by Sandra Kopp
“Looks like clear skies,” Hans remarked.
“Yes. A good sign, I’d say,” Charles returned.
“Indeed.” Arris gathered up the remainder of his breakfast and stuffed it into his saddlebag. “Gentlemen, whenever you’re ready let’s hunt more Baugonril.”
Single file, they wound their way among the ancient pines through an emerald realm so stately, peaceful and majestic they felt they must have entered the sanctuary of some primeval cathedral. The wind had driven fog and clouds far to the north, and radiant sunshine spilled unobstructed into the dense forest, penetrating many of the forbidden areas so jealously guarded by the towering trees. Patches of feathery fern rippled wave-like in the breeze, taking on various shades of green as each oscillation took them from shadow to sunshine and back again.
Overhead, squirrels chattered and jays scolded against a chorus of birdsong. Sweet evergreen perfume mingled with rhododendrons and wild roses, along with a very pleasant fragrance none of the company could identify. The verdant canopy above lent an ethereal glow to the light filtering through the myriad needles, and even Hans marveled at this ageless beauty. “Who would believe such wonder exists amid the gloom of San-Leyon?” he said to no one in particular. “It is like pure gold pouring down from heaven through a lattice of gems.” He took a deep sniff of fragrant air and exhaled a sigh of satisfaction. “It even smells good!”
Arris looked back and laughed. “I never knew you to wax poetic, Hans.”
“There is much about me you don’t know.” Hans settled himself more comfortably and smiled smugly as he looked about. “If magical creatures like elves and pixies exist, they would surely inhabit this forest.”
Still laughing, Arris looked ahead again.
Gradually the trees thinned, affording enough room for two to ride abreast. Charles rode ahead to join Arris at the head of the line.
Arris shot him a sideways glance. “I know my whereabouts last night and recent behavior concern you.” He paused. “Ryadok possesses great power, given him by the lord of the Abyss. I have tried to determine if he watches us. . .to ascertain if he knows we have entered his realm and for what purpose. I needed you all to sleep so I could concentrate and work unhindered.”
“And?” Charles pressed.
Arris shook his head. “I learned nothing. Maybe I should have remained in Nimbia to perfect my skills, but—” He looked down, his face troubled.
“You’re every whit as sharp as the Arganian masters,” Charles assured him. “And you have impeccable instincts. Never have you led us astray.”
Arris watched as a great bird circled once and then disappeared over the trees. “We know the general nature and whereabouts of our foe. Now we must determine how to eradicate it—and we must prepare to deal with many.”
Charles’ brows shot up. “Frightening. One Baugonril proved formidable.”
“Aye. But the breederies will contain many, along with their guards.”
“And we are but four.”
“Four united in a noble cause,” Arris told him. “We will find a way.”
THE WOODSMEN OF SAN-LEYON
Dewey Hollow, an azure pool amid an emerald carpet, lay in the middle of what Hans deemed one of only two meadows in all of San-Leyon. Amply replenished by the annual runoff and frequent rains, it provided clear, clean water until well into summer. The pool itself spread approximately thirty feet across. Lush, succulent grass encircled it, extending back to a ring of fir and pine interspersed with quaking aspen. Normally the hollow would teem with elk and deer, but today the company found it ominously empty.
Hans dismounted stiffly and stretched. “Where are the herds?”
His companions also dismounted and began unsaddling their horses.
“Baugonril frightened them off. They’ll not rest while the beast lives.” Arris pulled off Barada’s saddle and laid it aside.
“Strange.” Hans turned slowly, taking short measured steps as he studied the ground. “After all this rain, I would expect a marsh here.”
“I see not so much as a single hoof print anywhere,” Charles noted. “This ground has gone untrodden for weeks.”
“Baugonril surely sent the herds fleeing beyond Epthelion’s borders,” Arris said. “I doubt they’ll return any time soon. Yet our horses seem not to detect any trace of the monster.”
