by Mark Shane
“What is it about women?” Michael asked, lying on his bed, looking up at the stars through the canopy of trees.
“What’re you talking about?” Garen replied, stifling a yawn.
Falon slept on the other side of camp out of earshot and Max snored loudly. Jorgen had the first watch prowling somewhere in the darkness.
“Falon. One minute we’re conversing just fine and the next she gets tight-lipped and doesn’t want to talk. I guess it’s me. I never have been very good with girls.”
Garen rolled over and gave him an incredulous look. “You’re kidding right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Michael, you had plenty of girls fawning over you in Whitewater’s Forge.”
“Me!”
“What are you, blind? Yeah, you.”
Michael snorted. “You’re the one who had all the girls.”
“Because of who I am. The whole man in uniform thing.”
“It wasn’t the uniform,” Michael countered. “You have a way with girls. They all wanted to dance with you at festivals.”
Garen grunted. “You had your fair share.”
Michael shook his head. “The only girls that ever danced with me were Jessica, Michelle, and Amalia.”
“Because you never asked anyone else.”
“Well, I didn’t think anyone else was interested.”
“You’ve always been that way. You never picked up on the hints, and you chose to stay where it’s safe. Like now.”
After three days in the Vorn Eyre Forest they slowed their constant pace and spent a day replenishing their food stocks. Happy for a break in the monotony, Michael and Garen quickly volunteered to hunt and headed off with bows in hand before anyone could object. By mid-morning Garen and Jorgen were skinning a deer while Max commandeered Michael to help him and Falon forage for berries, roots, and other foodstuffs. Not far from camp Max sent Falon looking for berries. Michael suspected he wanted to separate them. He thought about demanding why Max didn’t like him spending time with her, but Max had never given direct answers before. Why would he now?
A mile or so from camp Max grew excited, running to a tree Michael was vaguely familiar with. “Look at this! Look at this!” he exclaimed digging at the base of the tree with his knife. “Mandard root,” the wizard said holding up a black root. “It contains a healing agent. This might have saved the four soldiers. Can’t cure nightstalker’s poison but it will slow down the effects.”
Michael said nothing. He had forgotten about the soldiers ambushed near Whitewater’s Forge. Funny how he could forget about people who had died because of him. Was that part of being a king? It may not be his fault they were attacked, but he still felt responsible.
Max stooped back down working to harvest more roots. “Look for more, will you? The bark of the tree will be tinged with more green than the elms. See here,” he pointed at the bark of the tree.
Michael nodded and moved off in a different direction as he added Mandard root to his list of items. Personally he would be ecstatic to find wild potatoes.
He came upon a stream whose clear waters flowed gently. He thought about doing some fishing till he noticed Falon further downstream. A sly smile emerged on his face and he slipped back into the trees, slinking silently toward her. Knowing she was a skilled tracker made the success so much sweeter. She moved toward him, head down, as she scanned the bank. Michael could hear her humming an unfamiliar tune as she stepped directly in front of his hiding place.
“Yah!!” he exclaimed as he jumped from the bushes.
Falon shrieked and stepped back onto the slippery rocks, arms flailing as she tried to keep her balance.
Michael reached out and grabbed her hand to keep her from falling. A strange sensation like hot needles pricking him shot up his arm. Instinctively he yanked his hand away and watched in horror as she fell into the cold stream.
“Oh, you raging loon!” She screamed. “You bullish wool head!”. She slapped the water in anger.
“I’m...I’m so sorry,” Michael stammered. He started to offer her his hand again, but she slapped it away.
“I can manage just fine on my own, thank you,” she snapped, sloshing her way past him. Over her shoulder, she shot one last retort, “unless I want to get soaking wet again.”
Michael spent the rest of the afternoon fishing. More as a reason to stay away from camp than for food. Unfortunately, fishing allowed for more contemplation than he wanted. He played the scene over and over in his head, wishing he could stop it. No matter how he tried to angle what happened or why, he came back to one fact: he was an idiot.
When he reached camp, the sun was dipping below the trees. Smoke wafted up through the holes in woven leaf covers lying over two fire pits.
“Ah, fish, excellent! That will go nicely with the venison back strap,” Garen commented.
Michael glanced at Falon standing beyond the smoking pits. She looked worried for some reason. At least she didn’t scowl at him.
“Jorgen and I dug out the pits,” Garen continued. “By morning we’ll have enough dried venison to last us weeks.”
Max sat beside the campfire boiling mandard roots, watching him and Falon equally. Michael could almost hear the lecture about acting his age or the seriousness of their journey.
The company feasted like royalty on venison and fish, complemented with berries, and (to Michael’s delight) wild potatoes which Falon made sure he knew she found after her dip in the stream.
Michael hung his head. Garen and Jorgen laughed while Max sat silent, in a sour mood for some reason. Sour moods and ribbing did not matter though because Falon smiled at him. And made everything right in the world.
CHAPTER 23
The Witches of the Forest
The air held a chilly bite as the company woke to a foggy morning. Jorgen quickly cleared the campsite while the others saddled their horses.
