by P D Dennison
“Enter! The Arch Mage has been murdered,” shouted Rostioff, knowing full well it would be too late to do anything.
The door crashed open and in poured armoured War Magi, ready for combat.
One mage sent lightning directly at Graxxen the second the door opened, but he whirled that horror of a black ragged magick cloak of his about and it reflected the lighting right back at the caster, electrocuting him. His body went rigid with the charge of his own magick and then went limp as he fell to the floor in a smoking twitching heap.
Graxxen touched the orb he kept under his own robes and invoked its Transportal capability. In that second before he blinked out, he cackled again holding up the Fulcrum Orb for Rostioff to see one last time, and disappeared through the portal.
Rostioff lay back down on the floor, bleeding profusely from the neck where the pendant had been ripped from. He appeared visibly aged from a man in his forties to a man in his mid-sixties. Much longer under that spell and Graxxen might have finished him off completely. The War Magi scampered about trying to reposition Danthalas’ body to administer aid. First they tried healing spells, but to no avail. They called in their healer, who pronounced Danthalas irrevocably dead after questioning the witnesses and examining the body.
“His heart’s been ripped from his chest, he’s been bled out, and his soul’s been taken. There’s nothing anyone can do for him. He won’t even make it to the afterlife,” said the healer, shaking his head in disbelief.
His soul was taken, eaten by a creature of the nethyr. Not only was he dead and gone, but he ceased to exist throughout all eternity in the moment that Graxxen had consumed his essence. A greater insult could not have been exacted on the Tower. The Arch Mage had been killed and destroyed utterly. It had happened under the guard of the Tower Watch, right in front of his apprentice and chief officer.
Rostioff had to be carried to the infirmary where the Tower’s greatest healers reversed the effects of the aging magick. They helped him as best they could, giving him back part of his youth, but Graxxen’s curse, too ancient and far too powerful to be undone so easily, left it’s scar. Rostioff could feel the taint on his soul. Even though he no longer looked it, he could feel it. After hours of incantations, meditations, incense, and herbal baths, he dismissed all the healers, saying he felt as good as new. He simply lay there and wept at the loss of his lifelong mentor, his companion, his best friend, his father. Danthalas had always been there for Rostioff as long as he could remember. He even called him father from time to time out of respect for the old elf. Without his guidance, Rostioff felt a great pit of emptiness and fear well up within him. He’d seen what Graxxen could do and had sent some powerful spells at the creature, but they had little effect. Danthalas had stricken him with a very powerful reverse healing spell that should have withered Graxxen into a pile of soot, but he merely laughed and shrugged it off.
“Tillata spratt av uraldrig drakar gripa din sjal.....” The last words ever spoken to Danthalas were from the mouth of the enemy. It meant “May spirits of ancient dragons take your soul,” and that is precisely what happened. Graxxen used Blood Magick to call upon the lost essence of evil dragon spirits to come forth and capture Danthalas’ very essence. He could hear Graxxen’s wicked and evil laughter ringing in his mind as he dozed and finally fell into a restless sleep.
Terrible dreams befell him of ghouls chasing him. He saw bone dragons taking to flight and breathing forth the very essence of evil. They spewed a black shroud that covered the land not in flame, but in darkness so thick and impenetrable, it choked the life from the living and withered the grasses and flowers. The dream turned and he found himself sitting atop a hill under a great Rowenwood tree. It was quiet, peaceful. He could feel the warm summer wind on his face and smelled the scents of wild flowers in bloom. He could hear birds chirping in the distance.
He looked out over the meadow and walking through it came a woman dressed all in sheer silver with hair that glistened like gold and copper. At her side was a great wolf, the likes of which one would only see on the Great Northern Plains. They approached calmly and the sun shone so brightly behind her. He could scarcely make out her face or the face of the wolf, only their eyes. She sat down beside him in the grass and did not speak. The wolf lay close by. All three sat and stared out over the great field before them, surrounded on all sides by the most beautiful mountain scene Rostioff had ever lay eyes on. The grass and wild flowers of the meadow swayed rhythmically in the warm breeze. He felt at peace and could not explain the sensation, but the whole experience put him at ease with this woman and her wolf companion. She took his head close to her and he lay on her breast. She stroked his hair until he nearly fell asleep again and she began to speak.