“Perhaps Baugonril has not actually entered the hollow.” Charles had finished unsaddling his horses and was rubbing them down before turning them out to graze. As he finished, he noted Arris and Davon intently studying the ground not far from the trees on the northeast side. Arris was frowning. “The Marchants must have found something,” Charles told Hans.
Arris waved them over. The brothers looked very grave, with Davon conspicuously pale.
“What did you find?” Charles panted as he and Hans ran to join them.
Arris pointed to a massive impression in the ground at his feet. Charles stepped forward and immediately recoiled. “Zounds!” At first they could only gawk, and then Charles whispered hoarsely, “This measures almost twice the size of the first spoor we found!” It spanned some twenty-five inches wide and thirty inches long, with a row of six ten-inch claws arranged in a rough semicircle on the front end.
Arris nodded soberly. “No wonder we find no herds. A creature this size might consume several animals at once.”
“How big do these things get?” Hans croaked.
Arris bit his lip. “I don’t know. But I’ll wager we heard this one baying last night. This track looks fresh.” He nodded toward another spot a few steps to the southeast. “There’s another print there—and another even farther down.”
Charles strode to the second print and whistled loudly. “Five steps. Was this thing running or walking, I wonder?”
“But I smell nothing,” Davon noted.
Hans wandered closer to the trees, downwind of the tracks. “You can catch a whiff of it here.”
Davon walked toward the grove. “So you can,” he murmured. “But only faintly.”
Charles approached, slapping the side of his leg with a stick he had picked up along the way. “We’ve delayed long enough. Let’s ride to the canyon while we have daylight.”
Arris stared down at the massive print, his normally smooth forehead furrowed with worry. Charles stopped beside him.
“Why no smell?” Arris murmured. “Are we dealing with yet a different beast? Or does Baugonril change as it grows?”
“Come, we must hurry,” Charles urged.
Less than an hour later found them crossing a broad, rocky clearing outside the forest surrounding Gonor Canyon. Even from a distance the men heard the discordant half-blubber, half-gurgle of what sounded like a hundred beasts, and although they had the wind at their backs, smelled the familiar vomit-inducing stench. The horses snorted as they side-stepped ahead.
Hardly had they entered the forest when Barada reared and struck out with his powerful forelegs. Upon alighting he tried to run, but Arris held him in. “Out!” Arris whispered hoarsely, his eyes wide with fright. “They’re all around us! Out!”
They fled to the hollow. Arris swung out of his saddle and knelt on one knee, resting his forehead on his hand as he cursed himself. “Tarmania chou! Surrounded by beasts! And I did not see!”
“At rest they turn into black puddles, invisible in the shadows.” Charles set his jaw. “Even if we could detect them we haven’t the weaponry or manpower to take on so many. If we knew their bounds and had enough men, we could surround them and fire at will. We might trick the wounded beasts into charging each other. If we could set some of them on fire, they might ignite the rest of the pack.”
He squatted beside Arris. “The beasts now rest. The wind to our back would push a fire to the canyon—”
“You can’t light a fire with everything thoroughly soaked,” Hans broke in. “As for bow and arrows, at what would you aim? Shadows? You might hit Baugonril or only the ground, and if you hit a beast, would your strike ki
ll it, or simply enrage it?”
“We must first search out their bounds,” Charles said.
“Ach, man, have you considered the size of this forest?” Hans demanded. “It covers miles. Its shadows hide the creatures. We rode right into the middle of a bunch, for pity’s sake! They could have consumed us ere we drew our swords!”
“We’ll do what we can,” Charles told him. “Even a few men can prevail for a just cause.”
“We’re mortal,” Hans shot back, “and many a pure-hearted man has died in vain for a just cause. I can’t imagine this worth the risk. We’re too few!”
Arris slowly rose. “Are you afraid to die?”
“No. But Ryadok commands thousands who know these woods and enjoy his protection. You have good gifts, Master Arris, but they don’t match our enemy’s subtlety. The odds weigh against us.” Hans slapped his thigh. “Where are the sons of Arronmyl, who inhabit these woods and know them better than we know our own lands? Will they not rise to defend it? Or has Ryadok bought them?”
