The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  Wilt felt a wave of dizziness as he tried to make sense of the sheer size of it all. The scale of the forest seemed to mark out the entire world. Had he really travelled all that way on his own? He had spent weeks alone wandering its shadows and still only seen a fraction of it.

  ‘Hard to comprehend, laid out in front of you like this, isn’t it?’

  Wilt could only nod dumbly, his eyes pulled along the myriad of forest trails marked out across the enormous map.

  ‘You are one of the rare ones who can fully appreciate the size of the Tangle, having travelled across its length yourself. Long ago I too made that journey. As did Nurtle, as did many of the others you may meet in the villages scattered along the Tangle’s southern edge. Which is part of the reason we find ourselves here, of course. Never quite able to leave it behind once it’s touched us.’

  Finally Wilt found his voice. ‘You were in Redmondis.’

  ‘That was long ago. A lifetime ago.’ Jared smiled and pointed at the southern end of the map. ‘Here is where we are. Copring. A small village of no account. Easily missed, easily ignored, just how we like it. Here’—his finger slid a few centimetres to the left—’is Weverly. I understand you know already what happened there.’

  Jared’s finger moved further along the southern edge of the map, picking out small towns as he went. ‘Reggon. Verson. Jarlyle. All small, quiet villages made up of those Redmondis saw fit to discard so many years ago. All now gone.’

  ‘How?’

  Jared’s hand curled into a fist and thumped the table. ‘Now, that is the question.’

  He suddenly rolled up the enormous map and replaced it with another, far less detailed one. This was little more than a rough, hand-drawn sketch, marking out a string of townships curling from the southern edge of the Tangle southwards.

  ‘This is what the soldiers from Sontair have shown us. Village after village razed. It’s not just wildlers that are being attacked. This trail leads all the way south to the capital itself. Somewhere there is the source.’

  ‘The source of what?’

  ‘Of whatever is trying to wipe us out.’

  Jared stood up and looked at Wilt, sizing him up. ‘Now, Nurtle would have us believe that you, young wielder, have been sent here to help find out exactly what it is we’re dealing with.’

  15

  Daemi woke with a groan of pain, rolling onto her side, away from the depths of sleep, away from the familiar dream that had taken hold of her once again. She had been fighting the wolves, focusing every ounce of muscle, every instinct her training had honed, every breath of effort into holding them back. But they didn’t stop. As soon as one great fanged beast fell another took its place, snapping at her, always pressing her back, always pushing her that little step further toward the brink of her endurance.

  Then the dream changed, away from her twisted memories of the day Cortis had taken Redmondis, into something altogether blacker. Her adversaries had morphed into something less recognisable, darker, not of this world. Black, clawed indefinable shapes, seemingly formed from long sharpened limbs that shot out without warning. She fought them too, holding them back as she pushed herself beyond her limits, beyond her human body and into the essence of battle itself.

  Then dawn broke, somewhere on the far horizon, and she was left standing alone, surrounded by her victims.

  Daemi sat up, wincing as her nightshirt caught on the wounds on her back and tore at the dried blood around their edges. The cuts had reopened during the night, responding to strains her body made in her nightmares, the blood mingling with her sweat to soak through her clothes and into the mattress. She grimaced and pulled her nightshirt free, ignoring the new fire of pain the movement cost her, forcing the cloth up over her head and tossing it into the corner of the room. She ignored the mirror on the wall as she walked over to the stone sink with its pool of icy clean water waiting for her. Her reflection would tell her nothing her body didn’t already know.

  Minutes later she marched out of her room, shoulders pushed back, furiously ignoring the weight of the armour putting pressure on the open wounds on her back. She could feel the warm blood still leaking through the cracks in the skin, soaking into her underclothes. Either the dreams were getting worse or Petron’s remedies were losing their potency. She pushed the thought from her mind. There was no point feeling sorry for herself. No point worrying over things she could not control.

  Twin guards at the entrance to the tower snapped into a salute as she passed, and she acknowledged them with the briefest nod of her head. She’d been promoted to captain months ago, in the weeks before Cortis’s gambit, but still found herself momentarily confounded whenever her fellow guards responded in the way her rank demanded. She doubted she’d ever get used to it.

  Daemi strode away from the guard tower, noting the thin covering of snow on the ground as she marched. Winter was deepening, the cold nights stretching longer. Soon enough the hours of true daylight could be counted on one hand. One guard’s hand at that.

  She grimaced at her own joke and flexed her fist, the tight skin where her little finger used to be still reminding her of the sacrifice she had made at the start of her journey. When the world was a different, much simpler place. When her path had seemed clear and straight.

  Two more guards saluted as she passed through the doorway of the wielder’s tower, and this time she remembered to return the gesture, her fist thumping into her chest plate. The movement sent another shot of pain across her back, and she quickened her step into the tower and up the stairs as she felt fresh warm blood flow from the wounds. Soon enough the blood would begin dripping out, marking her trail, and she didn’t want to have to explain that away. None of these men would understand.

  Only one man truly understood. Well, perhaps more than one, but Wilt wasn’t here anymore.

