The more they considered those poor unfortunates, the more William and his allies felt sick to their stomachs. The ripe emanation of rotting meat was all too foul an odour to tolerate. Covering their mouths as they sloped by, they were forced to distract themselves; considering anything else but those bodies. Eventually the deceased lessened until those gigantic trunks were of but unadorned knots and nothing else.
As for the toadstools, things did lurk amongst them; in crannies too dim and ominous to investigate. Bizarre dronings also murmured from those lush corners on occasion before delving into quietude whenever they turned to see what was there.
One of our friends, however, was…how should we say…’lucky’ enough to have spotted one of these shy beasts at one stage. Can you guess who? I’ll wager you’re right. Glimpsing over his shoulder, just in the nick of time, Icrick witnessed four, huge, snipping pincers, and three stubbly, shell-like legs slipping back into the gloom. It could only have been, I presume, some form of hulking arachnid whose nature it was to skulk in secret until a sure-fire meal appeared right on its very doorstep. Fearing he’d gasped his last breath, the Grogoch sprung a little ‘leak’ for himself in mid-waddle. Terrified wasn’t the word. Khrum wasn’t settled on William’s shoulder then either. Can you see where this is heading?
It wouldn’t take much to imagine just how livid the leprechaun was when he assumed to have a nice handful of fresh rainwater to slake his thirst. Then he saw the steam, after which, an atrocious pong.
“What in the name o—” he scowled, suddenly pausing, and turning pale with rage.
Taking one repulsive whiff of his hands, he choked and spat, and all hell broke loose.
He lashed out, and was bouncing up and down with such ferocity that the prowling visitors were questioning the group’s sanity; knowing not if they were some secret sector of Drevol’s alliance or worse again. So they left them be, remarkably enough. What dumb luck. It turns out that not all creatures in the east were as ruthless as they so believed after all. Yet if anyone else was to creep by unaccompanied, or in lesser numbers, then circumstances might have been much less prosperous.
“In the name of all that is holy, cool yourself. This is the last place you want to throw a fit.” Stell charged, grabbing the last of the Fàla leaves from his supply. “Here! Rub these into your hands. They should kill any germs and freshen you up a bit. But honestly, Khrum, I am never usually one to bicker, especially after your kind words earlier on, but we must remain discreet here. Who knows what could be waiting for us around the next corner. For safety’s sake, we need to hush!”
“Tell him that!” Khrum thundered, prodding Icrick’s knee. “He jusht relieved himself all over my hat like. What am I supposed ta do? Thank him for it? Righto! Here it goes. Cheers, Icrick! Cheers for makin’ my cap smell like a Grogoch’s runny aul’ nappy. Much obliged.”
“Well done, Khrum! That’ll solve it. Now zip it!” William declared.
“No, he has a right to be vexed, William.” The Grogoch pleaded, standing in. “I know I would be, if I were him.”
Then he said to the leprechaun, “Just got a little frightened, Khrum, that’s all. I thought I saw something in the shadows, but it’s gone now. Must’ve run off when you started shouting. I didn’t mean it. Honestly. I’m not like that.”
“Well,” the leprechaun said, gathering that it wasn’t done intentionally, “okay! It’s fine. Just try n’ keep a knot in it next time ya feel the urge, right?”
“You have my word.” Icrick promised, and finding a small flask in William’s pack, he offered it kindly. “Here you go.”
“What’s this…a dousin’ ya prepared earlier?” Khrum asked, sneaking a dig, but it was more of a tease than anything.
“Heaven’s, no! It’s fresh river water.” the Grogoch explained, proud of his generous token. “I got it in Ebyulán. One of the angels gave it to me. They said it may come in useful. Anyway, I was going to save it for later…for when we really needed it. But Thedius has supplied us with a stable amount of lemonwater too, so I suppose there’s no harm in you having this now. Go ahead. Take it! It’s my apology to you.”
Glad of the gesture, Khrum took one big swig from the flask, quenching his thirst beautifully.
“Aaah, now that’s what I call water!” he complimented refreshingly, regarding the flask with a lick of his lips. “Much obliged, Icrick. Anyone else for a sup?”
They passed it around and each had a mouthful, feeling it wise to squeeze the most out of every little ration while it was available to them.
It was funny, though. William’s landing had caused a slight chip in the flask neck, so it trickled somewhat.
So, as Wren was last in line, after him, the boy handed her the flask, and abashed by what he was about to say next, he mumbled sourly, “Here! And…um…mind the lid. It tends to dribble a bit.”
He still gave the impression of being put-out by her, but it was nice to see him being civil towards her all the same. She smiled ever so timidly and took a drink.
“Thank you, William,” said she, as shy as a mouse, dabbing her lips.
Gruffly, he replied, “Thank Icrick,” before proceeding on his hike, aghast by his inner conflict.
It’s truly mysterious, how one will act when split between the bonds of desire and detestation.
The winds lifted and were reeling in from the west now. Dots of rain speckled their skin, but it hadn’t really worsened, to some relief. Not a word was spoken, either. For the fact that they were basically on the Pooka’s doorstep had finally sunk in. Dreading the worst, they remained extra vigilant.
