by Lana Axe
“I could swim it,” Zamna said. “I might wish I hadn’t, but I could do it.” Being born on an island, he had spent many hours swimming in the ocean in his youth. He knew himself to be a strong swimmer, but the liquid before him could be toxic. The thought of stepping into it nearly made him ill.
“I can’t swim,” Taren admitted. In all his years of schooling, he had never bothered to learn. If he had become a water mage, he might have found the skill useful. Instead he had focused on keeping his feet firmly planted on the earth. “We’ll have to build a raft.”
The two men looked around but found no materials that could be used for a raft. A few trees stood tall, but they had no way of cutting them down or removing their branches. Taren briefly considered using fire to topple one, but burnt limbs would serve poorly for a raft.
With a sigh, Zamna said, “I could swim to the far bank and see if there is anything there that could be used to get you across.” He still dreaded the thought of entering the lake, but it seemed like that would be his only choice.
Taren stepped forward toward the lake. “Let me check the water first,” he said. “I might be able to determine if it’s toxic.” He produced an empty vial from his bag and knelt down next to the yellow liquid. Reaching the vial forward, he touched the mouth of it to the water and drew out a small amount. When he lifted the vial away from the surface, the ground began to shake.
The pair crouched low to maintain their footing as the rumbling continued. As they watched in stunned silence, a giant stone-gray hand lifted itself from the center of the lake, its massive palm facing upward. Slowly, the hand made its way across the lake, approaching the bank where the travelers stood. It came to a halt in the shallows and lowered itself down to the surface of the water, its fingers reaching the land near Taren’s feet. He stared at it a moment longer, amazed by what he had just witnessed. Staring at the upturned hand, he knew what he had to do.
Chapter 14
Cautiously Taren stepped forward, placing a foot on one of the outstretched stone fingers. Zamna extended an arm as if to stop him, but Taren shook his head.
“It’s all right,” Taren assured him. “It will take us to the other side.” He climbed onto the fingers and moved to sit upon the palm.
Zamna eyed his friend suspiciously. “Are you sure it’s safe?” he asked, approaching warily.
“Yes,” Taren replied, motioning for him to come aboard.
Reluctantly, Zamna stepped up onto the fingers and made his way next to the mage. Slowly he took a seat. As soon as he was down, the hand began to move, lifting itself to a height several feet above the surface. In a smooth motion, it carried them out over the lake. Looking down, they observed the swirling yellow-green liquid below them. Small puffs of greenish smoke rose from the surface, dissipating a few inches above the fetid water. Surprisingly, the smell was less intense from above the lake’s surface. The bog on the other side must have contributed to the majority of the stench.
The hand moved at a snail’s pace, which made Zamna even more anxious. “I wish this thing would move faster,” he commented.
“It probably just doesn’t want to jostle us too much,” Taren suggested. “Most people aren’t accustomed to this form of travel, I’d assume.”
“Well, I’ll be happier to be back on land,” the La’kertan said, staring at the far bank.
As they approached the far side, Taren beheld a wide green prairie stretching on before them. His heart lifted as he looked forward to setting foot on the promising land ahead. It was far more inviting than some of the other landscapes they’d encountered.
The stone hand finally came to a halt and lowered itself to a height even with the bank. The travelers hurried off their strange boat and turned to watch as it sank back into the depths.
“Thank you,” Taren called after it, not knowing whether it had any type of consciousness. It was best to be polite, just in case. He might need a ride back to the other side someday.
As he moved away from the bank, Zamna straightened his pack. “How did you know that thing wouldn’t crush us or drown us?”
“I didn’t,” Taren admitted.
Zamna shot him a sharp look. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” he replied with a grin. “It seemed the most logical course.”
Zamna shook his head and pursed his lips, unsure how to respond. The mage had gambled both their lives, but he had turned out to be correct. He admired the young man’s gumption. Persuading the La’kertan to follow had taken nearly no effort. He had simply trusted in the mage’s decision—a decision that had brought them both safely across The Rotting Lake.
With their feet on solid ground, they continued their southward march. Taren stopped repeatedly to collect flowers and leaves that might prove useful for potions. Though he didn’t expect to find the proper equipment, he preferred to travel prepared. Passing up these ingredients would be silly when they held medicinal properties despite not being processed.
The prairie grass reached up to their knees, and a gentle breeze caressed the stalks as they moved past. The weather was delightful, with a bright sun shining and puffy clouds drifting overhead. Butterflies in a variety of colors floated lazily on the breeze, stopping for an occasional sip from a fragrant bloom. Shades of pink, yellow, and blue were scattered throughout the green, plotting a course for the travelers as they walked in serene silence.
The land surpassed the forests in beauty, at least in Taren’s mind. Here was a land of tranquility and open spaces, where a mage could find both solitude and comfort. For an herbalist, there were few landscapes more appealing than a meadow. Here the ingredients grew wild and strong without the need for human intervention. Once, he had read a text that suggested even the finest artificial gardens produced a weaker variety of herbs. It went on to explain how human intervention negated the need for the plant to survive on its own merits. In the wild, only the strongest, healthiest individuals would survive. This land was like a treasure trove to the young herbalist. A plethora of the finest ingredients Nōl’Deron had to offer lay before him, ripe for the taking. A more blissful land he had never seen.