“Master Rostioff, it is I, Manya, and I have brought Ravak of the clan of the Winter Wolf with me.”
He looked up to now see the wolf for what he was; the large Barbarian she had taken up with in the Mystpeak Mountains. She spoke again.
“We are camped north of the Danthar and plan to head south toward the Tower, but I wanted to speak with you. Have you seen the eggs to safety and that they’re under close guard?” Her voice was almost melodic.
It sounded as of sea birds and waves washing gently upon a shore. He’d never experienced a Dream Speak so vivid and so tranquil.
“Yes, Manya. The eggs are in the Tower safe and sound, but we have suffered a great loss. Graxxen has made off with my Dragon Orb. He’s taken the very soul of Arch Mage Danthalas, leaving him dead in his own study. I have failed.” He put his head down on her breast again and began to weep like a child.
The wolf whimpered out of pity for Rostioff and placed a paw on his arm. The wizard turned inward and wept for many long minutes at the loss of his master and the failure of losing the orb to Graxxen. Manya said nothing more, but held him close, rocking gently. The soft breeze moving through the meadow grasses, the only sound that could be heard to accompany the Rostioff’s weeping.
Manya looked to Ravak and shook her head with tears in her eyes. She didn’t know what to do except get to the Tower and rear those eggs to hatching. She coddled Rostioff until he was lost to the Dream Speak in a deep sleep back in his own head. She and Ravak then departed back to their own place in the waking wyrld.
Rostioff slept deeply and dreamlessly after that. He needed the rest, for he’d suffered a great many losses.
Chapter 18
Danthar Forest
The day dawned cool and misty out in the ancient Rowenwood valley south of the great Mystpeak Mountains. Ravak and Kaldrinn had both risen early. During the course of their trek out of the Mystpeaks since fleeing Dragon’s Maw Keep, they’d become fast friends, which one might expect of a Ranger and a Barbarian who’d lived and walked much of the same ground throughout their lives. They spent the long hours of travel talking about hunting and trapping. Ravak taught Kaldrinn the way of the spear and Kaldrinn taught Ravak the way of the sword. They were off hunting for breakfast already when the others rose from a restless sleep. Postgaar looked a terrible mess. His hair stuck out in all directions all caked with leaves, twigs, and dirt. He looked like a creature from a swamp more than a dwarf.
“What time is it, lass?” he said to Manya as he rose stretching and scratching in a most unpleasant manner.
“It is a couple of hours passed dawn,” said Manya as she did her best to keep a straight face. She poured him a cup of tea.
“You look like you could use a bath, my friend,” came Kaldrinn’s taunt from somewhere behind Postgaar as he and Ravak returned to camp with a deer and sack of wild fruits and roots. Everyone chuckled at poor Postgaar as he wheeled about trying to examine himself. He did agree the stink was a little much, but most of them were covered in one manner or another in the rotting blood of ghouls from the battle days before.
“I have some soap in my pack and you may all use it. Kaldrinn and I found a brook to the west about a ten-minute walk. It’s as safe as can be. The ghouls and goblins a
re nowhere to be seen. Besides, they’re a lazy lot and wouldn’t come this far south unless ordered to do so by Graxxen.”
Manya rose first to the offer of a bath. “I think I’ll be the first to take you up on that. Turynn, please come stand watch over me if you would.”
One by one they came and went throughout the morning, each bathing in turn. Ravak and Kaldrinn decided they’d rest for one more day before heading further south. They harvested another couple of deer, skinning and setting the hides to tan over low flame at night and they divided and salted the meats to dry them for the journey ahead. Skins were filled with water and clothes washed. It became a day of preparations since ahead of them lay the great and fabled wood of the Danthar, said to be a place of mystery, quite secluded and untraveled due to the terrible tales told about it.
