by A. Giannetti
Anxiously, she looked at her left hand, dropping the veil of the illusion spell that hid her ring. To her relief, the ruby captured in the band of silvery argentum still pulsed, its crimson glow alternately brightening and darkening. The ring at once soothed and troubled her mind, for it told her that Elerian was alive, but not where he was or what his condition might be.
Before lying down to sleep, Anthea had looked in the crystal bowl Elerian had given her father as a gift, but the portal had still shown no sign of either Elerian or Ascilius. Anthea was fairly certain that Elerian had used his silver ring to conceal himself, Ascilius, and their mounts, but she found it difficult to banish the disquieting thought that some other, more sinister fate, had overtaken him and Ascilius.
“Do dragons take their prey alive at times,” she wondered to herself. “Perhaps even now, he is caught in the creature’s scaly coils in far off Ennodius,” she thought to herself anxiously. Absolutely fearless regarding her own safety, she found herself prey to unfamiliar worries regarding Elerian’s fate.
“I cannot go on playing the part of the patient maiden without first solving the mystery of his disappearance,” thought Anthea to herself. “I must discover his fate or the uncertainty will drive me mad.”
The Tarsi had camped only a few miles south of the canyon where Anthea and Elerian had fought the Troll. It suddenly occurred to Anthea that she might find the answer to her question in Dymiter’s abandoned home. Who knew what other magic was hidden in that place besides the pedestal that she had discovered there. As thought crystallized into the need for action, Anthea rose from her bed, quickly and silently dressing herself in her soft leather riding clothes. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as she slipped a long knife through her belt and hung a slim sword over her shoulders. If her dream proved prophetic, she would have her revenge on the dragon or die in the attempt.
Like a shadow, she stole through her father’s tent. Sleeping servants and furniture lurking unseen in the dark were no obstacle to her newly acquired night sight. Exiting through a slit she silently opened on the north side of the tent wall with a parting spell, she easily circumvented the armed, sleepless guards standing in front of the entrance to the pavilion. After using a joining spell to seal the opening she had made, Anthea paused for a moment with her back to the tent wall, settling her gaze on the Nordaels, which rose up like a dark wall to the north of the encampment. The desire to return to the Dymiter’s ancient home became even more fixed in her mind.
After taking a bridle from a nearby tent where riding gear was stored, Anthea slipped silently through the camp, passing unseen through the ring of mounted men who guarded it. She made no noise, and to anyone who cast his eyes in her direction, she was just one more shadow in the darkness. When she neared the horse herd, many of the horses stopped grazing as she approached, standing with their sculpted heads raised and their half moon ears swiveled forward as they tracked her progress through the darkness. Their great eyes saw her clearly, for the horses of the Tarsi saw almost as well in the dark as Anthea. Delicate nostrils flared as they drank in the familiar scent of the princess. One of them walked out of the herd, greeting Anthea with a soft, low-pitched nicker.
Anthea smiled in the darkness.
“Were you expecting me somehow Portia?” she asked softly, as she stroked the sleek neck of her black mare.
After slipping the bridle over Portia’s head, she sprang onto her back with a supple leap, urging her toward the north at a slow walk. There were guards around the horse herd, but they paid no attention to the mare as she moved past them, for Anthea had slipped down onto Portia’s left side, holding on with supple strength by her right hand and her right heel, so that she was out of sight of the guards.
Once she was a safe distance out onto the plain, Anthea resumed her seat on Portia’s back, urging her into a gallop. As her mare raced over the thick turf covering the ground, Anthea delighted in the feel of the mare’s lithe muscles and the cool night air streaming against her face. Neither her isolation in the vast plains around her, nor the thought of the great predators that roamed the night around her made any impression on her cool courage. Confidently, she urged Portia toward the entrance to the Troll Wood.
When the cleft in the foothills which marked the location of the canyon that held Dymiter’s abandoned abode loomed up before her, Anthea slowed Portia to a walk, searching the edge of the wood that filled the canyon’s entrance for the hidden entrance to the track that led north through the forest.
