Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  “Yes.”

  She felt hands lifting her and swung her leg over the saddle.

  “This is Copper and here are Abbadon’s reins.”

  Sounds of movement around her and then the door sprang open. She kicked Copper forward. The mare balked, not wanting to dare the storm. Illera was firm, and she moved forward. Appolon surged into the lead followed by an unfamiliar dark horse with Ashera riding. Illera kicked Copper and pulled Abbadon who forced his way ahead.

  Appolon’s tail was the beacon this time, and Maggie took refuge under Illera’s cloak. The water was fetlock deep on the big horses, and they made loud sloshing noises moving through it. Torches outlined the castle door now, their wan light not penetrating to the stables and the downpour doused the flame if the torchbearer left the shelter of the keep.

  The guard at the inner gateway lay dead, impaled by his own sword. Lark lifted the bars while still mounted and pulled the doors wide. They came with a rush and horde of peasants behind them. The people surged in, as relentless as the tide, pushing the horses back towards the stable. Lark commanded them to part and allow passage, but the mob was stampeding forward. Appolon forged ahead, and they made their way to the outer bailey. Here the flood had reached deadly proportions. Most of the peasants were in waist deep water, water that rose to the breasts of the horses. Desperate to escape to higher ground, the mob was frantic and near to violence. Lark moved aside from the horde.

  The horses pushed through stragglers and water coming at last to the barbican towers. Chest deep in water, Raven grasped Lark’s outstretched hand and vaulted to Appolon’s back.

  “The guards are tied,” he yelled, “but I have to go up the tower to raise the portcullis. I’ll meet you outside on the approach.”

  He slipped back to the water and waded to the stairs, disappearing into the thicker gloom inside. Minutes later the gates screamed in protest and slowly began to rise. The dammed water rushed out the narrow opening in a mill race down the approach. Illera, lying flat on Copper’s neck, squeezed through pulling Abbadon. Ashera followed closely and Lark as soon as the gate had risen high enough.

  Bellows rang through the darkness behind them, sounds of men running, weapons and armor clashing.

  “Go,” yelled Lark.

  “We can’t,” Illera snapped back, “Raven’s still in there.”

  Lark slapped Copper on the rump with the flat of his sword and she bolted down the steep and winding approach. Illera’s heart was in her mouth as the mare skidded around the curves and slipped into the river flowing down the road. At the bottom, the mare pulled up, legs shaking, her whole body quivering. Ashera’s mount stopped beside them, joined by Lark.

  “Wait and watch.” He pointed to the top of the barbican tower.

  Illera could just make out a speck of a figure standing beside the pennant. Another figure joined the first, carrying a swinging lantern. A high ululating cry pierced the night and rain and the first figure dove from the battlement, arching downward to splash into the moat, not twenty feet from where they waited.

  Raven swam to the edge and hoisted himself out, shaking the slime and mud from himself like a dog. He trotted to Illera and grabbed Abbadon’s reins. Swinging aboard, he turned the black stallion east, and they all galloped into the streaming night. Looking back once under her arm, Illera saw lights and horses starting down the curve of the approach. She faced forward and urged Copper to her best speed.

  The weather improved not at all, becoming colder and windier as the night progressed. The rain continued to fall in torrents. Making good time on the flooded roads, the horses trotted, and there were no eyes abroad to see where they went. Raven stopped to let the horses breath and reined next to Illera.

  “The next decision is yours, my Lady. I think we should attempt the Swamp of Ghosts and Lark figures we should head south to your father. Whichever way we go, Korul and Torul are going to pursue.”

  “Torul is dead. He won’t be chasing us.”

  “You killed Torul?” Raven’s voice in the dark was incredulous.

  Illera shook her head. “No, he slipped on the stairs and broke his neck. I had nothing to do with it. Well, nothing other than trying to run away from him. Why do you think we should try the swamp?”

  “If Korul is sure we are in the swamp, he will spend his time chasing us. If we head to your father, it means war for his kingdom. Immediately. If we can get away, some people can be sent with a message to King Ian and warn him of what is going to happen. In fact, we have already arranged for my stepfather to take such a message and he should have left a couple of days ago. Korul will attack Madean regardless, but he will be so furious that I think he will chase us first and give your father time to prepare. But it is your decision.”

