The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  ‘What do you have there, Meat?’

  He curled into a ball but it was too late. His father reached for his arm and tore it away, almost wrenching his shoulder out of its socket and sending the two loaves spinning into the air.

  He dropped and twisted simultaneously, squirming free of the hand gripping him, one leg shooting out behind to swipe the legs out from under the bigger man. As his leg connected he reached out and caught one of the loaves before it hit the ground. He heard and felt the impact of his father’s body falling, but didn’t bother turning around to confirm it with his own eyes. He shot away, back into the relative safety of the alleys, the one dry loaf clutched safely to his chest.

  His mind was singing, unable to grasp what it was he had just done. He’d fought back. Finally. Convincingly. And saved his prize.

  He smiled as he bit into the crust of the bread and savoured the warm scent filling his nose.

  A silver tingle tickled the back of Shade’s eyelids as he slept, and some secret part of his mind readied itself for what it knew was about to occur. The tickle became a shudder as a wave of silver broke across his vision.

  He was staring down at a large, detailed map spread out on the table in front of him. One corner was held down by a polished stone, the other held in place by his own hand. He stared, momentarily confused by the sight of his hand. It was enormous—weathered and roughened by years of use, thin grey hairs curling around the knuckles. He flexed it slowly in front of his face, and the map rolled back up into a spiral.

  ‘Jared?’

  Another hand reached out and brushed the map back into position. He looked up into the eyes of the guard captain staring at him.

  ‘Captain Mont,’ he answered without thought.

  ‘Is there something the matter?’

  Jared shook his head and the strange feeling that had overcome him faded away. He cleared his throat with a grunt.

  ‘As you can see, Captain, here is Copring. Following along the southern edge of the Tangle, to the west lies Weverly and Reggon, both recently attacked. Further along, Verson, also taken. And Jarlyle—we have no news from there.’

  ‘I can confirm Jarlyle was hit not three weeks ago. It is no more.’

  Jared paused and looked up at the stern faced captain. ‘Then there is no question. Copring must be the next target.’

  ‘I can have my patrol stationed outside the village by nightfall.’

  ‘Do so. The western border has the most room. There are even a few abandoned huts still standing your troops may wish to take advantage of.’

  ‘The western edge? Isn’t that where the—’ Mont caught himself before spluttering the insult. ‘Where she abides?’

  Jared pulled back from the desk and stood up to his full impressive height, placing his hands on his hips and staring coldly down at the captain, letting his gaze say all that needed to be said. He knew the sort of prejudices these soldiers held.

  ‘Nurtle will keep well away from your men. They have nothing to fear from her.’

  Captain Mont dropped his eyes from Jared’s glare. ‘Very well. We’ll begin preparations. With your leave?’

  Jared nodded, his face still cold, and Mont backed out of the hut. As the door swung closed behind him, Jared sighed and let his arms drop to his sides.

  Can you blame them? Were you so very different, all those years ago, when you first encountered wild magic?

  He turned away from the desk and stared into the tall polished glass mirror propped against one wall of the hut. The reflection mercilessly reminded him how long ago those days were.

  He was a middle-aged man, dressed in the forest colours all the villagers wore. His hair was clipped short and greying at the temples, his vest stretched out over his growing belly, but despite these signs he still radiated an air of competence and authority. His long arms were thickly muscled, and his set jaw spoke of a man who expected and generally received respect and obedience from all around him.

  He looks just like Lodan.

  The strange thought popped in and out of his mind, and he shook his head at his reflection.

  Suddenly the vision vanished and Shade sat bolt upright.

  He was still in Nurtle’s hut. He looked to the side to see the stranger still stretched out on the cot, showing no sign of returning from his deep slumber.

  The fire in the hearth had burned low, and the temperature in the hut was dropping. Shade’s breath steamed out in front of him. How long had he been asleep? It had seemed only moments.