  Daemi forced the thought away as soon as it appeared, angry with herself for letting it pop into existence at all.

  Moments later she pushed open the door to Petron’s chamber and her mind soared as she stared out through the open walls into the clear blue sky. The sight took her breath away, and she had to resist the urge to step back from the yawning edge.

  ‘Good morning, Captain.’

  Petron’s voice was tinged with amusement, and Daemi gathered herself, aware she was gawping. As she pulled her eyes away from the scene, she immediately noticed he wasn’t alone.

  She snapped to attention. ‘Your pardon, Petron. I didn’t—’

  Daemi spun on her heel to leave the room. Petron was just raising his hand to stop her when they were both interrupted by the visitor, an old woman with bright, sparkling eyes, whose voice was edged with command.

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl. Come. Sit. Petron, you really are losing your touch. Can’t you see she’s wounded?’

  Petron stepped quickly to Daemi’s side, concern wrinkling his face as he noticed the unnatural hunch of her shoulders. ‘Again?’ he whispered.

  Daemi nodded, allowing herself to be led across the room as weakness washed over her. Petron guided her to the bed next to where the old woman was sitting, and she collapsed onto it, all strength abandoning her legs as he pulled her armour up and over her head.

  The next moment she was lying on her stomach, eyes closed, listening to Petron’s whispered mutterings as he surveyed the damage. There was the sound of movement, then the woman’s voice joined in.

  ‘Oh dear. This is much worse than you told me on my last visit, Petron.’

  ‘It is much worse than it was. The wounds seem to not want to heal.’

  ‘These wounds were not caused by natural means. It will take more than natural means to heal them.’

  Daemi tried to lift herself from the bed, but a firm hand patted her lightly on the head and her strength faded.

  ‘Hush there, child,’ the woman’s voice ordered. ‘Let Nurtle do her work.’

  Daemi could feel the darkness calling to her and knew she couldn’t avoid falling into it.
<
br />   ‘Come Petron, this will require both of us.’

  Daemi listened as the voices moved above her, now and then a light touch pressing against the sides of her wounds, sending a bright spark of pain to illuminate her growing drowsiness. The old woman chanted under her breath as she worked, and moments later Petron’s voice joined with it, a perfect harmony instantly forming and twisting around itself, knitting together as she felt the skin across her back tighten and the pain begin to fade.

  She tried to muster one last push to the surface of consciousness, but her eyelids wouldn’t obey her commands, and she finally let herself fall into the depths as the two skilled healers did their work. The last words she heard were from the old woman.

  ‘There. Let her rest now. Let the weave do its work.’

  Daemi slept for almost two days in Petron’s chambers, her dreams non-existent or too deep to read from the outside, her face untroubled the entire time, her breathing slow and regular.

  Over the hours Petron watched her wounds heal, the skin bonding itself together across her back. Nurtle’s healing touch had performed its magic, leaving her skin looking almost unscarred by the time the work was done.

  When Daemi finally woke, Petron warned her to take things slowly, that the healing was not yet complete, that such wounds could never completely close, but she only nodded in reply and hurried on her way. Petron watched her leave, shaking his head at her stubborn eagerness to get on with planning for the upcoming expedition. He knew his warnings would be ignored.

  ‘She is young. There is nothing any of us can do in the face of youth.’ Nurtle was sitting on a chair by the fire, smiling at him with shining eyes.

  ‘You enjoy watching these children torment me, don’t you?’ Petron growled.

  ‘I enjoy watching a leader take form. A father figure. You cannot deny it.’

  Petron sunk into the chair next to hers. ‘They do not understand the dangers they face. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.’

  ‘And you, Petron, do you understand?’

  ‘I know the consequences of fighting back.’

  He looked away then, out to the massive opening cut into the stone wall of his chamber, out to the wide open sky. Far in the distance a bird circled high above the deep green of the Tangle, eyeing some unsuspecting prey far below.

  His fingers curled into the arms of his chair, his nails clawing at the dark wood.

  ‘Petron,’ said Nurtle, disrupting his reverie.

  He pulled his eyes away from the outside world and looked at her, gathering himself when he noticed her tone.

  ‘What has become of Cortis?’

  ‘Dead.’ Petron coughed, his face twisting into a grimace. ‘Or gone, at least. No longer of this world.’

  ‘He is still down there?’

  ‘In the catacombs, you mean? Of course. I allowed no one to touch him. His body has failed, yet there is still some spark there, some part of his mind twisting in the depths. It was too dangerous to move him.’

  ‘Dangerous for whom?’

  ‘For all of us, I suspect. Whatever dark power he thought he served lost patience with him, consumed him. Whatever hell he abides in now is of his own making. Leave him to pay his own price. He deserves everything he gets and more.’

  ‘You have heard the reports, from my lips and others’.’

  ‘The attacks on the villages? There have been scattered reports for months—since before Cortis.’

  ‘But now they are more frequent.’

  Petron sat up straighter in his chair. ‘You think they are related?’

  ‘I think that whatever door Cortis opened may still remain ajar. And more than one nightmare may force its way through it.’

  Petron sat back and stroked his chin, considering her words.