  Unhesitatingly she replied, “The swamp.”

  Lark nodded, and they crept ahead with the rain driving them forward. The horses followed Appolon, treading in his tracks. The ground sucked and pulled at the animal’s hooves. Copper often stumbled, once nearly pitching Illera to the water, but she pulled her back to her feet, and they continued at a claudicant pace.

  Pale blue and yellow lights winked on then vanished in the depths of the swamp. Moss covered trees were interspersed with tall grass reaching higher than the backs of the horses, all waiting to dump their burden of moisture on the riders. Vines strung their lengths from one tree to the next tying them together into a maze. Several times Illera heard the slither and splash of large animals moving from their wending path.

  They eased deeper into the swamp. Lark found a hummock rising from the water. The grass was shorter there, and while the trees surrounded it, it gave them a clearing in which to rest. The thick leaves blunted the force of the rain, reducing it to random drops. They dismounted to let the steaming, shaking horses rest.

  Chapter 8

  Seated cross-legged on the soggy ground, Illera stared out at the pouring rain. The drops that dribbled through the leafy canopy overhead, made runnels down her sodden cloak. Her mind was as dismal as the weather, caught up in visions of unending war between Frain and Madean, her beloved people torn from the land and the brutal Korul master of the wide golden plains. Because she could not subject herself to the cruel and loathsome Torul, her land was going to be destroyed. Silent, hot tears slid from her eyes and joined the rivulets coursing down her cloak. The sky was growing lighter, emphasizing the darkness that lay upon her soul. Maggie uttered sleepy comments from under her outer garment, stirring from time to time. As much as her mind shied away from the idea, she had to accept it; she had ruined Madean.

  Lark hunkered down beside her. “What is the matter, my Lady? Did Torul hurt you?”

  Raven joined them, looming over their low crouching shapes like one of the ghosts of the swamp.

  “I have destroyed Madean.” Illera choked. “Korul will invade. My father will fight, and the people will join him. They will all be destroyed because they are farmers and herders, not warriors. Korul will take the land, and pollute it and ruin it. There will be generations of war as Madean tries to throw off Frain’s yolk, and it is all my fault because I could not accept that, that loathsome worm of a prince.”

  Lark shook his head. “Surely it is not as grim as all that.”

  Raven knelt beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. Turning her face into his shoulder, Illera sobbed, her heart broken. Her pain of soul was a shard of glass piercing and slicing her emotions to bloody meat; grinding her spirit to grisly tatters.

  “Illera, look,” called Lark softly, rising slowly to his feet.

  She looked up with bleary eyes. Rounded shapes moved through the heavy rain coming towards her. A doe and fawn stopped a few feet from them and lowered their heads to nibble the short grass. Half a dozen rabbits hopped around Illera’s feet while the trees fill up with a rainbow of birds, all twittering and rustling. Two black ducks waddled from the water, shaking their pinions dry. Their anxious quacks brought a small smile to her face. A tufted-eared head peeke
d around the bole of a tree; the slit pupils widened to round circles. The bobcat crept forward, belly to the ground until it could lay its head in Illera’s lap.

  “They don’t want you to be sad,” Raven stepped away from her. “Your tears upset them.”

  Illera looked up at him and smiled. “I didn’t call them. They came on their own.”

  “All the wild things love you,” he replied with a strange, far away look on his face. “And that is a great blessing.”

  The rain stopped. One moment the downpour was hurtling from the sky, the next, only the burden of droplets from the trees was falling to earth and water. The wind, however, continued, moaning through the swamp like the voices of dying children. Illera sang to the wild creatures in the key of the wind. They listened, perched or crouched in positions to watch the liquid notes stream from her throat; then they drifted back into the dim recesses of their home as her song ended; all except the bobcat. The sky was lightening as the clouds parted and watery morning sunshine leaked down into the open spaces. Stroking the cat, Illera stood.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  Raven shrugged as Lark responded, “I’m not sure, my Lady. I know that Korul will be hunting for us.”

  “What lies west of here?”

