by Sandra Waugh
The Troth was gone in a blink of eye—slimy skin dissolving into the wet tumble of dark matter. I spiraled once on the path to look, noting vaguely that the vine shoots that took over the path last night were gone from it now, creeping back into their own territory. But the Troth! Where was it?
“Lark!” Gharain had followed me out, and I turned to look at him.
“A Troth!” I shouted, straining against Dark Wood’s insidious pressure. “Did you see it?”
“Lark, the sword! It is not for you! Let it go!”
But then the Troth was back, leaping onto the path, confronting me with gurgling snarls and snapping jaw. I cried out and tried to put the sword between us. Gharain was shouting, but so too was the Troth screeching, and I could understand neither. The Troth edged nearer; I could not lift the sword. It weighed beyond my strength—a mountain between my hands. With one sweep of its iron arm, the beast knocked the weapon from me. It held no weight for him; like a pebble it went winging away to the side of the path—no, off the path and into the undergrowth, which seemed to swallow the blade whole.
I was tossed suddenly to one side; Gharain had jerked me from the Troth even as I stared dumbfounded at the disappearing sword. His brief hold regrounded my body; I fell hard on the path, but at least I could breathe. And I found my voice, and screamed, for Gharain was diving, rolling deftly toward his weapon, snatching it away from the weeds and vines in a one-handed grip before the Troth leaped on him. I screamed again, clambering to my feet, but Gharain shouted, “Stay back!” With a will and strength I could neither imagine, the Rider contorted, forcing the Troth over him, and was up, plunging the sword into its gristly skin.
The Troth’s body reacted wildly to the blade—imploding in a bloody and foul hiss. I froze and then doubled over, ill. I’d seen this before, in my vision of the Riders’ battle, this gruesome carnage. How could I have ever imagined I would wield a sword to such violence? And then I shuddered, for an even more horrifying thought pervaded: I’d just nearly killed Gharain with my foolish attempt at battle. Hadn’t I been warned not to use a weapon?
Chaos pounced then on my fears, tearing into my mind as I allowed in the horror of the Troth’s fate—nay, the fate of every strike of fury—and my rash and near-fatal error. I shrank down, hugging my knees, the Wood’s frenzy already seeping in. Gharain was not the only one whose passions could do harm—I’d been warned of that as well. I heard Gharain shout my name, but I could not raise my head. Dark Wood would take me now; my mind reeled.
“Lark,” Gharain was calling out to me. “The sword is not for you. It is what Laurent said: no weapons for you. They deflect your power.”
I blurted, “I’m sorry.” And then, “Gharain—”
He knew at once. There were running footsteps, and he had me in his arms. Strong hold, strong aid. The gasping for breath eased; the frenzied blurring in my mind eased—Dark Wood stepped back.
I rested my head in his shoulder and let my breath shudder, then quiet. Gharain said nothing, simply held me tight, one arm wrapped in my hair, the other around my back, close and secure.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and I nodded again, trying to look up at him and mumble once more, “I’m sorry.…” My voice died away as Gharain’s gaze moved beyond me, behind me, seeing something that caused his eyes to widen in shock.
He whispered, “Behind you, Lark. Behind you.”
Gharain tensed, and his hand regripped his sword, but he stayed still. My skin crawled, anticipating a swipe of claw or slash of fang, and yet this felt wrong. Then my hair was pricking, but it was not for anticipated vision, or terrifying beasts—but something new.
Gharain murmured, “Look west at the sunrise.”
For a moment I did not understand him, but then I remembered Twig’s last words. I turned my head slowly, mouth open in surprise.
In the depths of Dark Wood, the wretched chaos to the west of us was dissolving in the faint glimmer of dawn—dissolving into a mist that shimmered and then slowly parted, revealing an expanse of bare brown earth. It opened, wide and empty; I let go of Gharain and stepped unconsciously toward it.
“No, wait!” Gharain’s urgency stopped me in my tracks. He wiped his blade on the dirt of the path and walked to me.
“Twig’s words,” I repeated to him. “At dawn we look to the west. This is the way to go.”