Khrum, too, had stopped his yapping and was riding on William’s shoulder again; whipping his head left to right, like a suspicious owl scouting for enemies. Watchful or not, it would have been impossible to keep tabs on every little corner of that shelf, with the vegetation so dense. All they could see, with some certainty, was the slim path that wound on into the expanding gloom ahead.
Trees which William had never before seen—full of dangling chains, with the odd iron panel nailed onto the trunk—bent low over the crooked path, thereby barricading any view they may have had of the night sky. What had embellished these trees so, and why? They looked to serve no particular purpose, aside from looking sinister. But there were other things about which were of more concern than them.
Odd noises, such as the way a rainforest would sound should every living organism within sing in reverse, crooned amongst the high, jet-black weeds, whose pungent buds portrayed deathlike images of skulls and crossbones. ‘Twas such things that really scared them.
Everything in Lòr seemed menacing; from the tufts of grass whose fibres emitted a delicate, toxic-looking vapour, to the very path side, whose surface sometimes came alive with all kinds of spectral hands that tried clawing their way free; like guiltless spirits condemned to live out an eternity below the dust, much like those poor souls in the trees. Those hands scraped desperately at the terrain, like it was some sort of elasticized, indissoluble resin, and yet, no matter how frantically they flailed, they could not break through. Such regret stayed our heroes’ hearts when they saw them, knowing well that any faint promise of salvation was gone far beyond their power. They were left with no choice but to continue on.
Indeed, if Thedius’ home was considered a type of heaven, then this place would undoubtedly have been deemed a style of hell.
Sometimes they heard murmurings of an even ghostlier order, in that they sometimes giggled like children at play. Yet what manner of infants could they be, cackling and sniggering in this vile place? Choosing to discount this, in light of its paucity, they pressed on guardedly, soon finding themselves completely boxed in by the covering woodland, with only a slight tell of dusty track to carry them further into the dark.
That place was so scary that William even took to watching Thérn, to see if it’d move, only it didn’t, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Stell was treading in side steps, gl
impsing curiously into the shadows when something jumped his senses.
“Can you smell that?” he whispered, with an air of distaste, watching the brush to his right.
Shrugging, Khrum suggested, “Grogoch feet?”
“No,” Wren said, squinting into the scrub. “It’s something else. Like…oil, would it be?”
Stell unsheathed his spear and crept into the bushes, where he found a manmade stream. It travelled on for a time, into where the light could no longer exist.
“Icrick, will you bring your flint over here for a moment, please?” he asked.
“Is it—”
“Yes, it’s safe.” Stell assured him, predicting Icrick’s mind.
In ready alert, Icrick toddled over to the Elf and handed him the flint. Stell set a spark to the stream. Lo and behold, the oil ignited and rushed right up along the narrow channel, sending much-needed light into a newfound chasm up ahead. In and out of the trees it wound, like a formidable, fiery worm.
It fuelled fast through that strange new canyon; zipping in every which way, so as both walls of the gorge lit up brilliantly. And there they lingered, at the bottom of a steep embankment of weathered earth, on top of which an intimidating gateway awaited them.
“That’s it…isn’t it?” Wren asked nervously.
The Elf replied grimly, “Yes. I’m afraid it is.”
No mere gateway was this. It was the gateway to the Bohàr Pass itself. Behind which was the last stretch of tattered pathway that would lead them into the open gorges within…and the nest of Drevol Briggun thereafter.
Those gorge walls therein were flecked with clumps of iron ore and thinly tenanted with more of those strange, industrial-looking trees who branched out from the rocks themselves. Great ashen candles, long flooded with tears of cold wax also stood, in vast untidy clusters, upon every idle outcrop; one by one flaring into kindle as the fire hummed past them. Then, akin to some sort of impertinent makeshift necropolis, masses of bones hung limply from those colossal walls, after being cemented inside in a deranged and disorderly way. This whole island was one monumental graveyard. Facing her back to this, Wren stepped away.
“What’s the matter? Not used to this sort o’ thing?” William implied.
It just slipped out. Nevertheless, he went with it to see what sort of reaction it would coax.
Narrowing her eyes, she leered, “No…are you?”
He did not answer, for she was right. He could never adapt to such grisly portrayals of punishment. Unless you were Drevol Briggun…nobody could. Not even Vahna’s own kin.
In turn, he again felt remorseful for disrespecting both Wren’s probable attempts of atonement, as well as utilizing the deceased as some despicable means of throwing yet another stab at her. After all, she did seem to be trying, and, not yet had she tricked him into the heart of risk, such as she was at one time so very renowned for doing. Nor was there any real evidence to support this supposed betrayal which Vahna had warned him of, and yet, afraid to ignore it entirely, he decided to stay sharp, just to be sure.