  He shook himself to clear the last remaining cobwebs of the dream from his mind and stood up, clapping his arms around himself to get the blood flowing again.

  Apart from the stranger in the bed, the hut was empty. Nurtle must be in the Tangle.

  Jared. He had dreamed of Jared. More than that, he’d actually been Jared in the dream. How was that possible?

  And that strange voice. Lodan. Who was Lodan?

  Shade stared at the sleeping stranger. He looked too old for the voice Shade had heard in his dream. But if it hadn’t been him, then—

  He pushed the thought away. There would be no answers here.

  He turned toward the door then stopped, unable to resist the single flash of mischief that lit up his mind. He skipped across the room to the blanket Nurtle had thrown over the strange silver blade. He wanted one more look, perhaps the chance to touch it, weigh it in his hands.

  He moved as quietly as he could, half expecting the stranger to wake up or Nurtle to come storming into the hut just in time to catch him. He reached out and lifted the edge of the covering.

  There was nothing there.

  The blade was gone.

  12

  Petron had finally extricated Heather and Frankle from the crowd of probing questions that followed their display, insisting they be given a chance to rest and regain their strength. More than a few angry glances flashed his way as a result but they soon faded as it became clear how much the presentation had taken out of the two young ones, and they were allowed to retreat to the comfort of their beds. They were both probably deeply asleep by now, their dreams blank and empty, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

  Petron grimaced at the jealous rush that followed that thought. He hadn’t slept properly in months, not since Cortis’s uprising. Not since Wrex.

  He grunted and pushed the painful flash of memory back down. Not here. Take my nights if you must but not here.

  ‘Petron.’

  Daemi stepped forward from the stream of people still milling about the Great Hall, and the sight of her instantly raised his spirits.

  ‘I was wondering if you would catch our little display.’ He smiled.

  Daemi clapped him firmly on the shoulder in the guard style of greeting. The two of them had grown close in the last few weeks, each drawing comfort from the other’s presence. ‘You weren’t kidding when you said it might prove interesting.’

  Petron chuckled, and they both turned to watch the audience slowly file out of the hall. Voices were still raised in excitement, eyes shining with eagerness at the possibilities ahead. ‘You will need to keep a close eye on them. Protect them, now that the secret is out.’

  Daemi nodded, and Petron was once again filled with a wave of gratitude at how much this young woman, barely out of her teens, was willing to shoulder. She had proven herself indispensable in his efforts to reimpose order on Redmondis since the uprising.

  Petron’s smile faded as he considered all he still had to ask of her.

  Heather and Frankle had done a great thing, proven that moonsteel could be formed through the teamwork of crafter and wielder, yet until they could teach others how it was done they remained the only ones who could perform such a valuable task. That made them targets.

  ‘In fact, I was hoping to speak to you about that.’

  Daemi turned back to him, suddenly more alert. ‘You want me to take them with me when I go.’

  Petron shook his head and smiled. ‘I should have known
you’d be one step ahead of me.’ He moved to help the group of younger crafters who had begun stacking away the chairs that had been arranged for the presentation. ‘Here. Give me a hand with these, will you?’

  Daemi nipped in front and ushered him away from the workers, angling him toward the nearest chair. ‘Sit, old man. Sit and tell me what you have been cooking up in that tower of yours.’

  Petron allowed himself to be led and sank into the chair with a sigh. Daemi quickly stacked the rest of the furniture away, her young, strong body moving the heavy old wooden benches with ease. Petron watched her silently, feeling the years pile over him.

  ‘As I was telling you, we need to try to re-establish contact with the capital—with Sontair. We have heard nothing from them in weeks, not since before …’ He waved his hand vaguely around the room in a gesture that seemed to encompass all of Redmondis. ‘Before all of this. Wrexley himself was the last official contact we had, and from what little he told me even that didn’t go well. Whatever gulfs have opened between us must be addressed.