“Yes.” There was uneasiness in Gharain’s voice, or maybe uncertainty, but I had no such doubt. Still, Gharain reached a hand to my shoulder to stay me. “Lark, you have to be ready for this.”
I looked up at him and put my hand over his. “I am ready.”
There was a small chuckle from him. “Lark, our clothes—more importantly, your tokens.”
I was in my undershift, Gharain bare-chested, all of my gifts in my pack in the burrow. I grinned, relieved by his humor, faint as it was. “I’ll get our things.”
“Be quick,” Gharain murmured, and looked back at the puddle of dead Troth.
I turned and ran back to the burrow, skidding down the entry. No need any longer for such protection, I thought briefly, passing the crumpled stems of the wood betony. I tugged on my leggings, tunic, and boots, shouldered my pack, before stopping as I remembered to add the now-dark moonstone to the other tokens in my bag. I unhooked Gharain’s tunic from the oak root and then made a circle in the wide room.
“Thank you,” I whispered, hand on heart, to the oak, to the moths, to the spare, quiet space and drying moss. “Thank you.” The glimmer moths beat their wings once, in tandem, and their light flickered out.
And then I was climbing back up the short tunnel to the dim light of Dark Wood.
“I am ready—” I began, but my words fell away.
There were three, then four Troths out from Dark Wood, enclosing Gharain, their opaque stare fixed on him as he turned slowly in their midst, his sword pointing toward each as he moved, keeping them at bay. In the surrounding tangle were the filmy eyes of so many more. So many, many more.
“Gharain …”
“Hush, love,” he said softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the beasts. “They do not seek to kill me.”
Stunned, I watched them circle him, envelop him with foul stink and glare. What to do? I thought wildly. What should I do? And yet I could not move.
But Gharain prompted, far too calmly, “Go, Lark. Go now. You’ve only got this short time of dawn.”
“I cannot leave you.” I moaned low with the fear of it, like an animal trapped. Already Dark Wood was there, rapping at my mind—looking for an opening, a way to spring in and tear me apart.
“Yes,” Gharain said very clearly, “you can.”
The Troths took a step in. I cried out and one of the Troths turned. There is nothing but viciousness in a Troth’s expression, but I felt too, at that moment, a glare of triumph. What was this challenge and parry? Why would Gharain not stab the thing?
“Lark, you cannot wait. Go.”
I looked at the clearing. Already the mist was beginning to reclaim the open space as morning strengthened. I looked back at Gharain. Sweat was breaking on his brow.
“I can stop one, I am sure of it,” I begged, nodding toward a Troth. “If you sweep the sword, if you catch two, and go for the third, I can—”
He said through clenched teeth, “ ’Twill not matter if I strike at one; there will be another and another to take its place. It’s what the Breeders want—this distraction. Do not let it claim you. Quickly now!”
“Dark Wood will invade me! I feel it already, Gharain. Please, I cannot leave you!”
“It will be safe through the mist.” And then, “Lark, go before it is too late. Go!” The Troths took another step to tighten their circle around the Rider.
He was right. I hated that he was right. Tears pricked my eyes. “Please. We were to do this together.”
“Your journey, love; ’tis your journey. Trust yourself.” He looked up to give a brief smile. “Trust me.”
And of a sudden, he p
ointed his sword tip down and shouted out, “Now, Lark! Go! Turn and do not look back!”
The Troths closed on him, screeching, smothering, then dragging Gharain into Dark Wood. Their sound was horrible, and I swear I heard the banes echoing the triumph with their own terrible cries.
And then Dark Wood swallowed the group whole, even as it released me. And, for a single, bleak moment, there was no sound at all.
IT IS NOT his time.
I swore this to myself as I turned, fiercely shaking away the frenzy that launched itself at me again full force. It is not his time! I knew it to be true; I knew it. There were visions to be fulfilled; Gharain had to strike first.
He needed to be alive so that he could kill me.