For an entire day, they basked in the serenity of the prairie. By the second day, the land was dotted once again with farmhouses and green fields. There was likely a town nearby, but they knew neither in which direction it lay, nor how many days off-course it would take them.
“If we need supplies, you could approach one of the farms,” Zamna suggested. “I should stay back, in case they aren’t familiar with my kind.”
“I’ve found so much in the meadow that I doubt there’s anything I need,” Taren replied. “All of these items are edible, and we still have nuts and fruit. You’ve hardly eaten anything from our stores.”
Zamna shrugged. “My tastes are different from yours.” He hissed slightly with laughter.
As they passed by one of the farms, Taren noticed livestock in the fields. Moving closer, he could clearly see the soft white fleece of sheep. His master’s words echoed in his mind: “Head south through the woods until the wool looks strange, and then continue until it’s normal again.” This wool was certainly more normal than the red fleece of the Rixville sheep.
Turning to his companion, Taren said, “We must be getting close.”
“How can you tell?” Zamna wondered.
“My master said the wool would be normal when I was nearing the tomb.”
Zamna looked over at the sheep and asked, “Is that normal to you?”
Taren seemed confused. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “What does a La’kertan sheep look like?”
Laughing, he replied, “There’s no such animal in my homeland. The only sheep I’ve encountered were those red ones. I didn’t know there were different varieties.”
“I didn’t either,” Taren admitted. “I only know what my master meant. In Ky’sall, the sheep look like these.” He pointed to the field, wondering if there was any significance to the wool or if Imrit had simply used them a
s a visual aid.
Continuing past the farms, they moved at a good pace. There were no obstacles on the ground, and the weather was still beautiful. After several hours, they came across a dirt road leading east-west. It was poorly tended, likely being used only at harvest time.
Looking westward, Zamna asked, “Does that map of yours mention how far the towns might be? I’d be willing to take a short detour for an ale.”
The mage shook his head. “Master Imrit copied this map from a centuries-old text. None of the cities are listed, only landscapes. I don’t believe it’s drawn to scale either, and it doesn’t seem to reflect the changes that have occurred to the land over the centuries.”
Zamna sighed with disappointment. “We might as well keep going then,” he said.
“We could ask one of the farmers,” Taren suggested.
“No,” Zamna replied. “Let’s keep moving. If you’re right and we’re near the tomb, then soon I’ll be able to purchase the whole tavern rather than one drink.” Grinning at his companion, he clapped him on the shoulder before setting off.
The two walked side by side, enjoying the soft grass underfoot. The next day would bring yet another change to the land. Ahead in the distance, they could see that the grass was about to come to an end. A distinct line of demarcation brought an end to the prairie as if a wall separated the two areas. The ground before them was a pale red-brown. Taren knelt to feel the soil, which slipped through his fingers like dust.
“This land is dead,” he stated. “There are no nutrients in this soil.” Looking back over his shoulder, he longed for the grassland they had just crossed. The way ahead felt ominous and uninviting.
Zamna looked back at the grass as well. “I think that curse sort of comes and goes,” he said, referring to the Sisters’ warning.
“It seems that way,” Taren agreed. “Though, I suppose we haven’t seen every detail of those lands. They all might be cursed in one way or another.”
Turning to face the barren land ahead of them, Zamna said, “This land feels cursed, no doubt about it. I’m not a man to stand in fear, but I have no desire to enter this place.” He stared ahead into the desolate region before him and frowned.
“You aren’t obligated to accompany me,” Taren said. “I have no choice, but you are welcome to leave if you want to.” Taren hoped the La’kertan would choose to continue their journey. So far, he had proved a useful companion, and spending who knows how long alone in the bleak land ahead would likely weaken his resolve to continue.
Zamna stared at him in disbelief. “Have I found this treasure I’m after? If I turn back now, I get nothing.” He shook his head. “I promised to accompany you to this tomb, and I have yet to set foot inside it. I’m going in there, like it or not.”
Taren’s lips curled into a smile. With a nod, he stepped forward, placing his feet firmly on the lifeless soil. There were no trees to be seen, no grass, and no wildlife, not even insects. Whatever had happened to this land, it had destroyed life in the area absolutely. If ever they had set foot in a cursed land, this was surely it. The lands they had traversed previously had their quirks, but this one was the worst of all.
Taren had been given no warning about this place, but it reminded him slightly of The Barrens near his home. He found himself constantly turning his head in search of the strange stone beast that had attacked the other two apprentices. Though he dreaded the thought of someday returning to that land, the area he was currently walking through felt much worse. He had witnessed no death here, but he could feel it all around him. His heart thumped loudly in his ears, his chest visibly rising and falling with each breath.
Zamna felt uneasy as well. He carried a dagger in his hand rather than allowing it to rest in its sheath, as it had for most of the journey. Though there was no sign of life, he expected an attack at any moment. This land was strange, and every one of his senses was on high alert.