Rerouting his ponderings to the pass, he found it difficult to think, by a sudden flash of fear. He feared that, one day, he might very well be joining these martyrs if he wasn’t careful. If that should ever happen, he would never see his mother or the light of day again. And there was the Symphogram, as dead as can be upon Icrick’s back; blank and seemingly useless in its being. William felt a hatred simmering for this contraption, a style of loathing which made him want to unleash Thérn and smite it into a hundred tiny pieces for not already assisting him so. Under any other circumstances, he would have done just that, were it not for the faith which so many others had deposited into this device. In thus curbing his frustration, he felt obliged to stay patient and do the same, no matter how let down he felt. It could easily be said that, so near to their destination, the others were just as uncertain as he, yet they chose not to reveal it, being strict disciples of the prophecy.
He had that numb look on his face again. That same sickly expression which Wren remembered from earlier on.
In spite of his bitterness of late, she approached him, and whether he wanted to hear her out or not, she whispered, “Look, I know what you’re thinking, William.”
“What am I thinking?” he started, presuming she was referring to her secret.
“About the Symphogram,” said she.
“Oh,” he muttered, calming down again.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled. “Your magic will come. I know it will. You trust me, don’t you?”
Again, she got inside his head and somehow managed to ease his irritation. It was the way she said things. Her voice. Her sweet, caring tone. But, in turn, this had him battling even more with his mislaid feelings.
So before he could fall under her spell again, he ignored what she had to say, deployed his staff and said to the Elf, “Straight through so, yeah? One road?”
“That’s right, William. Yes.” Stell answered reluctantly, not wishing to interfere, but already an upset Wren had left to be by herself.
“We shall meet with many other routes along the way,” the Elf continued, trying to break the moment’s tension, “of bridges and of mines, yet we must not stray onto them. This Bohàr Pass—this one road—is our only road, and it is imperative that we stick to it. Also, I fear Goblin exiles may be hiding around these parts. And, considering what I have told you about my past, I do not wish to cross paths with them any time soon! So, what say we stay on track, eh?”
William geared up what little grit he had, and roved through the forest borders so as to make for the steep embankment beneath the gateway. Icrick went to fetch Wren, who’d been sitting, palms to her face, upon a toadstool in a clearing. Her eyes were pink and glazed, so he asked her what the matter was, however she wouldn’t say. She simply smiled at him like he was the last friend she had in the world, took his hand, and followed the others up the hill, then on to the gate.
Bolted and secured with a multitude of rusted cogs and sprockets, this thirty-foot-high iron gate loomed over them with horrid intent. The blemishes and scores on its steel showed how it had been assaulted many times before, by rebels, I suppose, who tried ending this tyrant’s reign once and for all. As it seemed, however, their attempts were ultimately unavailing, which would also explain those masses of bodily remains from before. The remains of past adventurers and heroes, no doubt.
William was about to reach out and touch, when his hand was suddenly stopped by Stell.
“What’s wrong?” the lad asked.
Snatching an ugly, snappy, slug-like critter from a nearby branch, the Elf dangled it before William’s eyes, and uttered, “Observe.”
He then cast it against the gate, only to have it pop upon some invisible charge, thereby branding its charred shape onto the steel. Pew coiled his way down along Wren’s body, wherefrom he peeped out shivering. Icrick was no better, blinking out from behind her other leg.
“What on earth?” the Grogoch trembled, wide-eyed and frozen.
“Do you honestly believe that Drevol would let us enter so freely?” Stell asked. “I think not! Other dark spells may also be at work here, preventing outsiders from opening this gate. So we may be in for a long wait before we find a way through.”
“How are we supposed to get past it, if we can’t even open it?” Wren said. “And if you have any bright ideas, Stell, about us climbing this precipice, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“I second that!” said Icrick, taking her side. “Enough has happened in this realm for me not to trust a cliff that’s covered with arms and legs and bones.”
“Yip! It’s a disaster waitin’ ta happen.” Khrum added. “An’ I know that look in your eyes, Stell, from when we were bein’ chased by those Taoisóg critters that time! An’ look what happened there. The lad nearly split his head like a watermelon.”
Before Stell could even attempt to sell his plan, they apprehended a peculiar rumbling from the ground beneath.
/> “Quick! Hide!” the Elf ordered, and they scurried behind the fringes of the bank.
Making not a peep, they peeked out from behind a cluster of briars, only to witness something so devastating that it made their hearts plunge into the soles of their boots.
Such as how one would wade up onto a bank, from the deep, a figure ascended from the very earth, and not an unfamiliar figure at that. The figure was Glorgan.
He approached the gates, and spoke to the sky, “‘Tis I, my lord. Will you grant me passage?”
Glorgan? A traitor? That fiend, whom William had always deemed so just, was a low-down, filthy traitor?
The boy stormed out into the open, without a solitary care for consequence, and shouted, “GLORGAN!”
The Glog, taken by surprise, tried appearing gentle and kind, just as William had remembered him. Then, all of a sudden, his tone changed to a slier, more devious pitch.
“Oooh! William!” smirked he, his face shrivelling to a morbid darkness. “What a nice surprise. I trust you heard me just now, so there is really no sense in me trying to deny it?”
The Other of One: Book Two Page 39