodded. “It draws near.”
The sound of a large creature crashing through brush came from the direction of the cry.
Erie’s face tensed as he looked into the trees. “Can we evade that thing?”
“Only by fleeing,” Wherow said. “Now. It will pursue the mages.”
“That path will not permit us to get everyone out let alone accomplish our task,” Lauril said. “You know this.”
“Then we fight,” Dech said resolutely.
“A basilisk is a fierce beast on its own,” Wherow responded. “A wyggar cannot be fought by one man, no matter how mighty you think you are. Sagas are lies. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary.”
“I said we fight. All of us.”
“You are insane or stupid, human,” Wherow said. His eyes grew wide as he saw the other ghost-birds equipping bows and loosening quivers. “We move, now.”
“It’s too late for that,” Lauril said as the creature came closer. “Basilisks are fast and their scales are tough. They are most vulnerable beneath the wing over the ribs where they have no scale cover. That creature will be hard to hit, despite its size. It won’t stay in one place for long and many of our shots will need to penetrate its wings as well, lessening their wounding potential.”
“A basilisk can fly?” Erie said.
“No,” Granum said. “Vestige wings from the past, but they are more lizard than bird now. The wings can be used as battering weapons I am told.”
“You were told true,” Lauril said. “Tough creatures, but their speed is the problem. Getting a clear shot on its vulnerable points will be difficult.”
Dech stood and dropped his pack. “It will be an easier target if it has something to occupy its attention,” Dech said as he fastened the mail coif that covered his head and neck.
“You won’t last half a minute,” Wherow said as he nocked an arrow.
“How many arrows can a ghost-bird loose in half a minute?” He paused to settle the helm on his head before continuing. “A team of owls, a ranger, and two mages ought to be able to kill faster than a wyggar. I’m betting my life on it.” Sliding his shield around on its carry strap, he pushed his left hand through the enarmes before drawing his sword. At that, he moved into the clearing looking for obstructions on the ground under the fern cover.
“What are we?” Mayhaps asked Erie as they knelt next to Dech’s pack. “Useless?”
“Against a possessed basilisk? I’d say yes.”
“And if this doesn’t work?”
“Stay close to me. I’m slippery.”
Mayhaps looked upward and shook his head. “And to think I could be in a dark and reeking holding pit right now awaiting a civilized execution.”
“Take this,” Josip said passing Dech’s light crossbow to the bard. “Shoot the wyggar, not anyone else, bard.”
“I know how to operate an arbalest, thief,” he replied with a smiling glare.
The tree cover ahead shook, announcing the imminent arrival of the monster.
“We can negate its spellcasting,” Dealan said. “The spirit that inhabits the beast is mad, barely coherent.”
“She speaks true,” Granum yelled over the increasing noise. “Even without magic that creature is still horribly dangerous. Watch its tail and remember it spits acid. Its beak is nothing to take lightly either. Oh, and its claws! Don’t forget—”
The mottled brown and black monster burst into the clearing with a shower of leaves displaced from the nearby branches. Seeing an armored man standing in wait, the wyggar gave a shrieking challenge.
The creature was less than a head taller than Dech, but carried more than three times his mass. Knowing he would be sent flying if he fended off blows or charges with his shield, the warder decided to rely on mobility
and aggression rather than stand toe-to-talon with the wyggar.
The artist renderings in the order’s archives did the basilisk justice, but standing so near the creature, he realized one could only capture so much in a drawing or painting.
Not normally red-eyed, such coloring was clear indication this basilisk was possessed. The beast’s head was very much like a chicken in appearance, the source of an alternate name for it: the cockatrice. Winged, but not feathered or capable of flight as Granum said, the membranous surfaces resembled more a bat than bird. Cutting figures in the air at the rear of the wyggar was a serpentine tail with an arrow like tip.
Dech spared a look at his companions and found them scrambling for shooting positions near large tree trunks. The wyggar looked as well.
“Here,” the warder yelled as he let the rage course through him. “I am first.”
The monster waggled its head at the knight before bringing it back as if to peck at him. A spray of fluid came from an open beak as the head lunged forward. Dech tumble rolled and came to his feet, thrusting his blade at the beast. A hissing sound and acrid smell caught his senses, a result of the errant acid attack. Nearby, ferns withered and smoked.
The wyggar recoiled and swiped at Dech with a clawed foot forcing him to back away as well. The first arrows whispered through the air from the warder’s right, the feathered shafts sinking into the monster’s side.
The beast shrieked and turned to face the source of its pain while Dech closed and thrust his blade. The monster turned swiftly, the sword slicing the thick breast scales, but not enough to draw blood. Rearing its head back, Dech knew what was coming and went low, covering with his shield as he tried to evade the spray of acid that issued forth.
Dech came to his feet and the burning scent of caustic corrosion bit his nose. He backed away, noticing tendrils of smoke trailing from his shield. A quick look at its treated leather outer surface revealed two singed splatters where the acid had landed and was pleased to see scant damage.
More arrows flew as the wyggar closed with Dech, all of them scoring hits and seemingly doing little but draw the monster’s attention once again. It turned and took several steps toward the archers before letting fly a cone of acid mist that hit an invisible barrier—a bar field cast by the two mages.
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