  Raven replied, “If we go straight west, most of the way is swamp. There is a high set of hills, almost mountains, then the Bay of Hostages, where Korul slaughtered the women and children he held hostage from Sorwelk when the tribute was late. It is deserted and said to be haunted, so it’s avoided by all. If we travel straight north, we reach the Black Sea, probably somewhere by the North Bay. A few fishermen are living there, and they are all loyal to Korul. East lies the castle as you know and to the south, we can reach the prairie and the forest and your home.”

  Illera thought. “I think the safest place is probably the Bay of Hostages. What do you think?”

  Lark snorted and walked away. Raven watched him, then turned to Illera.

  “I think it needs to be your decision, my Lady. If we head west, it means probably a week or more struggling through this mess with the danger of quicksand, or mud pits and nowhere to rest or cook a hot meal. I would say there are dangerous animals in the swamp, but then you are with us. But, when we get out of the swamp we have those high hills to get over before reaching the Bay. It will be an arduous trip.”

  “Lark, what’s your opinion?”

  Lark swung around to face them. “I think we should head north. We could reach the ocean in a day or two at the most. I don’t think Ashera is up to wading through this muck to get to the Bay of Hostages.”

  “What about the fishermen?”

  “Yeah, Lark, you remember how terrified they were of King Korul the last time we went that way. They would sell their own children to please him, and I can see them being quick to turn us over to earn his gratitude.” Raven kicked at the ground with his booted foot.

  “That man has no gratitude!” Lark shook his fist in their direction.

  “But the fishermen don’t know that,” Raven argued.

  “It’s the Lady’s decision.” Lark turned away.

  Illera thought, turning to look at Ashera, slumped on the ground, her pale blue eyes vacant and staring. She walked over to her and pulled her to a sitting position. Running her hands a few inches from the big woman’s body, Illera made her decision.

  “We head west. Ashera is physically fine and strong. It’s just her mind that’s broken.”

  Lark snorted and moved to boost Ashera onto her sturdy bay mount. Raven gave Illera a leg up, and the brothers mounted. The bobcat yowled at them and moved a few steps into the swamp.

  “What does he want?” snapped Lark, his lips tight.

  “He is our guide,” Illera urged Copper after the cat.

  “This is crazy, wandering through the Swamp of Ghosts after a bobcat.”

  Raven buffeted his brother on the shoulder. “Quiet Lark, or I will think you’ve lost faith. Whatever happens, this is our grand adventure.”

  Raven laughed, and Lark joined him, sharing a joke of which only the brothers were aware. As the horses stepped gingerly onto the waterlogged path, they trailed after Illera and Ashera.

  The bobcat led them on concealed animal traces where the water was only hoof deep. Frequently they came to tussocks and humps covered with grass where the horses could graze and the riders rest. Mud pits bubbled, and other places of smooth, unruffled sand, open and invited their presence. Always, either near or at a distance the wailing voice of the wind, crying and crying until their nerves were as taut as a drawn bowstring. When the light levels sank low for the evening, or because of the denseness of the vegetation, the witch lights flickered and danced in many colors, crimson, blue, clear yellow, uneasy purple and evil green. The bobcat avoided these spurts of illumination, even reversing direction if one should suddenly appear on their line of travel. So they wove their way through the swamp, from dry ground to dry ground heading generally west.

  The days lurched by in an uneasy procession, punctuated by the strange moans and heart-stopping screams from the recesses of the vegetation. The bobcat advanced circumspectly, in jerks and starts and switched directions often. The travelers were lost, trusting in Illera’s way with wildlife to see them to safety. Ashera remained distant, obeying direct orders but still lost in the shattered recesses of her own mind. More than any of the others, she seemed to belong to this mournful place of flickering ghost lights and unnerving noises. Illera herself felt the hand of severe depression on her soul, her mind running in circles and terrified that again she had chosen the wrong path. She sank into silent continuous reverie and always the ache for Madean plagued her, an unhealing abscess on her spirit. On the fifth day of wandering, the bobcat led them to a larger hump of grass than usual. When they settled, he vanished into the darkening damp to hunt. Lark and Raven made camp while Illera settled Ashera onto a rude pallet.

  “My Lady,” Lark began, shuffling his feet, “all day today, we headed north, judging by the direction of the sun. It seems to me that we are making little progress toward our goal and perhaps we would be better served by striking out on our own rather than follow your furry friend.”

