At noon the rain ceased. The dark expanse of clouds parted and the sun speared down brightly through the hovering mist. They rode into a broad valley, a shallow basin surrounded by low, wooded hills. A grassy marsh, flooded by the day's downpour, stretched the length of the valley to the foot of a rocky slope forested with pines. The plodded on, but when the ground began to clutch at their horses' hooves, Thessien raised a hand and they stopped and dismounted.
The soldier drummed a lean finger against his saddle as he studied the marsh. "It's too muddy. We'll have trouble with the horses."
Gallund shielded his eyes from the sun. The marsh was nearly a mile wide, probably twice that in length, all grassy tussocks and broken brambles. He poked the ground with his cane. Water pooled around its tip.
"Agreed," he said. "We'll go around."
As they turned to mount up, Thessien called for silence. Ilien and Gallund both trusted Thessien's senses enough to freeze in their tracks. The breeze hurried over the tall marsh grass and a crow called somewhere over the hills, but no one moved. For a full minute they remained that way, Ilien and Gallund stone-still in silence, Thessien looking to and fro.
"Perhaps I'm wrong," Thessien muttered, "but for a moment it felt like we were to be ambushed."
"Yes. Perhaps you're wrong," Ilien said, eyeing a suspicious looking clump of grass anyhow.
The soldier cast a furtive glance across the marsh. "Perhaps. But I know the feeling well."
A bird flew up from the clump of grass in a rush of wings. The horses reared in fright. Ilien lost his balance and pitched face first into a pile of mud. He pulled his head from the muck with a loud sucking sound and looked up sheepishly at Gallund and Thessien. They were only grinning, but they might as well have been holding each other in fits of laughter.
"On second thought," Thessien mused, scratching his chin, "perhaps I am wrong."
At that, the two adults of the group burst out laughing. Thessien stomped around in the rain soaked grass clutching his sides. Gallund buried his face in his saddle. Even the horses seemed to be grinning.
"It's not that fun—"
In all their hysterics, they didn't notice that Ilien hadn't finished his sentence—until the marsh grass seized them too.
Thessien reached for his sword, but the grass wove quickly around the pommel. He fought to move but his boots were tied fast to the ground. Frenzied green tendrils sprang from the sodden earth and snaked violently up his legs as he sought to free his weapon. The soldier turned to Gallund, but the wizard fared worse. Bound to his waist, Gallund held his cane aloft as his horse panicked beside him. The ground split beneath him and roots sprang from the muddy earth, wrapping about his arms and seizing his cane. Ilien watched in terror as the wizards sank helplessly into the bog.
A sword rang from its scabbard and peeled like a bell over the marsh as Thessien tore free of his bonds. The tall grass cowered beneath his blade as he cut his way forward. But for every blade he scythed, another rose in its place. He couldn't reach Gallund.
"Fiera fundari!" shouted the wizard. His cane burst into flames, searing to ash the grass all around him. With a word his silver wand appeared. He held it high, prepared to strike again, but before he could utter another word, the roots pulled him beneath the ground and he vanished.
Ilien lay helpless, wrapped like a green ball of yarn, his pencil squirming in his back pocket. But as soon as the ground closed over Gallund the grass released him. Freed, he rushed to Thessien, who was already digging in the spot where Gallund had disappeared. Together they clawed frantically at the muddy ground. After several minutes they uncovered Gallund's silver wand in the soft earth. Still they continued to dig, but the deeper they went the quicker the marsh water poured in to thwart their efforts. Ilien buried his face in his muddy arms and began to cry.
Thessien rose and sheathed his sword. As if on cue, his horse approached and he swung himself up into the saddle.
"Get up."
Ilien wiped away his tears and began digging again, ignoring Thessien's command.
The Eastlander snapped his reins in anger. "Get up!" he shouted, holding his horse steady. "We're leaving."
Ilien spun on him, his fists full of earth. "What good will it do to ride on now? Gallund is gone!"
"This is the work of the NiDemon, Ilien. We must ride north at once."
Ilien could feel his tears coming again. "For what? Your precious mission? In case you haven't noticed, it's over. You failed!"