  ‘In light of their persistent silence our best option is to keep things formal. We should send a representative from each of the main classes—each must have their figurehead. Politics, you know. I was thinking that you, Heather, and Frankle would be ideal. Getting those two out of here and away from the constant questions sure to come their way is a bonus.’

  ‘And once we reach Sontair, you intend for them to repeat their trick?’ Daemi tossed the last of the benches onto the stack and turned back to Petron.

  He noticed enviously that she wasn’t even breathing heavily. ‘What do you think, young captain? Would it be wise to show our hand so quickly?’

  Daemi pondered his words, then shook her head. ‘No. We don’t want to be seen as a potential threat. But then politics was never my speciality. That was more—’ She stopped, but it was too late.

  ‘That was Wrex’s department,’ Petron completed.

  Daemi blanched. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, child.’ He waved the words away. ‘I do not intend for them to repeat their performance, still I want you to take them with you. For all your sakes. The road to the south has not become any easier in recent times, if the few scattered reports we’ve received are to be believed. The darkness is spreading, Daemi. You see them in your dreams just as I do. The dark things, getting more distinct every night, floating ever closer to the surface.’

  Daemi nodded.

  ‘I do not know what awaits in the capital itself,’ Petron continued. ‘I have heard rumours, troubling rumours. For now it would be best to keep this particular skill a secret as long as possible. Moonsteel is valued throughout the kingdom. Word may well reach Sontair before you do regardless of our efforts.’

  Daemi marched up and raised her arm to her chest in a salute. ‘I will protect them with my life. They will not come to any harm.’

  Petron smiled as he stood up. ‘I know you will do your best. Now come, we have much to prepare.’

  By the time Petron finally trudged up the last few steps to his chamber at the top of the wielder’s tower, the sun had long since set and the clear sky was scattered with twinkling stars. In his room Petron stood at the edge of the large opening along one wall, letting the cool night breeze ruffle his hair. When he closed his eyes, it was almost like he was out there, flying again.

  He opened his eyes and scanned the stars, picking out the patterns of constellations automatically. The bear. The eagle. The great river. But there, at the last turn of the river, a star was missing. He stared at the spot where he knew a light should be, wondering if a bank of weather was moving in from the south, then the star next to it also disappeared.

  For a mad moment he felt a rush of terror, a flash of memory from within the welds, holding Wilt’s hand, floating impossibly above the chaos of darkness that spiralled in the depths, calling to him.

  Another star blinked out, and he took a step back from the edge of the window.

  A moment later he heard beating wings, and he hurried to give his visitor some space.

  With a gust of air that scattered the papers on his desk across the room, a large eagle soared out of the black sky and landed, its long claws scratching fresh marks on the heavy rock of the chamber floor. It perched there for a moment, its cold eyes studying Petron as though he were a potential meal.

  Petron gathered himself and stared back. He nodded his head once in greeting.

  The next moment the eagle was gone and in its place stood a lone woman, stooped with age, leaning on a tall carved wooden staff and scanning the room with a critical eye.

  ‘Not one for keeping things in order I see.’ She clucked and stepped away from the edge of the window. Without asking permission she headed straight for a chair sitting by the fire and settled herself into it with a sigh.

  Petron moved to join her. ‘Nurtle? To what do I owe the—’

  ‘Don’t say pleasure, for the gods’ sake,’ she interrupted, continuing to stare around the room. ‘Never thought I’d be inside these walls again. Cold stone. Gives me the shivers.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d accept my invitation. I know Redmondis has not been kind to your kin.’

  ‘My kin? Yours too, unless you forget. Us wildlers need to stick together, more so these days.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve claimed that particular insult as your own?’

  ‘”Wildler” you mean? It’s accurate enough. Besides, we’ve had more to concern ourselves with than the names others call us.’