  Illera looked up from her position next to Ashera, and rose. She stared out at the dismal surroundings. Except for the narrow bridge of soil, this tussock was an island, surrounded by dark, evil-smelling water and enclosed by wet and towering trees that seemed to stoop towards them for some evil purpose. She sighed.

  “Does it matter?”

  “What, my Lady?”

  “Does it matter if we are lost? If Korul is chasing us, and we don’t know if he is or isn’t, but if he is, then the longer we take to traverse this place the more likely it is that he and his men will meet with some accident. That is all the better for us is it not?”

  “Of course it would be, if Korul were chasing us, but how do we know?”

  Illera called Maggie to her outstretched hand. The bird alighted with a flurry of wings. She whispered commands to the magpie and tossed her into the air. The bird climbed into the darkening sky and faded from view. Illera turned to Lark.

  “Maggie will circle the swamp and tell us if there are others in here with us.”

  Lark paused, staring deeply into her eyes. “But if we don’t find our way out soon we will be in trouble. The grain for the horses is starting to run short, and we have only a few more days of food left for ourselves. And pardon my saying so, but my Lady, you look near the limit of your endurance.”

  She smiled. “My endurance may be more than you calculate Lark. It is not the physical hardship that is taking a toll, but my concern for Madean. The more of Korul’s men who die in the swamp, the less there will be to attack my home. I could spend the rest of my life wandering here if it would save my country.”

  Raven wandered over, depositing the tack on the ground.

  “But you still don’t know if Korul has followed us,” Lark argued.

  “No,” Ill
era replied, “and that is why I worry.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, my Lady,” Raven interjected, “Korul loved nothing else on this earth except himself and his son. I can’t see him destroying Madean until he has you in his power so you can watch the destruction. Then he will kill you slowly.”

  Lark snorted. “If you were so good at knowing what Korul will do, why didn’t you predict that he would cheat us out of our knighthoods?”

  Raven smiled and punched his brother on the shoulder. “Okay, I know nothing. I was just trying to cheer Illera up.”

  Lark pushed him back, and they ended up wrestling on the damp grass like children. The good-natured gibes and tussling left her unmoved, when normally she would laugh at the sight of grown men behaving thus. Illera watched for a few moments, then wandered to the edge of their little island. The ground fell off suddenly and a pebble dislodged by her toe made a deep plunk. She edged back from the brink. She began a circuit of the space to stretch her legs, cramped for hours on the horse. Ducking under low hanging branches and looping vines, her eyes chanced upon a large swathe of pale green. She reached forward and picked a handful. It looked like the same as the healing moss she used. She tasted it. Stretching forward over the roots of a large tree she collected all she could reach. There was still a copious amount hanging from the higher branches.

  Illera clambered up onto the root, balancing with her feet wide apart on the algae slicked surface. She stretched and harvested more medicine, packing it into her bag. She was reaching for a final handful when her outside foot slipped, and she toppled face first into the dark water. She flailed for the surface, breaking through and gasping for air. The island seemed a mile away, and she wondered how she got so far from shore. She yelled for the squires as she tried an inexperienced paddle to the tree, but hard as she struggled, the further the land became.

  The screening foliage burst apart, revealing Lark and Raven. She beat the water harder and kicked with all her might, but only succeeded in staying in the same place. Her strength was beginning to fail, and inexorably she was dragged away. Raven disappeared while Lark stood with mouth open, yelling instructions that she could not hear with the water in her ears. A sharp bump on her backside catapulted her body half out of the water. A scaly back slid past her face. Illera kicked harder, but still, the island drew further away. Raven popped back through the brush, a rope in his hands. He threw with all his might. It landed ten feet away. Illera struggled to reach the line, making almost half the distance. The reptile bumped her again, the rough and scaly hide acting like sandpaper and removing the skin from the back of one hand. She tried to push away from it, but it surfaced and seizing her arm, pulled her under the water. It rolled around and around, banging her head against the bottom, disorienting her and shaking her senseless. Her lungs were aching for air, and she felt she must breathe, even if it was water she inhaled. It released her, and she bobbed back to the surface, drawing great draughts of air into her aching lungs.