They trudged on, neither man saying a word. Their ears attuned to their surroundings, listening intently for the slightest sign of life. As the day wore on, the sky took on a deep-red haze.
“Are those clouds?” the La’kertan wondered aloud.
Taren had no idea. “Let’s hope that’s all they are.”
The sky drew darker as they traveled, and an occasional pecking sound made its way to their ears. Exchanging puzzled glances, they listened more closely, hoping to determine what was making the noise.
Zamna’s eyes caught sight of tiny objects dropping ahead of them in the distance. “I think it’s raining,” he said.
The sounds continued, becoming more numerous and more frequent. The raindrops reached their location, hitting them heavily as they fell. Observing the ground at their feet, they noticed the raindrops did not soak into the soil. Instead, they remained on top, laying where they fell.
Taren knelt down and reached out a hand to the object that fell from the sky. Turning it over in his hand, he stood upright and handed the item to his companion. “It’s not rain,” he declared. “These are bone fragments.”
Taking the object, Zamna shuddered. It was small, but unmistakably, a piece of dried bone. It was pitted at the center where the marrow had once been. What caused these bones to fall from the sky he could not say. In all his travels, he had never encountered anything so strange.
The bones continued to fall, the shower becoming more intense. The fragments grew larger, and the men lifted their packs above their heads to shield themselves from the downpour. Eventually, entire bones dropped to the ground, some resembling human parts, others animal, and some of them were completely unknown to the travelers.
They dashed through the deluge, hoping to make it to shelter. In the distance, they spotted an old barn, the dilapidated structure barely standing.
“It looks like it’s about to fall down,” Taren said as they moved closer to the building.
“It’s still better than being pummeled by bones,” Zamna replied.
The two men ran inside and lowered their packs, the sound of the rain pounding against the top of the barn. There were numerous holes in the roof, but the fragments were too large to fit through. The boards composing the structure creaked slightly as the storm continued.
“Do you have a spell that will fortify this barn?” Zamna asked. “I’m not sure how long it’s been standing, but it doesn’t look good.”
Zamna was correct. The wooden structure had stood in disrepair since the land fell under Ailwen’s power. It was composed only of wooden slats, which had avoided rot only due to the absence of moisture in this land. Still the lack of care had resulted in loose boards and a weakened frame. The entire building moved slightly under the weight of the bones.
“I can try,” Taren replied. Digging into his magical knowledge, he tried to find the correct spell to stop the barn from collapsing on top of them. Deciding on an appropriate spell, he rose and placed his hands against the nearest wall. Spreading white magic from his hands, he repeated the spell on each of the four walls before blasting the magic toward the ceiling. “That should help,” he declared.
The two men settled in to wait out the storm. With travel impossible, they decided to try to rest for the journey ahead. They had no idea how much ground there still was to cover, so they might as well rest while they had the chance. The sound of the rain became lighter, returning to the smaller chunks of bone that had fallen at first, but it refused to stop. It continued on for hours, the bones piling up outside the opening to the barn.
“It’s going to be awkward walking through that,” Zamna said with a sigh.
Taren feared the La’kertan might be right. The land was completely covered, and the bones were still coming down. Wading through them might soon become impossible. Reaching out into the rain, he collected a handful of fragments to fashion into a small fire. Though it was not cold in this land, fire provided a peaceful feeling of home, and he longed for its comfort.
As the blue magical flames roared to life, the two men spread out the
ir beds on either side of the fire. Neither of them were tired, and both felt uneasy about the land they were in.
Taren could bear the silence no longer. Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, “Tell me about La’kerta.”
Zamna looked at him curiously but remained silent.
“Why did you leave there?” Taren wondered, finally not too nervous to ask. He had traveled for weeks with this man about whom he still knew so little. Curiosity finally got the better of him, and he would press on until he knew the La’kertan’s story. “Tell me how you ended up an assassin. Did someone train you or did you learn on your own?”
Zamna settled back against his bed and stared up at the wooden ceiling. With a sigh, he said, “La’kerta is an island filled with dense jungles. There are few visitors to be found, and my people keep mainly to themselves. My family was dirt poor, living on what the jungle itself could provide.”
“Are there no cities?” Taren wondered.
“There are,” Zamna replied. “But my family did not travel to them. There is corruption and fighting in the cities, and they preferred to stay in the jungle.”
“Is that why you left?” Taren asked. “Were you tired of living that way?”
“I knew there was a bigger world out there that I was missing out on. I yearned to explore other lands from the time I was a child. One day, I just decided to go.”
“Alone? Were you frightened?”
“I wasn’t smart enough to be frightened,” he said with a laugh. “I was young and sure of myself. I worked my way onto ships, mostly cleaning up after the sailors. They weren’t too happy to have me around, but I managed. I visited lands full of humans and elves, and I haven’t returned home since.”
“How did you become an assassin?” This was the most pressing question Taren had for his friend. The La’kertan did not strike him as a killer, yet that was the profession he had chosen. There must be a reason.