"You will turn back at Evernden," Thessien said evenly, "as Gallund had wanted. I will continue on toward Greattower. Now get up."
Ilien looked around the quiet marsh. He glanced down at the wizard's wand, scooped it up and held it to his chest.
Thessien's horse danced madly forward. "I grieve for him too," said the soldier. "I knew him twenty years. He was my friend and mentor. But my loss, and yours, pales now before what is at stake. We must ride on at once."
But Ilien was not a soldier on a mission, and though he held back his tears for the moment he couldn't bring himself to leave. He sat in the mire, staring at the scarred ground. Tears came again, stinging his eyes and streaking the mud on his face.
Thessien peered over the marsh at the lengthening shadows. He would be patient and let Ilien cry. It was a luxury he knew the boy would never have again. With Gallund gone, Ilien's chances of survival were slim. Oh, he would do his best to protect him. But even he, a soldier with a hundred kills to his name, would not be enough. He grimaced and glanced over at the grieving twelve-year-old. He hoped Gallund was right, that looks were deceiving, because if not, they were all doomed.
"At least let me lay a headstone for his grave," Ilien mustered, wiping the tears from his eyes.
Thessien nodded as Ilien walked off to find a suitable stone, but his impatience was growing. He stilled the thoughts running through his mind. A moment of silence for his fallen friend was only appropriate, but things were progressing quickly. The enemy paused for nothing, and they were surely under a dark watch now. They had to keep moving. He watched as Ilien returned and laid a small, flat rock on the ground where Gallund had disappeared. The boy also planted a tiny oak sapling nearby, as was custom.
Ilien carefully arranged the soil around the base of the small sapling. He looked angrily at the marshland around him, then back at the tiny oak he had planted.
"Grow quick and strong," he said, gazing out over the scrub brush and tall grass of the marsh, envisioning a mighty oak forest in its place.
Thessien's horse nickered quietly. "Ilien. It's time to go."
Ilien reluctantly climbed on his horse and they set off, leading Gallund's grey mount behind them. They skirted the marsh, staying a safe distance from its muddy edges, and soon were climbing the low rocky hill on its far side where the pines grew in small groves. Ilien looked back down on the ill-fated wetland.
"Farewell, Gallund," he said, then turned and gave heed to the terrain, crying silently as his horse picked its way between the boulders. All the while he held fast to Gallund's wand, wishing he could somehow cast a spell to turn back time, to make it all go away—to have Gallund back again. But he knew he couldn't. There was no going back. Not now. Not ever.
"The kingdom of Evernden," Thessien said suddenly.
Ilien looked up. They had reached the top of the hill. Below them, a vast forest of tall evergreens stretched to the horizon in a calm, green sea of needles. In the distance Ilien could see a tiny island of blue.
"There," Thessien proclaimed, shielding his eyes from the low western sun and pointing toward the blue land on the horizon. "Dry your tears and harden your heart, Ilien. We travel hard from here on out, but at least our aim is in sight."
As Ilien peered out over the still, green sea he saw a strange pool of darkness midway to the blue land of Evernden. But before he could ask about it, Thessien urged his mount down the hill and Ilien followed, leading Gallund's grey horse behind him.
Chapter V
The
Illwood Tree
Ilien lay awake in his bedroll, the heavy woolen blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. The pungent spice of pines laced the stinging cold that had settled over the forest since they had set camp. His breath plumed around him in the darkness. Thessien slept soundly somewhere off to his left, as silent in slumber as he was awake.
They had stopped only once on their torturous journey to get where they were—to fill their skins and water the horses at a shallow stream—and when Thessien, hours after dark had fallen, had finally announced they could stop, Ilien had dropped his blankets where he'd stood and had quickly fallen asleep.
In the dead of night he'd woken cold and sad. He might have rekindled the fire, but he curled into a ball instead. Now, as he waited for his toes to warm, he could think of nothing but hot coffee, a blazing fire, and Gallund. He reached a hand through the blackness to the pack where he kept the wizard's wand. Everything had happened so quickly. He still couldn't believe Gallund was gone. At any moment he expected to hear his heavy breathing and mumbled curses, the occasional "ah ha!" as he talked in his sleep. But all was quiet.