“They hold no allegiance to Ryadok,” Charles said. “I trust Arronmyl San-Leyon and those who follow him. They have time and again spurned all offers to unite with any of the lords of Barren-Fel, regardless what they promised.”
“Yet they allow Ryadok to breed Baugonril under their very noses,” Hans shot back.
Arris spoke quietly. “Perhaps we should muster them.”
“Where would we find them?” Hans countered. “They hide deep in their forests. One would think they feared anyone lacking moss growing on his head.”
“Hans.” Arris waved a warning hand.
Hans paid no heed. “I would gladly look for them, would it not take longer to find them than to rid the land of Baugonril.”
A gruff voice spoke. “Perhaps we are not so distant or timid as you believe, my friend.”
“Oi!” Hans turned. Near the edge of the woods, not fifty feet away, stood more than seventy of the sons of Arronmyl, with still more emerging from the forest. Imposing figures, each stood well over six feet tall. Stern, unblinking, deep-set eyes peered out from under shaggy brows. Their bearded jaws were set. They wore deerskin breeches and jackets along with beaver hats, and each carried a bow and a quiver of arrows.
They looked bedraggled and battle weary. The four companions noted their gashed and bruised faces and roughly-bandaged limbs. A bloody rag encircled one forehead. Another man wore a patch over his eye, and still another hobbled forward on a makeshift crutch.
“Look well at my band and note we have not allowed Baugonril into our lands unchallenged.” A towering man at least seven feet tall stepped up to them. He smelled of the deep woods, pungent with sweat, wild game and pine, but carried himself with dignity and quiet nobility.
“We killed a large Baugonril some weeks back. The size of a full-grown stag, he was, and last night we killed another twice the size of the first.” He eyed his men with unfeigned admiration. “These lads fought well.”
Hans’ ruddy face grew redder. “I see that once again I have spoken in haste and humbly beg your pardon.”
The speaker acknowledged with a nod. “No matter.” He lifted his hand. “I am Arronmyl of San-Leyon.”
Arris stepped forward. “I am Arris Marchant, a healer with medicine and supplies. Please, let me see to your wounded.”
Arronmyl grunted. Arris pulled the satchel from his saddle and, followed by Davon, hastened to the injured men.
Arronmyl raised his brows. “Nimbians?”
“Yes. Brothers,” Charles answered. “And Arris is an Arganian, besides.”
“I would never have believed an Arganian would leave his lofty perch to aid the woodland peoples,” Arronmyl returned, his deep voice filled with wonder.
“He did so at great cost,” Charles told him. “His family disinherited him, even performed his death ritual. Yet he felt his gifts would better serve in the war against Ryadok.”
Arronmyl looked down, shaking his head. “Strange customs, those people. One would think they who dwell so near the angels would possess more mercy and compassion, particularly toward their own.”
“Not all of them lack these qualities, and I believe that, before this ends, Arris will redeem himself in their eyes,” Charles said.
The Nimbian medicine quickly took effect. The evident relief on the faces of those injured clearly warmed Arronmyl, and some of the sternness melted from his weather-worn features. Nodding toward the brothers, he noted, “They carry weapons. I thought Nimbians didn’t use them.”
“As youths Arris and his brother often visited the shepherds at Eldweiss. Both showed a talent for archery and helped defend the flocks. Later, adventuresome spirits and the desire for steeds of the Horse Lords took them into Ha-Ran-Fel, where Aethelion and some of his elite engaged them in games. While lacking a warrior’s proficiency, both brothers impressed them with the skills they had. Aethelion included them in his drills and trained them further. They gained each others’ trust. Each side showed themselves honorable.” Charles smiled. “There the four of us met and became comrades.”
“It’s good our paths crossed. They give my men what none of us could.” Arronmyl turned and nodded to Hans. “And you as well. If as handy with your sword as with your mouth, you will prove an able soldier indeed.”
“He proves handier with the sword.” Charles spoke before the short-tempered Hans could respond. “I’ve known him many years. He possesses a level head, keen eye and a steady hand. Only yesterday he thrust his sword through a Baugonril’s heart.”