Once everyone returned from their baths, they gathered round the fire for breakfast.
“Ahead of us is Danthar Forest. Tales have been told at Stonehammer Keep for generations of the witch that haunts those woods. I’m uneasy about enterin’ such a place even though I know the tales to be nothing more than children’s stories made to scare them into staying in bed at night,” said Postgaar.
“They’re not just faerie tales,” said Kaldrinn. “I’ve been within the Danthar on two separate occasions and I’m lucky I lived to tell you about it. Legend has it a terrible witch lives within the Danthar Forest and any man fool enough to enter the dark and gnarly wood is sure to fall victim to her twisted ensorcelments, never to be seen again. It’s believed that she’d turn any travellers who entered her wood, uninvited into the very elm trees that gave the place its foreboding and twisted reputation,” said Kaldrinn, swallowing hard. Even thinking about the place sent a chill up his spine. He continued; “On one such occasion I found myself on the western edge of the Danthar gathering Locus Root for Master, Danthalas. I’d lost track of how far in I’d travelled but the witch watched me the entire time. She approached me in the form of a beautiful wood spirit and bid me turn back and leave the wood at once. Her charm fell upon me and I had no choice but to obey her. I can’t explain how I felt but I’d been compelled to follow her word. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the shore of Who Calls Lake staring at the water mindless. I’d turned and walked a full day’s travel to the west without a thought in my head. I’m lucky I wasn’t eaten by leprechauns or brownies,” said Kaldrinn.
“Leprechauns and brownies don’t eat people,” said Manya smiling at Kaldrinn’s expense.
“As sure as I sit here today I know that brownies are wicked little creatures that eat wayward men lost in their woods. All the Rangers of the Garrison talk about them. Say what you will but the fae folk are nothing but trouble,” said Kaldrinn as he took a sip of tea, dumped his cup in the fire and walked away to think.
“Turynn and I are fae folk, half-elves to be exact,” said Manya grinning and winking at her brother playfully to goad the men on.
“Kaldrinn, I can tell you as a mage of the Tower who has studied the fae folk extensively that none of that is true,” added Manya.
“Sure seems to have put a fright into the lad none the less, and into me. I’ll not be strayin’ far from the pack in that twisted place, lest I be a dinner for faeries. There’s always some truth to children’s faerie tales, isn’t that right Master, Ravak?” asked Postgaar.
“I can’t say for certain about any of it as I’ve never even been south of the Mystpeaks until now but I know this; all the tales my mother and father told me as a child round’ the fire came true this past moon for me. Dragons, Graxxen, Dragon’s Maw Keep, all of it was told to us as myth and legend and here I sit caught up in the midst of it. I for one believe there is some truth to what Kaldrinn and Postgaar say.”
“I’m there with you. My sister has a way of spoiling legends due to her time studying at the Tower. I find there’s always a grain of truth to the stories but they’ve been inflated or distorted each time they are told. I’ll be keeping my head on a swivel in those woods, make no mistake,” said Turynn.
After they’d all had their fill of breakfasts, lunches, and midday pipes of tobacco, they decided to gather formally around the fire once again. Everyone seemed to be either smoking or drinking ale. Ravak and Kaldrinn discussed the Danthar for most of the day on and off. The Barbarian would ask a question and Kaldrinn would provide a detailed answer, draw a little map into the palm of his hand, or scratch something in the dirt to better illustrate what was ahead of them.
Ravak rose to speak. “Well, I think we all know one another now and have drawn enough goblin and ghoul blood together to call each other friends. I am glad to know you all.” He raised his pipe to them and they all did the same with a pipe or a cup and a smile. “My good friend Kaldrinn and I have been discussing the many routes he knows of through the Danthar as he’s travelled that way from the southern end of the wood more than once for the Magi of the Tower. As near as we can figure it, we are some twelve days’ travel from the Tower right now. We’ll spend two days more in these wretched goblin-infested hills before entering the Danthar. Does anyone have anything they would like to add or to ask? Now is the time.”