He rolled over to put his back to the memories. He needed sleep. At the rate Thessien was driving him he would need all the rest he could get.
Something suddenly speared Ilien in the rear and he jumped. "Ouch! Stop it!" he cried, reaching for his back pocket.
"Why do you feel the need to lie on me all the time?" came the muffled reply from his pencil.
"That's it! You're going in the pack!" But before Ilien could pull his pencil from his pocket, a hand clamped over his mouth. Another held a cold blade at his throat. The pencil fell silent and Ilien was hauled to his feet, the weapon still under his chin. The hand at his mouth felt cold and sweaty and smelled like a fish.
Two shining, amber eyes appeared in the air before him, a long pointed nose dimly lit by their glow. The eyes disappeared as the face looked away, and the luminescent nose seemed to float in the darkness as if hung on strings.
Ilien saw three more sets of eyes bobbing in the blackness near the horses. Wierwulvs! Ilien thought in a panic. Whatever they were, they were having a hard time controlling the frightened mounts for their eyes gleamed like wolves' eyes.
The face turned back. Its two burning eyes drew close. Without thinking, Ilien recited a spell in his mind. The back of his neck tingled. His hair crawled into the air. A flash lit the night and he remembered no more.
Thessien pressed himself close to a small pine tree whose branches drooped to the ground like a giant umbrella. He had woken cold and damp earlier, setting off to find wood for the fire. Returning, he’d heard movement from ahead. At once he recognized the intruders for what they were.
Shape-changers. Lycanthropes. Wierwulvs! It was impossible to tell a wierwulf from a man in the daylight. Only at night did their amber-colored eyes give them away, glowing like dim lanterns.
At first the wierwulvs were only interested in what they had before them: fine horses, packs loaded with food and blankets, and a prisoner. But when the prisoner struck one of them dead with magic, they were shocked to their senses. As Thessien watched, they sent others to search the woods. To the wierwulvs, one prisoner and three horses meant two more men were hiding close by.
Thessien crouched low beneath the pines. His mind raced. A jagged spear of lightning had lit their campsite in a flash of white, striking one shape-changer dead. But he feared it had also struck Ilien. Under the cover of the drooping pine boughs he planned. He had to think quickly for the shape-changers were preparing to leave, taking Ilien with them.
As the amber-eyed pack led their booty into the forest, they failed to notice the shadow of a soldier following them in the darkness.
Ilien came to, slung over broad shoulders. The upside-down shadows of passing trees jumped by him in the night. He thought it best to keep still and play dead, though his ribs hurt with every jarring stride. Besides, he could swear there were wolves following them, loping along in the dark. As he bounced about, he tried counting the dancing eyes that swirled around him. He abandoned his efforts when a single bloodshot eye shuffled too close.
All at once the company jogged into a brightly lit glade. A chorus of howls greeted them as they arrived. Torches burned on long, wooden poles in the ground and hundreds of amber eyed men danced around a gathering of large bonfires. The flames cast an orange glow on the surrounding trees.
In the center of the glade stood the largest tree Ilien had ever seen. The massive, gnarled trunk stretched ten men wide. The tree towered so high above the clearing that its upper reaches disappeared into the darkness. As the wierwulvs carried him closer, Ilien saw that the tree was dead. A carpet of sharp, brown barbs covered its rotted trunk and leafless limbs. His captors dumped him beside one of the fires and he lay in a heap, keeping one eye half-open.
The horses stood huddled together at the far end of the glade, their packs still fitted to their backs. The wierwulvs must have used them to carry the gear, thought Ilien. All at once Gallund's grey horse reared high, its hooves flailing in an attempt to escape. It surged forward, breaking free, and bolted into the darkened woods.
Ilien thought of running for it then, but he noticed the many wolves slinking about in the shadows between the fires. A few of the beasts pursued the fleeing horse, and Ilien gave up any ideas of escape. Perhaps Thessien would find him. But then what could the soldier do against so many enemies?
A commotion arose behind Ilien, but he didn't dare raise his head to look. Wierwulvs from all around raced past him, adding to the frenzy and confusion. It sounded as if a scuffle was breaking out—booted feet pounded the ground, shouts rose and fell. Ilien heard a vicious snarl then the howl of a wounded animal, then all fell silent.