I turned, struggling too to believe what Gharain had said, that it was distraction the Breeders wanted, that I should not run after him—tear into the woods with a shriek of terror and nothing else—to somehow save him. I forced myself to place one foot in front of the next; I forced my head up, to look west at the mist. It was already closing, the space. Dark Wood was shimmering through the edges of that gray light—or maybe it was not real, for there were tears in my eyes and everything glittered oddly.
But no—the Wood was reappearing, the bare brown earth growing hazy and the veil of gray closing hard. With a moan I charged forward, pushing into the mist. For a moment it resisted, a suffocating drape of velvet, holding me back. The energies whipped, bit through me. I think, even, that a tendril of vine reached for my ankle, but I clawed at the mist, thrust it apart, and then I was through, gasping and shaking. Dark Wood faded behind, and I stood at the edge of the endless, dull expanse of brown.
How colorless was the sky! No sun, no blue, simply a sheet of gray overhead. I waited to recover, to listen, but there was nothing to listen to except my own panting breath. Complete and utter desolation. Goose bumps shivered over my skin, and the silence began to swallow me.
But then, no. The silence broke sharply. A raven’s cry—severe and shrill and insistent. I looked up to see his dark form against the gray sky.
A raven … One had brought me the third sign, set me on the path to this very moment. However fates had transpired, intertwined, this was where I stood. There was no going back. I couldn’t go back. I had to stop the tears and the moans and the whimpers. I was not the same girl who left Merith. I was a Guardian.
“Trust yourself,” I said loudly, thrusting my voice into the empty air. I set my jaw; I’d shivered too much from exposure and fear and doubt, shied from too much my whole life. This was my journey, my task. I would find the Life amulet, the orb. I would claim it for Tarnec. I would find Gharain. I would claim him for Evie. I would trust myself.
I hoped I could hold this burst of resolve.
I took a step into the brown, and then watched the wet dirt slime over my foot and gasped. A bog.
Worse than a marsh, this was the terror of all travelers. I froze at the deadly misstep, and then gently eased my boot out of the muck and backed onto firm ground. A bog, a quicksand; frantic movements would pull a man down, and slow motions as well would sink a soul deep, make it impossible to retrieve his foot, or his footing. Movement must be steady, light, and quick. Steady, light, and quick. I kneeled down at the edge, closed my eyes, and held my hands out, sensing through them for the drier spots, the safest path to take. And I could smell it; I could feel the subtle changes against my palm. I kept my eyes closed, and stood slowly, walking right three paces before I stepped out once again into the mire. The muck bubbled and hissed but did not suck me under. I thanked Nayla for the boots she’d provided; though wet to my ankles, inside the leather stayed dry.
The squelch, the slight sinking of weight, and whining tug to pull my foot up, away, and take another step. I was deliberate, feeling my way blind, sketching what must be a jagged line across the empty landscape. I had no idea where I was going, and yet I’d come this far—something else would happen to point the way.
I walked for a long time.
It was a slow shift in sensations, beginning as a wisp of mist brushing against my cheek. Then the scent of the bog changed—a faint smell of burning wood; a fire, I thought. And suddenly my foot came upon firmer ground, and soon I was walking silently and easily across the bare dirt, following the hint of smoke. The mist swept by, still challenging any view—but I paid little attention to that kind of sight, preferring more often to close my eyes.
It is, I suppose, why the hut seemed to appear from nowhere. I stopped short.
Brown upon brown: the ragged hovel jutted out of the dirt, solitary in this middle of nowhere. A one-room, sharp-peaked, slanted little thing—precariously upright on no foundation; had there been a breath of wind, it would have toppled.
I moved to it. It had to be empty, for how could anyone live in this nothingness? Closer. The place moaned as I neared, and I stopped at the chill from that sound. Then I shook myself and walked forward. Our own cottage moaned sometimes in a harsh wind—
And then the hair on the back of my neck pricked, and I whirled around with a gasp. There had been nothing behind me—nothing, I knew it. And yet this thing—female or not—was simply there, an apparition from the mist but as real and brown as the dirt on which we stood. The thing’s hand was out, spindly fingers scraping at my shoulder blade, jerking back at my sudden turn. Then, arms crossing chest, it inspected me with eyes sunk so deep in its bony face I could not tell their color.