“I do,” said Kaldrinn.
“Go ahead then, friend,” Ravak urged him.
“I know most of you don’t know me very well, but the days we spend in the infernal wood will bring us very close together indeed. Do not stray from the path I carve. Don’t lag behind. Do not wilfully damage the wood or the wildlife in anyway. We’ll have to carve a path through the deadfall, but please let me arrange our route and follow my lead in the wood. I intend on only cutting deadwood where possible, though the trees do get very thick within as the growth is predominantly Elm, which tends to grow a bit wild.”
“What's’iss’? A bleedin' prison march,” Postgaar belted out without warning. “I’ll walk where I bloomin' well please and if I happen ta’ break a branch, then so be it. There are five of us; all sturdy and well able to protect ourselves. We’ve nothin’ ta' fear, lad, it’s all faerie tales like I said at breakfast.” He smacked Kaldrinn on the back and took a seat by the fire, not willing to listen to any more of the Ranger’s warnings. Postgaar appeared to bit a bit drunk as he was trying to drain the last of his ale skins.
Ravak put a hand on Kaldrinn’s shoulder to restrain him from saying anything that might cause further argument. The companions spent the rest of the day preparing for the journey ahead and relaxing, while talking by the fire at night.
The next morning a warm summer breeze blew through the trees. The sun rose bright in the clear morning sky. They set out at dawn, marching at a steady pace, leaving the horses to carry the meat and hides they’d gathered. The air grew sweeter and the sun filtered through the treetops more readily as they approached the southern tip of the Rowenwoods. The marching grew easy and lighthearted, and the following day they spent at a relatively easy pace as well.
Round about noon, the sun hung high overhead. It had become a hot summer’s day and the hike made it all the hotter. Postgaar plunked himself down on a large rock to one side of the trail.
“That’s it for me, lads. I need a drink and some dinner if I’m ta’ walk another step.” He uncorked his ale skin and took a big swig, then reached into his hip bag for a nice bit of jerky and a piece of fruit for lunch. The others were hungry as well so there wasn’t much argument. Kaldrinn and Ravak munched hungrily at some venison and apples as they discussed their route through the hills, making notes on a map Kaldrinn carried of the region.
Manya sat off to one side of their group on her own in quiet contemplation, staring up at a clear patch of sky through the trees. The greenery had changed some as they’d walked. The Rowenwoods had all but disappeared to the east of them and the predominant growth had slowly turned to Elms.
Turynn and Postgaar argued about the seasoning of the venison and what needed to be changed in the next batch in order for it to accompany the ale better. They finished up their lunches and were back under way, ma
king good time in spite of the heat. They agreed to travel past dark so they could make as many miles as possible in the cool night air.
The next day passed in much the same manner without any excitement. All the other trees were gone now. The Danthar consisted only of a gnarled and twisted mess of Elm, some very old, hundreds of seasons old, and some very young. Sprouts, saplings, and deadwood as thick as one can imagine and as far as the eye could see, which happened to be none too far in such a tangle. They walked slowly through the snarl of Elm. The road shifted into a barely discernible goat trail from the rest of the forest, but Kaldrinn knew the way. Ravak, more than skilled enough to pick out the path let Kaldrinn with his years of experience lead. The old road from the First Age had never been completed and they left the end of it two days past as they came down out of the hills. All they had now consisted of a swathe slightly less grown in than the forest around them to follow.
The deadwood lay everywhere and frequently it had fallen across their path as they went. Much of it could be moved, but still they came across deadwood that had fallen but not been uprooted. This they had to cut through when they could find no other way past.
Kaldrinn remained stalwart in his insistence they not leave the road, which Postgaar had noted repeatedly had become nothing more than a deer path at best and held no resemblance to any road he’d ever seen.
Ravak had given Kaldrinn an axe. Postgaar had his own dwarven battle axe so they stood three a breast, cutting a path through the trees for the horses where they could not get by.