A steady beat of hooves suddenly came through the night behind her, growing louder as the rider drew closer. Anthea whirled Portia around, fearlessly drawing her sword with a harsh whisper of steel against hard leather. A single horseman approached through the darkness that was no barrier to her night wise eyes. She recognized her brother Dacien at once as he reined Mylachen up before her.
“What are you doing here, Dacien,” she asked quietly as she sheathed her sword.
“The poison which entered my veins during the battle against the Goblins at the Scissura still troubles me at times, especially at night,” replied Dacien. “When I left my bed for a glass of wine to ease the fire in my veins, I saw you slip through the tent wall. I sometimes go for a stroll at night, so the door guards paid me no mind when I left the tent. You disappeared like a wraith into the night, but I guessed that you might have gone for a ride on Portia, so I asked Mylachen to follow you, for he is as keen as any hound once he has a scent. He brought me here,” explained Dacien, affectionately stroking his stallion’s sleek neck with his right hand.
“Thank you for not giving me away, “said Anthea warmly.
“I hoped to persuade you to return before anyone discovered that you were missing,” replied Dacien quietly. “It is the height of foolishness, Anthea, to leave the camp at night by yourself with a traitor still undiscovered in our ranks.”
“I have something that I must do tonight,” said Anthea dismissively, “no matter what the risk.”
“Let it wait until morning,” pleaded Dacien. “We can return here with a suitable escort under the friendly light of the sun.”
“Sun or darkness, they are all the same to me now,” replied Anthea indifferently. “As for an escort, I neither need nor desire one. What I came to do, I will do alone.”
Dacien sighed at his sister’s reply although, in truth, he had expected no less. From past experience, he knew that she would not be swayed from her purpose. For as long as he could remember, she had done as she wished, paying no heed to anyone else.
“At least tell me where you are going,” he said resignedly.
“If you wish to know, then you will have to come with me,” said Anthea, her eyes suddenly gleaming mischievously in the dark. Turning Portia toward the canyon once more with the pressure of knees and reins, she urged the mare into a trot without turning once to see if her brother was following her. Dacien sighed and urged Mylachen after his sister, for he knew she would not hesitate to leave him behind if he faltered.
When they entered the wood, the darkness around Dacien became so thick because of the dense canopy of leaves overhead that he was unable to distinguish even the massive trunks of the ancient trees that rose up all around him. He was forced to rely on Mylachen to follow Portia, marveling at the confident manner in which Anthea made her way through the deep gloom under the trees without the benefit of any light.
When, at length, they emerged onto the track which led to the Elf mage’s dwelling, Anthea urged Portia to a faster pace, for the road was plainly visible to her eyes and those of her mare. Dacien followed close behind Anthea, his sister and her mare no more than a dark, quick moving shadow to his eyes.
“Why have you come to the Troll wood in the middle of the night, Anthea?” he asked worriedly when Mylachen had closed the gap between them. “This is a dangerous place even under the light of the sun.”
“I wish to visit the home of Dymiter one last time before we return to Niveaus,” said Anthea res
olutely and mysteriously.
“What purpose will that serve?” asked Dacien in a perplexed voice. “By your own account, there is nothing there now but the body of the Troll that Elerian killed.”
“I will explain later,” said Anthea evasively, for Dacien would surely raise objections if she told him that, in hopes of discovering Elerian’s fate, she was allowing a vague impulse to draw her to the ruined dwelling.
As each step Mylachen took drew him deeper into the dark forest which surrounded them on all sides, Dacien’s uneasiness grew unabated.
“How many times have I followed Anthea like this into some wild adventure?,” he mused to himself, harkening back over the years to a time when he was seven and his sister was twelve. A canigrae had crept down out of the mountains and had begun raiding the herds pastured around Niveaus. When the beast evaded all attempts to hunt it down, Anthea had taken it into her head to hunt the Goblin hound herself. She had asked Dacien to share in her adventure.