  ‘And the prophecy? You still do not believe?’ Nurtle continued.

  Petron clucked his tongue angrily at the thought, but measured his words. ‘I’ve found many things can be explained by many prophecies. I saw what happened to the Nine Sisters. I saw how much their prophecy helped them.’

  ‘It was never their prophecy. And you have not spent the time I have speaking with those whose roots sink the deepest. You cannot appreciate how … convincing they can be.’

  ‘They cannot be trusted. You know that.’

  ‘We do not need to trust them. We just … they are not our enemies.’

  ‘Nor are they our friends.’

  Petron stood and paced back and forth across the room. Nurtle watched him silently, allowing his thoughts to reach their conclusion.

  Finally he raised his head. ‘You think we should see what we can learn from Cortis? That there is something to gain? Something that could help Daemi and … the others?’

  Nurtle nodded and turned back to the fire. ‘We should try everything we can.’

  16

  Well, that was interesting.

  Higgs! Wilt stopped in his tracks in the middle of the village street. Where have you been?

  Here. I think. It was the strangest thing. I was asleep, yet more than that. Unable to wake, but there was no panic or danger in it. There was something almost … reassuring about it.

  And the others?

  We’re here, Wilt. Delco and Rawick as well. There was no danger. It was Nurtle’s doing. I think she wanted time for you to regain some of your humanity. We’d spent too long in the forest, too long in your other form.

  Biore. I haven’t been able to hear any of you since we ran into that … thing in the forest.

  It was a spirit of some kind. Deeply linked to the trees themselves. There have always been rumours of a Guardian haunting the Tangle. I never really believed them until now.

  And Nurtle? What is she?

  A wildler, as Jared said. One of the many wielders banished from Redmondis by the Nine Sisters when they took power. Judging by how easily she silenced your mind she’s quite a powerful one at that. We should be grateful she doesn’t seem to hold any grudges against us.

  So, Biore, you heard everything Jared told me?

  Yes, I think so. It’s confusing … almost as though it was a dream. Just as you dreamed the meeting between Jared and the captain of the guard patrol, perhaps.

  That was more than just a dream. I recognised him.

  Yes, but we must be cautious. What you saw may only be a reflection of a reflection of the truth. Long ago there were wielders who specialised in using the depths to draw out prognostications of the future. Bending the welds across time and space. Rarely were they ever one hundred percent accurate. Our human minds bend the welds to our shape, even when we don’t intend them to.

  The boy. The one I … we chased from the village. The one we saw through the window of Nurtle’s hut. Shade. He shared the vision with us. He guided us along.

  Yes. I’d be very interested to meet with that boy again. Look around this village. Notice anything in particular?

  Wilt scanned the surrounding village, searching for something out of the ordinary. Biore was right; there was something off about the place, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  There aren’t any kids around.

  That’s right, Higgs. In Redmondis, one of the early rumours to spread about wildlers was their inability to procreate. That something in the way they joined their minds together interfered with their biology. It was never proven, of course.

  But, Shade. I thought … I guess I assumed he was Nurtle’s son. Or grandson, I suppose.

  Perhaps he was. Nurtle and Jared have only told us as much as they think we need to know. Perhaps in time we will find out more.

  Uh, Wilt? What are we doing? asked Higgs.

  Wilt smiled and resumed his march, resting his right hand on the hilt of the long knife hanging from his hip. We’re following orders. Going to see the captain of the guard patrol camped on the edge of this village. Jared suggested we offer our services.

  At that moment Wilt rounded a wall, and a guard stepped out into his path. He immediatel
y lowered the long pike he was carrying to point directly at Wilt’s chest.

  ‘State your business.’

  Wilt stopped and raised his hands before catching himself and dropping them to his side. ‘Uh … hello there. My name is Wilt. I’m here to see your captain. Captain Mont.’

  The guard took a moment to look Wilt up and down, unimpressed with what he saw. ‘Another villager, are you? What business do you have with the captain?’

  Wilt drew himself up and tried his best to sound haughty. ‘No business of yours. Tell him Jared sent me. I have a message for him.’

  You’re wasting time. Use your skill, boy. Convince him.

  For a moment Wilt considered doing just as Biore suggested, sending a black weld into the man’s mind and taking control, but something held him back. Some memory from his time in the forest, the lost days and weeks spent alone. He knew where that particular path led.

  Wilt stared silently at the guard, daring him to doubt his word. Eventually the man shrugged, and the pike was lifted up and away from Wilt’s chest. ‘Very well.’ He sniffed. ‘Proceed.’

  Wilt felt the guard’s cold glare as he passed, but he shrugged it off and held his head high, as though he really did have an important message from the village leader.

  So, Wilt … what’s the message?

  Oh, I don’t know, Higgs. We’re just going to volunteer our services, like Jared suggested.

  Services?

  Now you haven’t been paying attention. Look around.

  Wilt was walking through the centre of the guard camp now, picking his way past low campfires and hastily raised tents. He felt the guards watching him, each studying him coldly, their hands never far from their weapons, as though they weren’t convinced he wasn’t about to transform into some sort of monster and attack.