Two hours in the saddle Michael grew groggy. He shook his head, but the drowsiness persisted. He got a good night’s rest, well, as good as could be expected on the ground, so why was he sleepy? The past days in the saddle had not worn him down that much. Surely he had grown accustomed to the saddle by now.
The fog added to his annoyance. Something bothered him about it. Midmorning and the cloudy mist still billowed without any sign of lifting. If anything it seemed thicker. He could see Garen in front of him while Falon and Max were more obscured behind him, carrying on a spirited yet hushed discussion. Jorgen roamed somewhere in the soupy air. Was he watching their backs or scouting ahead? Michael could not seem to remember. His head sagged, the grogginess overcoming him.
Michael picked up his head and could not see anyone through the fog.
“Max! Falon! Garen!”
Silence answered. His head had only been down for a moment, he was certain. He faintly remembered someone else traveled with them. Why couldn’t he remember who?
“Max!”
“Michael, there’s no need to yell,” Max replied gruffly through the fog. “Just keep your eyes down and follow the path.”
Michael shifted his focus to the trail barely visible a few feet in front of him. Something seemed out of place, but his mind felt dull and the concern fell back into the recesses of his mind. Staring at the slowly passing ground became mind numbing, but he kept quiet not wanting to irk Max again. Content to let his horse follow Garen’s, his eyes closed once more.
Michael’s head shot up as if he had been poked. The grogginess was gone, replaced by warnings going off in his head. How long had he been asleep in his saddle? The sun had not moved nor had the fog diminished. The thing that bothered Michael most was how silent the forest had grown.
“Max! Garen!” His voice seemed unable to penetrate the fog. He called out again. No one answered.
Something moved at the very edge of his vision. He felt it more than saw it.
In his mind, it seemed like a voice from far away was trying to warn him, but he could not understand it. H
e wished he had a sword to draw, to steady his fears.
Another movement out of the corner of his eye was all the warning he got. A massive body knocked him out of his saddle, slamming him to the ground. Michael screamed, grasping the black furred neck of the nightstalker, its jaws inches from his face, its breath rank with death.
In a flash the white fog and nightstalker vanished, replaced by a shadowy, dank cave. Michael looked around bewildered then his eyes fell on the woman lying on the floor. Haggard looking with wispy, grey hair, her white eyes stared at nothing. Blood still poured from the gaping wound that had been her neck, an expanding pool of crimson.
He looked toward the mouth of the cave. The wolf stared back at him, golden eyes alight, then he darted away.
Michael was certain it was the same wolf he had seen at his parents graves. Impossible as that might be.
“Michael?” Falon’s weak voice sounded sweet in his ears. She lay on the dank floor beside Garen. “What happened?”
Michael helped her up. “I don’t know.” Checking Garen, he breathed a sigh of relief when his friend mumbled something. Michael lifted him up to carry him out.
“I’m awake,” Garen replied sharply, stumbling away, putting some distance between them. “Muh...Michael?” he stammered, eyes struggling to focus. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “What happened?”
Michael put Garen’s arm over his shoulder to support him. “I don’t know but let’s get out of here.”
“Who is that?” Garen asked, noticing the dead woman.
“I think she’s the reason we’re here and it wasn’t for tea.”
The mixture of horror and revulsion on Garen’s face said he had been experiencing something nightmarish as well.
“What happened to her?” Falon asked.
Michael moved toward the cave entrance. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” What would she think if he told her about the wolf? Was it any crazier than what they had experienced?
Emerging from the cave, the afternoon sunlight hit their eyes hard. They headed south looking for a path. Miles later, voices weary from calling out for Max and Jorgen, the paladin appeared across a ravine.
“Where have you been?” Jorgen asked.
“Oh, we found this wonderful cave we had to explore,” Michael replied.
“Where’s Max?” Jorgen asked, his sharp tone squelching any more sarcasm.
“I don’t know,” Michael replied.
Jorgen climbed the ravine, giving each of them an assessing look once he stood in front of them. “When the fog lifted you were nowhere to be found. So what happened?”
Michael briefly explained what they had experienced, leaving out the part about the wolf.
“Where’s this cave?” Jorgen asked darkly.
They retraced their way back to the cave, a nondescript grassy mound protruding from the earth with overhanging vines aiding its concealment. Michael shivered. No one would have found them.
Jorgen inspected the cave with Michael while Garen and Falon remained outside, neither willing to reenter. Michael could not blame them. The Creator knew he would not be in the cave if not for Jorgen.
“What tore her throat out?”
“I don’t know,” Michael lied. “One moment I was wrestling with a nightstalker and the next I found myself in this cave. She was lying there, blood pouring out.”
Jorgen gave him a suspicious look. “That’s it, nothing else?”
Michael ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s it, nothing else.”
“You’ll be sure to tell me if you remember anything else, Michael, won’t you?” It was not a request.
“What more do you want, Jorgen?”
“I want to understand why a wolf would rip the throat out of a Strega to save you?”
“A what?”
“A Strega, Michael. A witch that uses dreams or nightmares to keep you trapped in your mind while she slowly feeds off your life force. Just about the time she started on you she got her throat ripped out. Now, do you have anything to add?”