It was a dangerous, foolish idea but Dacien loved his brave, beautiful older sister and followed her without question. Armed with small bows, they had slipped out of the city one evening, entering the wood which surrounded its back walls where they backed up against the slopes of the Nordaels.
The residents of the city often visited the small forest to walk or picnic, for it was more of a park than a real wood. Dacien had comforted himself with the notion that the canigrae would never show itself in such a place. But, of course, it had appeared, slinking from behind a great oak, its eyes glowing crimson in the gloom under the trees. Baring its long white fangs, it had hurtled toward them, evading their hasty arrows. Dropping their useless weapons, they had scrambled up the trunk of a nearby chestnut, grasping the deeply fissured bark to draw themselves up. Anthea easily reached a low-lying limb, but Dacien remembered well the fear that swept over him when he slipped and fell heavily to the ground. Watching helplessly as the canigrae sprang toward him, jaws agape, he had been certain that his young life was over.
The beast had pounced on him, pinning him to the ground with its front paws. For a moment, all Dacien had seen was its gaping jaws and long white fangs reaching for his face. Then, so close its foul breath washed over his face, it had suddenly staggered and drawn its head back. A wild, pain filled howl had rent the silence of the dark wood. With wide eyes, Dacien had seen Anthea on the canigrae’s back, twisting and pulling on its hairy left ear with her left hand. She had leapt from the safety of the tree to come to his rescue.
With a skill beyond her years, his sister had thrust her hunting knife between the heavy neck bones of the canigrae with her right hand, severing its spine. The shaggy Goblin hound had collapsed heavily onto his chest; its gaping jaws inches from his face. A moment later and Anthea had dragged him clear. After satisfying herself that he was unharmed, ignoring the encroaching darkness, she had taken the canigrae’s hide, dragging the great, stinking pelt back to the city with Dacien’s help.
Dacien smiled to himself, remembering how angry his father had been. Because Anthea was the oldest of the pair, she had borne the brunt of his wrath. Throughout all the shouting, however, there had been a gleam of admiration in the king’s eyes and in the eyes of all his attendants. In the weeks that followed, Anthea was confined to her room as a punishment, but quite often, when Dacien attempted to smuggle some forbidden delicacy to his sister’s room, he was forced to hide out of sight and wait as some hardened old warrior furtively emerged from her room after bringing her some dainty of his own.
Dacien’s recollections were suddenly interrupted when Portia and Mylachen both slowed abruptly as they entered the clearing surrounding the ruins of Dymiter’s home. The horses threw their heads back and snorted in alarm, demonstrating a great reluctance to approach any closer to the decayed building.
“Something is wrong Anthea,” said Dacien anxiously. He looked around the clearing, but even in the open with no trees overhead, everything around him was an indistinct blur.
“I see nothing to threaten us,” said Anthea in a puzzled voice, but the horses refused to advance any farther. Anthea could see the whites of Portia’s eyes as she stamped her feet and tossed her head nervously.
“Stay with the horses, Dacien,” she said quietly. Before he could object, she leapt to the ground. Drawing her sword with her right hand and her long knife with her left, she walked with light, wary steps down the clearly defined path that led to the ruins.
“Wait Anthea!” called Dacien softly and urgently as his sister disappeared into the darkness surrounding him. Leaping off his own mount, he quietly ordered the two well-trained horses to wait. Drawing his sword, he stumbled up the path toward the shadowy ruins which bulked menacingly ahead of him, cursing the darkness under his breath.
“I was mad to agree to this,” he thought to himself. “What if there is another Troll? Anthea and I do not have Elerian’s power to defeat such a creature.”
Anthea was already standing near the entrance to the ruins as Dacien made his way up the path. She paused before the entrance, which gaped before her like a dark, open mouth, ready to swallow her. Her ears caught the sound of rushing feet an instant before three hulking forms burst through the opening.
The lead figure was dressed in black leather armor and covered from head to foot in coarse black fur. Hungry yellow eyes that shone like lamps in the darkness dominated a grinning, wolf like face. Over the mutare’s broad shoulders, Anthea could see the gleaming eyes of his two companions.