  ‘That’s why I asked you to come. I was hoping to rebuild some of the—’

  ‘Ha!’ Nurtle coughed out a laugh that silenced him again. She chuckled as she noticed Petron’s discomfort and reached out to pat his knee. ‘You have already done more than has been done in decades. Even they talk about it.’ She nodded her head toward the open window and the blank slate of the Tangle breathing far below.

  ‘They talk a lot, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of late they have been telling some particularly interesting tales. Strange creatures haunting the shadows. Hunting. Things that do not belong in this world.’

  Petron saw a flash of vision from his dreams, a black spider-like creature diving at him. He shook his head to clear it, to banish the nightmare from these waking hours.

  Nurtle’s hand on his knee tightened then moved away as she pulled herself to her feet. ‘Here. Let me brew you something that will help.’

  ‘It’s nothing, just—’

  ‘You see the visions too. They haunt the dreams of all who have the sense to see. Some more than others, of course. And they’re getting more vivid.’

  Petron nodded, aware suddenly that he wanted to talk openly about this to someone. ‘Each night they stay a little longer, become clearer. It’s … exhausting.’

  ‘That is their purpose, I expect. One of them, at least. They are trying to weaken any who stand in their way.’

  A richly spiced scent filled the room as Nurtle pulled something from deep within her cloak and dropped it into the kettle. Petron’s spirits lifted immediately, as though the smell itself had pushed his tiredness away.

  ‘Now, not too much of this, just a cup each night before bed.’

  Nurtle pushed a steaming cup of tea into his hands and sat down again. ‘I’ll leave you enough for the next week or so. I expect I’ll be back by then.’

  Petron sipped the brew and grimaced at the strong, piney taste. A moment later the heat spread throughout his body, melting the tension from his muscles.

  Nurtle watched the tea do its work, Petron sighing and leaning back in his chair. He looked so much older these days, so weighed down by the world.

  ‘The trees have been telling other tales as well. Tales of strange visitors with even stranger powers. Young men wearing tattered robes that perhaps once haunted these halls.’

  Petron raised one eyebrow and frowned at Nurtle. ‘That was just one reason I contacted you. Wilt is … important
to me.’

  ‘Important to all of us, I suspect. Look what I stumbled across.’ Nurtle grinned and pulled out a shining silver blade from within her cloak.

  Petron almost dropped his cup as he sat up straight again, all fatigue gone in an instant. ‘Wilt’s weld blade! How did you—’

  ‘Relax, old man.’ Nurtle smiled and gestured him back into his seat. ‘Your young friend is safe.’

  Petron frowned again, calculating to himself. ‘So he travelled all that way already? To the very southern edge? That’s imposs—’

  ‘Oh come now, Petron. You know better than to use that word. Besides, he has abilities even I don’t understand. And I’ve seen many more summers than you.’ Nurtle’s voice dropped into a whisper. ‘You are wrong to fear that power. It may be the only thing that saves us.’

  Petron shook his head. ‘You didn’t see what … What it did to Wilt. What he became.’

  ‘A wraith, you mean? I told you, your young friend is safe. He has more control than you realise. Besides, such forms are not unfamiliar to us, you know.’

  ‘There are others?’

  ‘There are some who draw from that same source, at least some part of it. The Tangle itself could be said—’

  ‘That’s not what you mean though, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  It was Nurtle’s turn to sigh now. ‘Shade, our … son. He shares it.’ She let the words soak in as she stared around the room, her eyes focused on a point far distant. ‘I, too, feared it when I first saw glimpses of what he was capable of. What they wanted from him. But Petron, if it could be harnessed—’

  ‘We cannot harness the dark. Not without consequences.’

  ‘Do not speak to me about consequences.’ Nurtle’s tone was hard, her words edged with pain. ‘Not until you spend three decades apart from the only mind that truly shares yours. Not until your child is taken from you, and returned, changed forever. Not until you are asked to sacrifice him all over again.’

  Petron let the angry words wash over him and sipped his tea. ‘I know about sacrifice, Nurtle. We all do.’