The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  Wren then took it upon herself to ask, “What’s that you’re doing, Redmun? Some kind of ritual?”

  “Difficult to say,” the man confessed, smiling to himself.

  His ignorance was apparent, and frank, also, but he still appeared boyishly eager about whatever this little experiment was. Like he had a hunch of what could happen, though he really had no clue of what to expect.

  They thought he’d gone batty, the way he was carrying on. It was only when he explained his theories did they neutralize any ill view.

  “It is interpreted as being very unorthodox—to blend Erethaoí magic with any other species,” he went on, tinkering about. “Something which I’ve never tried before, for obvious reasons. Anyhow, it is believed that the wood of this tree is notably permeable. Absorbent to its needs. Water. Nutrients. Whilst sometimes being absorbent to magic, too. We can but test it and see, lass. Perhaps something will come of it. Perhaps it will not. In which case, the Elf will be short a good bow. And if that happens, then I apologize in advance, old friend.”

  It all sounded so mysterious, and magical, and fascinating, that nobody spoke. Stell, however, couldn’t help feeling like he’d been done out of a fairly okay bow. Still, he could always fashion another, and he always had his spear.

  Something started to happen.

  Well. They simply could not fathom it when those same hairline fractures illuminated like the glowing crust of hot charcoal amongst ashy cinders. Even more impressive, a string, blistering-red and poker-hot, suddenly appeared then laced itself from one nock to the other, as if from thin air. Like a shimmer across a blade, three more facades undulated through it—frost, dust, and a phantasm hue—before reverting back into what would have been a fairly regular bow, only for a slight inaudible hum vibrating through it.

  “Magnificent!” Redmun said, and proud of his effort he presented it to Stell. “It worked better than I expected. To you, Elf, I present a token.”

  But the Elf was not quite so keen. He had a look which told of just how little he wished to even be in the same vicinity as this unstable-looking apparatus, let alone carry it in his hand.

  Then he stuttered, “I-Is it safe? W-Why does it hum so?”

  “Venturing a guess,” Redmun gauged, “I would suggest that, resulting from this somewhat asymmetrical fusion of both my blood and the chemicals in the bough, your bow has undertaken some form of Erethus force. I’d even go so far as to say it has inherited all Erethaoí powers. Either that, or it’s about to explode.”

  The Elf looked at him suddenly, half-smiling, half-unsure, when Redmun laughed, “I jest, lad. Here! Take it now as a blessing, and use it well. But before you do, I’d recommend wearing this.”

  From his inside pocket he produced a three-fingered shooting glove, something the Elf would be in dire need of, should this new armament work the way Redmun said it would.

  “It should weather its power ably enough,” the man vowed. “Some years ago I treated most of my possessions with shielding agents, you see, so they could stand up against the elements. Lucky for you that I did. For it turns out that I am not the only one who is in need of said protection.”

  “Go for it, Stell!” Icrick urged, all excited and smiley. “The suspense is killing me! Fire off a shot or two! See what happens.”

  Curiosity prevailed. Stell was more excited now than anyone, though nervous still of what might transpire. But he couldn’t back out now. Not after everyone had congregated to watch.

  “Well,” Stell sighed, who, like William, was never an enthusiast of attention, “no pressure so!”

  Then, “Halt!” said Redmun, who then opened his palms like a book to liberate five orange quetzals; birds born from ash.

  They quickly plunged into the gorges far below, then peeled off into separate directions.

  “Simply firing it into thin air would prove no test, now would it?” the man said. “You need targets.”

  He then felt the need to advise the Elf of how not to feel outdone by should he miss, for quetzals of any breed are tiny and swift. Hard to catch. Stell just smiled.

  Discounting whatever fear he may have once had for this strange weapon, and whilst Redmun waffled on and on about him going easy on himself should he miss, Stell felt a curious connection with it; to the point where he found himself picturing the bow’s primary element. Its internal fire. His irises then torched like an Erethaoí’s as he triggered five swift twangs of his magical string, and this wasn’t long putting an end to Redmun’s mouthing.

  All in instant succession, his bolts hummed ominously from that searing bow. Ghostly, wavering rods, each tinted slightly crimson, cut stealthily through the air towards their targets, smiting every last one, fluently. Nor was that the end of it. Instead of disappearing, each of the quetzals shattered into three smaller, far swifter, flyers, but this didn’t stop our Stell.

  The next element came to mind. Wind. His bow then transmuted into a phantom sapphire hue; sort of elegant and ethereal all at once, as if it perceived the mental biddings of its new master. This time, Stell readied but a single shot. It felt as if the world’s wind was collecting behind him; being summoned to the focal point of the bow’s tip. And in a surge that nearly blew them all over the ledge, that phantom dart exploded into the chasms like a fine spear of pure turbulence, taking out ten birds at once.

  Five more quetzals to go, and Stell still had two elements left to test. The others gathered in awe of both his speed and adaptation. Redmun felt particularly embarrassed for doubting the Elf in the first place. It would be the same thing as telling a leprechaun he couldn’t hold his ale. But he was only happy to be proved wrong.