As the first of the changelings lifted its powerful arms to seize her, Anthea raised her slender, razor edged sword and thrust it through the creature’s hairy throat before leaping nimbly back to evade its reaching claws. Leaping lithely to her right, she allowed the second mutare, a great, hairy, bearlike creature, to rush by her. The third mutare slowed and confronted her. He had a feral intelligence in his yellow eyes, and unlike his two companions, he had a sword in his right paw, a heavy bladed, long handled weapon which he now swept down on Anthea in a great two-handed stroke, powerful enough to cleave her in two.
In a sure, swift move, Anthea raised her own sword. The heavy clash of steel on steel shattered the silence of the night as she caught the mutare’s sword in her weapon’s curved hilt guards. Driven by the mutare’s thick muscular arms, the heavy blade carried enough force to jar a sword free of even a strong warrior’s grip, but Anthea’s slim hand and arm absorbed the blow with an unexpected strength, holding the mutare’s joined hands and sword aloft. Before the creature could break free of her sword; Anthea stepped beneath their upraised weapons, driving her long knife through the mutare’s leather armor and deep into its broad, hairy chest. Pulling knife and sword free, Anthea stepped back from the changeling, which was already dead on its feet, its heart pierced by her knife. Spinning around on her left heel, Anthea sought the mutare who had rushed by her.
A succession of loud snarls drew her attention to the path. To her dismay, she saw that the last mutare was grappling with Dacien, who lay on his back on the path with the changeling crouched over his chest. He had both his strong hands buried in the long fur which covered the creature’s neck as he strove mightily to prevent it from tearing out his throat with its long fangs. The curved black claws on the changeling’s front paws made harsh grating noises as they scraped across the steel bosses reinforcing his heavy leather tunic, seeking the soft flesh beneath the leather armor.
THE PORTAL
Dropping her sword, Anthea ran up to the struggling pair. After deftly switching her knife to her right hand, she seized the mutare by the long, coarse hair on the back of its head with her left hand, pulling its head away from Dacien’s throat before driving her knife into the back of its neck. The mutare went limp, sagging heavily against her hand. With supple strength, Anthea pulled its heavy body away from Dacien, throwing it easily to her left after withdrawing her knife. Dacien climbed shakily to his feet, seemingly uninjured. Because of the darkness and the brief nature of the battle, he was unsur
e of what had happened. Even the mutare who had attacked him had been little more than a blur in the darkness.
“I should have thought to bring a torch or a mage light,” he said angrily. “I cannot see a thing in this cursed darkness.” A stray gleam of light from under Anthea’s jerkin suddenly attracted Dacien’s gaze.
“What is that light, Anthea?” he asked in surprise.
Anthea reach under the unbuttoned collar of her leather jerkin, pulling out her pendant. When they were exposed to view, the diamonds covering the silver beech leaf in her hand shone with a soft, white radiance which created a small pool of dim light around them.
“Returning to the place where it lay for so long has roused its powers, I think,” mused Anthea to herself.
Dacien barely heard her, for his heart had lurched when he saw the bodies of the three mutare lying on the ground.
“Changelings wearing the dark livery of the Goblin King!” said Dacien in dismay. “They must be survivors of the Goblin army which we defeated near the Scissura. After traveling south to the mountains, they must have hidden themselves in this old ruin. We should leave here now Anthea, in case there are more of them about.”
Anthea looked toward the horses. They were stamping their feet and snorting softly at the scent of fresh blood, but their earlier panic seemed to have subsided.
“If there were more of the creatures about, the horses would scent them,” she said to Dacien. “Let me accomplish my purpose here and then we will leave.”
“We should leave now,” Dacien insisted, but Anthea had already retrieved her sword and was walking past the bodies of the mutare, toward the doorway to Dymiter’s abandoned home. Resignedly, Dacien followed her, wearing a troubled look on his face.
“You dealt with these three great creatures by yourself, Anthea, in less time than it takes to tell about it,” he said quietly. “My sister of old was never so strong or quick with sword and knife.”