“This is your birth day,” it hissed. “I smell it.”
And so it was. I’d forgotten.
“Birthday Girl, you walk where you do not belong.” The voice was reed-thin, a whistle from a scrawny throat.
Bog Hag. Her name came to me in a sickening rush as I looked at her; was it Raif who’d described one once, said his grandfather had seen her? Maybe Ruber Minwl had reached this bog. The decaying clothes, decaying skin, decaying smell that lay heavy around her—weren’t these Hags created from the dead souls of plants, animals, and persons who drowned in the bogs … or did they feed on them?
“You do not … BELONG!” The Hag shouted the last word. I flinched at her shriek, and barely held my footing.
“But I am here,” I said breathlessly, for I did not know how else to respond.
“Then here you will die.” She leaned toward me, toothless mouth splitting open. Oh, she smelled of dead things, and her nearness chilled through my bones. And yet … Troths too reeked of death, but their scent was more horrifying—of vicious, brutal death, the aftermath on a battlefield. This Hag’s smell was the heavy odor of death’s return to earth—after decomposition, after pain. Something about that made me less afraid. I stood a little firmer.
“I do not stay,” I said. “I seek the way—”
“The way?” A cackle for a laugh. “The way?”
“Yes.” I took a deep breath. “The way to the Myr Mountains.”
“Hah!” Another cackle, a gloating one. “You are far, aren’t you, little thing?”
I wondered why she called me little. I was no less tall than she, with her hunched back stooping no grand stature. Was this bravado? Was she also afraid? I was emboldened. “I do not think so,” I answered carefully. “I think I am near.” And then, even as I wondered why I made this up, I said, “You know the path. You can show me.”
The Bog Hag was taken aback. She jumped as if I’d struck her. “You dare!”
I nodded, feigning certainty, and she shrieked, “The path! The path!” She turned, and I watched almost disbelieving as she ran little circles before me, tossing herself like a bundle of sticks—scrawny arms and legs flying every which way—before repeating, “The path!”
I waited, watching her leap and writhe until at length she calmed herself and returned to me in her hobbled gait. “You ask something forbidden, little thing. You invade; you ask the forbidden. My answer for you is death!”
But I said more loudly, “I ask for the path. It is the only answer I accept, for—for it is my birthday, and I have tha
t right.” Did I? I’d made this up as well.
She cackled again, shivering with glee. “Brash you are!” She leaned in. “But as it is your birth celebration, I will allow your question before I kill you, if you answer me this: what makes you dare seek the path?”
“I am from Tarnec. I am sworn to reclaim the Life amulet.”
She flung herself back, cowering this time under my words. “Guardian!” she shrieked, as if to ward off a blow. And she leaped about me again, surveying me from all angles even as she danced out of reach. I heard her mutter about my hair, something about the sign. I also heard her curse herself. Tricked she’d been, she swore, tricked.
She lied. She knew me; she’d reached first to my shoulder—my birthmark. This display was distraction. And with a sudden dawning of horror, I looked down at my feet, realizing that the dance she was doing was scraping a pointed boundary around me in the rough dirt.
A spell. She would capture me within it. I leaped out before she could finish, shouting, “Stop!”
My voice thundered across the empty landscape, and the mist threw it back. The Hag crumpled and cowered below me, ducking under those stick arms, whining. I said sternly, “You will show me the way.”
“Birthday Guardian,” she keened, “you would threaten a helpless creature? Dark thing, dark thing—!”
“Stop it!” I yelled. “I wield no threat; I wield my right. My right.” She cringed again, churning herself in the dirt, and I laughed, exhilarated at the power my words radiated because they were true. Guardian—it was my right. I was even louder. “Do not pretend fear, Hag! Do not hope to charge strength from my ignorance. Show me the way.” My voice echoed long over the barren earth.
The Bog Hag relaxed and raised herself from the dirt. “True answer,” she muttered. “Day of birth; I am bound to point the path. So, I will show you—show you, little thing. You must follow me.”