Michael’s mind reeled, beginning to grasp what had happened to him. The horror of his fight with the nightstalker raw in his mind. What did she use on Garen and Falon?
“I saw a wolf leaving the cave. It looked at me for a moment like it knew me. Seems like it was part of the dream now.”
“She’s missing her throat, that’s real.”
“I’ve seen the wolf before,” Michael confessed. “The day Falon came to town. I was visiting my parent’s graves. It stood out like it wanted me to see it. Then the nightstalkers attacked me that night.”
Jorgen looked at him for a long moment.
Michael felt like he stood on some paladin scales of justice. Was it wrong the wolf aided him?
“You have strange allies, Michael Ashguard. Strange allies indeed.”
“So, where’s Max?” Michael asked as they walked out of the cave.
“I don’t know, but I suspect he’s in a world of danger.”
“You mean there’s more of these witches?”
“Witches?” Garen jumped. “Who said anything about witches?”
“The woman in there is a—”
“Head south,” Jorgen interrupted. “And don’t stop till you’re out of this cursed forest.”
“But what about Max?” Michael replied.
“I’ll worry about Max. You get out of these woods.”
“I’m going with you,” Michael insisted. “You can’t do it alone.”
“How do you think you could help me, hmm? The Sword will do you little good if your mind is captured.”
“I know what we’re up against now,” Michael replied stubbornly.
Jorgen cut the air with his hand, “You have no idea what you’re up against!”
Jorgen closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opened them, his voice was calm but his gaze was ice. “I’ve been hunting this kind of evil most of my life. They’re masters of illusion and the only defense is truth; truth of who you are and what you’re meant to be. You can’t just know the truth; it must be part of you. Do you know the mechanics of carpentry or is it a part of you? Something you don’t think about, you just do. You know the wood and how to shape it. So it must be with the truth I speak of. If Max has been trapped, do you think you will fare any better? This is what I do. If you go with me, if I have the slightest suspicion you have followed me, then you will be giving them the upper hand and my chances of rescuing Max will be close to none. Now give me your word that you will head south.”
Michael knew he was right. He hated it, but Jorgen was right. He nodded his head, “We will.”
“Good. Now let me see your book of maps.”
Jorgen leafed through the pages. “Go south and get out of these woods, but stay out of Elowe. There’s a civil war brewing there, best you not be around if things get nasty. Looks like there’s a pass through the Chelean Mountains. Once you’re in Alarus, hold up in Lockhart.” He pointed at a dot on the page. “It looks like the first town you’ll reach once you clear the mountains. It’s on the border of Valan though, so be on your guard. Get rooms at an inn, stay out of sight and wait for us there. Don’t go venturing off. Last thing we need is you getting kidnapped by some local and sold to those zealots in Valan just so they can hang you. If we haven’t joined you in a week, then we won’t be coming at all. Understood?”
Falon and Garen quickly nodded. Jorgen’s steely gaze held Michael till he reluctantly agreed as well.
“Use your heads, stay low and don’t attract any attention.”
CHAPTER 24
Valiant Efforts
Jorgen squatted down at the edge of the bowl-shaped clearing, scanning for any sign of danger. A few pillars, riddled with cracks and holes, stood as the final testament of a structure long since reclaimed by the forest. Grass carpeted the circular clearing and leaves heavily speckled the emerald canvas with shades of red, orange and yellow. Stone steps leading up the east side of the bowl added their own grey, eart
hen color. His eyes fell on the smooth, black disc lying at the center of the bowl. Everything was just as it had been in his dream.
Most people believed the Paladins power lay in their ability to nullify magic, but they were mistaken. A day of searching had proven fruitless, but a night on his knees in fervent prayer had garnered the guidance he needed. With the moon setting, Jorgen had bolted upright from his slumber, the vision of the bowl-shaped clearing and its pillars fresh in his mind. Meshema Donai favored him, his faith had been rewarded.
Wielding Fire, shaping Air, even healing the near dead paled in comparison to the power of Faith. Through opening oneself fully to the Great Lord, all things became possible. The Paladins merely sought to find their role in the Great Plan and follow it faithfully. Such a simple concept yet oddly difficult for so many to understand, much less follow. The trappings of this temporary world held such appeal that most people could not see the blessings awaiting them in a life of service.
The time for introspection was over. Cautiously, he crept out of the trees, feeling exposed in the open space. Leaves skidded across the disc’s glossy smooth surface as he approached. A closer inspection revealed the black disc was a platform, protruding from the ground a hand high.
Pulling his family crest medallion out of a pocket, he ran a finger over the fist gripping a lightning bolt. As with most Paladins, Jorgen’s ability to nullify magic could sometimes be a disadvantage. Crafting medallions to emanate magic proved to be one of their more vital tools.
He stepped on the disc, drawing his half-moon battle axe, and knelt on one knee. Regulating his breathing, he closed his eyes and pictured a single candle representing his nullifying ability. A cool breeze brushed his skin, but he barely noticed as he envisioned his hand placing a bowl over the candle, diminishing the flame to the point of extinguishing it. With a whispered prayer, he touched the medallion to the glossy surface and vanished.