Arronmyl pursed his lips. “Admirable. And very brave.” He cocked his head, regarding Charles narrowly. “What is your name?”
“Charles Bordner. This red-haired fellow is Hans Ogilvie of Liedor. The two Nimbians are Arris and Davon Marchant.”
The last of Arronmyl’s band had emerged from the forest, bringing their final tally to almost two hundred.
“Why did you come here rather than return to your village?” Charles asked.
“We traveled east to the meadowlands to hunt deer, but encountered Ryadok’s beast instead. Over a dozen of us died before we could kill it. Twenty took the dead and wounded back to the village and mustered more men and supplies. The rest of us turned north to hunt game and seek Baugonril.”
“We just rode into a nest of the blighters,” Hans blurted.
Arronmyl turned sharply. “Where? When?”
“Not an hour ago—maybe a half-hour’s ride toward the canyon from here,” Charles answered.
“How many?”
“No way to tell,” Charles told him. “We couldn’t distinguish creature from shadow.”
“Given all the blubbering, those woods must teem with them,” Hans put in.
Arronmyl’s eyes blazed. “We must be rid of them!”
The woodsmen rallied around their leader. Arronmyl sat and gestured toward Charles and his company. “These four found a Baugonril nest between here and Gonor’s Canyon. We’ll form a line and march through them, killing anything black that moves. What say you?”
“I suggest we form two lines,” Charles submitted. “If a creature overtakes the man in front, the man following can aid him.”
“Well said.” Arronmyl leapt to his feet. “Let’s go!”
“The wounded must remain here,” Arris said. “The smell of blood will drive the beasts into frenzy. I marvel they have not attacked already. To the rest of you I serve warning: Baugonril’s blood could be a deadly poison.”
“We need no warning.” A grizzled man with a bushy beard held up his bandaged left arm. “The devil’s juice ate part of my wrist.”
“Leather provides an effective barrier,” Arronmyl put in. “Cover yourself as best you can, and mind your face and hands, for we’ve naught to protect them.” He turned to Charles and jerked his head in the direction of Gonor’s Canyon. “Lead on, Charles Bordner!”
“But quietly,” Arris warned. “Surprise will prove our greatest ally.”
CLEANING OUT
A DRAGON’S NEST
The four companions, with the woodsmen close behind, threaded their way across the sun-washed glade bordering Baugonril’s forest lair. Ample rain and warming sun had swelled the teeming berry thickets to verdant succulence, and here and there an audacious wildflower cast vivid color into the emerald sea. Already the all-too-familiar odor—the stench of imminent death, Arris called it—assaulted their nostrils, worsened now by lack of wind coupled with midday heat. The air rumbled with the percolating gurgle of countless slumbering Baugonril.
“Ach,” Hans fumed. “First we drown in fog and rain, and now we cook in the heat! I swear, the very land means to kill us.”
“Not before we kill this devil’s spawn.” Arronmyl paused to glance along the line of trees before them. About a quarter mile to the south an old dead cedar stood alone, its bare crooked branches bleached white by weather and sun. “We’ll form our lines as far as that cedar. We’ve sufficient numbers to cover the distance and—” He smiled grimly—“hopefully the nest extends no farther.”
Charles and his companions tied their horses and took their positions. The woodsmen fanned out on either side of them, a handful to the north while the majority of them stretched south. Arronmyl picked a point in the front line midway between Charles and the old cedar. Seeing the lines formed and every man in position, he waved his bow to signal the attack. Charles waved his in return. The men surged ahead.
A piercing shriek split the air. Arronmyl shouted an order. Arrows sang, their zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt stopping abruptly as they met a beast or tree. The very shadows sprang to life. The benign gurgling transformed into hellish screams, snarls and growls. All around the forest floor, writhing phosphorescent forms gathered themselves and began to rise. The men shouted and loosed another volley. Some, brandishing spears and swinging clubs, rushed forward to meet the beasts now charging at them.