"It's the boy." The voice, like a deep throated growl, sent any icy chill down Ilien's spine. The leader, he thought, his mind racing. And he's talking about me.
"All the better to sacrifice," came a supplicant whine, timid and fearful. "The poison of the Illwood kills all."
"To kill the One brings plague and ruin!" cried another.
Teeth snapped loudly. "Says who?" the leader demanded.
"The Necromancer himself."
The group fell silent at that one.
"You whimpering jackals!" It was the leader again. "We don't toil for the Necromancer. Besides, look at him. Does he look like a Nomadin to you?"
Ilien could take it no longer. He had to escape before it was too late. He still had a chance. He jumped up and ran—
—straight into a tree.
A low moan issued from the pencil in his pocket.
The wierwulvs howled with laughter.
"He's right," said one, leaping up and down with unbridled excitement. "He's no wizard!"
Ilien rubbed at the lump on his head, trying to think through all the pain. He had to do something. He looked up and saw the leader, a burly wierwulf—a large, hairy man in all respects except for his eyes, which glowed more red than amber. He was holding Gallund's wand.
Ilien suddenly knew what to do, or almost did.
"Mitra mitara miru!" he called aloud, still sprawled upon the ground.
The wierwulvs cringed and ducked, waiting for a spell to strike.
Nothing happened. Ilien couldn't quite remember the spell Gallund had used on the witches.
"Mitri mitaru mira!" he cried again, edging away from his captors, who by now appeared confident that he knew no spells.
Two flaming arrows streaked from the darkened woods and buzzed overhead. The burning arrows struck the Illwood tree high upon its gnarled trunk. At once the crumbling wood caught fire.
Ilien leapt to his feet. "Mitra mitari mitara miru!" he yelled triumphantly, recalling the proper words.
Up from Gallund's wand, even while in the grasp of the astonished leader, leaped blue and white stars that shot high above the clearing. They burst in flashes of silver light, and a haze of lustrous dust floated down toward the amber-eyed watchers below. The fri
ghtened wierwulvs fled from the magical fireworks, all except the red-eyed leader. He simply smiled. He wasn't afraid of a little silver dust.
Ilien watched the dust from the corner of his eye. It was caught in an updraft, swirling overhead in a small, shimmering cloud. The red-eyed wierwulf stepped forward and his smile turned to an evil leer as his hands grew claws. Gallund's wand dropped to the needle-covered ground as his flat front teeth stretched into gleaming, pointed fangs and matted fur sprang out upon his forehead and raced to cover his face. All his human features seemed to blur and melt like candle-wax in a hot fire. Where there once stood a tall, dark man, there now stood a large, bristling wolf.
The wolf crouched low, gathering itself to spring. Ilien fell back as a gust of wind from high above drove down the glittering dust, engulfing his leaping attacker in a swarming, silver shroud. What fell upon Ilien was but a small, brown toad.
His magical pencil writhed in his pocket. "Run Ilien! Run!"
Ilien swatted the toad into a tree and snatched the wand from the ground. The light from the burning Illwood illuminated a ghoulish scene. Large, hairy men with eyes like embers jumped up and down to put out the mounting flames while howling wolves danced madly among them. In all the commotion no one noticed Ilien—until he ran headlong into one of his captors.
Cries of battle erupted across the clearing. Thessien attacked swiftly, driving toward Ilien, his sword flashing in the light of the fires, Ilien's bow strapped to his back. A knot of wierwulvs retreated before him, their swords glancing off the chain mail hidden beneath his cloak. The knot frayed, then broke. The wierwulvs fell over each other to escape his onslaught.
But one wierwulf stood his ground. The two warriors strove back and forth upon the battlefield in the glaring light of the burning Illwood tree. At first the shape-changer neatly dodged Thessien's sword, unencumbered by heavy armor, but soon Thessien was driving him back, raining blows while the other parried with his own sword in desperation. The wierwulf stumbled to the ground a dozen feet from the burning tree, his weapon flying from his grasp.
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