  Five targets lasting, when, all of a sudden, their surroundings cooled to the degree of vaporous breath. Cricking and crackling, a frosty skin of glittering blueness seeped over Stell’s bow. Herewith, a broad arrow formed upon its rest. Toothed with icicles, it seemed fatter than any other arrow. It reflected back to the starlight, a sparkle, and again the Elf’s eyes, whilst naturally steely, lightened to an even paler hue.

  Everything went piercingly still. Staring down the arrow’s shaft, he coolly studied his targets. By then, the quetzals were fluttering all over the place; scattering like the clappers. The string taut to his ear, Stell waited patiently. The birds fluttered in panic. Three were about to cross paths. A foolish error, for that was precisely what Stell was waiting for. It might’ve only been for a blink, but that was more than enough time for him. With a misty out-breath, he freed the bowstring. Like lightning, that broad arrow flew, then divided into three lighter, thinner arrows. In three perfect hits, the quetzals turned to ice and fell all at once. An astonishing feat to behold.

  Two birds remained, the earth element left. Stell’s stare deepened to something far heavier than that of the richest loam. Tiny shoots budded from the limbs of his bow. Two arrows ripened from the wood itself, which he then launched into the pit together, like brothers into war; two thick vines stalking their wake. Suddenly both darts jammed into the face of the distant side after making dust of the last two targets. You could even say that Stell had killed two birds with one stone. What’s more, he meant to; as not only were there no targets left, but he’d also supplied them with two zip-lines to the outlying margins of the rift.

  Shown up by his own petty judgement, Redmun hardly knew what to say after beholding this outstanding, not to mention, smooth, performance. Stell, therefore, assumed the liberty.

  Marvelling at his glorious new horse-bow, he thus smiled. “Much obliged, Master Erethaoí. I feel I shall warm to it in no time. After I get a bit of practice in, of course.”

  Tying off both vines, he slung his bow over one and whooshed down it; down, down, to the remote face of the crater.

  After alighting a far ridge, midway up, he deployed another vine topside which he quickly ascended, and was waving back at them from level terrain in no time, with a pleased smirk on his lips.

  “Pssh! Elves!” Redmun grunted.

&n
bsp; Suddenly something…something rather large…raced across the path behind them, so speedily that they couldn’t say if it was their ears playing against them or not. Yet to all imagine the same thing was highly unlikely. Redmun chanced nothing, so he urged them along.

  After implementing some make-shift pulleys, they descended those zip-lines, two on either vine, with William, who was waiting for the Grogoch to land-down ahead of him, being the last to go on his side. Once Icrick had touched ground, William slung his belt over, secured his grip, and slid briskly down after them. On the neighbouring line, Redmun had fifteen yards on him, and was fast approaching, too. All the while, nothing stood between their kicking boots and that crude chasm floor but five hundred feet of empty air. It was a wonder how Icrick made it over at all. Then again, he was more confident of late.

  Zooming down like that was actually really fun for William. Thrilling. Like it had reawakened the boy in him. But just as approached the halfway point, his line started boinging up and down like something up top was swinging off it. William was almost catapulted clean off it, but he strove to hold on. With great thrusting twangs, the vine was bobbing up and about, throwing his knees up around his ears, and then forcing him to quickly constrict his grip on the flop as his bodyweight collapsed beneath him like a sack of rocks. His arms burnt terribly as he held on. But he managed to glimpse back. Something was up there, on the ledge, next to the tree, tugging on the vine. A shadow, of sorts. A manlike silhouette. Humped. And there was no debating its power. It would’ve taken a small army indeed, to rattle the line so. Valstarius sprang to mind, but no centaur was he.

  Way below, upon the safety of the ridge, they were stretching their fingers out to William, only none of them could understand what was causing it. Redmun, blinded by the breeze of his descent, wasn’t sure if they were cheering or panicking.

  Then came the reprieve.

  Whatever was up there, suddenly stopped. Like it had given up. But that abrupt stillness frightened William even more. He didn’t know if it was going to return or not. Thankfully, it didn’t. And what a relief it was. Ten more seconds of being spun about like that, and he would surely have spattered the dust in red.

  He shimmied down the rest of the way, where he re-joined his friends. Ghosts have had more red in their cheeks.

  “Th-Th-There was…” he gasped, grabbing his knees, “There was something…up there. Tugging o-o-on the l-l-line!”

  “What was it?” asked Wren. “Could you see it at all?”

  “I don’t…know,” wheezed William, barely able to breathe. “I-I-It was too hard to…see! I could only…make-out-a-shape! Crouched over. Like a man. Like a man…only…it wasn’t.”

  As he was explaining things, Stell came swinging down and said, “Are you okay, William? I saw you struggling. Was it the vine? Did I not tie it off properly?”

  “No, someone was up there, he reckons,” Khrum reiterated, giving the lad a chance to respire. “Hunched over, says he. Sort o’ like a man…only it wasn’t? Whatever the blazes that means? Are ya sure you’re all right, lad? Ya didn’t knee yourself in the head or anythin’ did ya?”

  Stell’s face froze, and he said, “No. What William says makes perfect sense.”

  He probed the wilds of the north. Somewhere abroad, prowling amongst a screen of boulders, a creature was watching their every move with his nocturnal sight; breathing foul breaths and salivating with detestation for the one who once slipped his grasp.

  Once William was able enough, he rushed to put on his belt, then followed the others up the vine. He wanted out of there, fast. Had he been more mindful, he might not have been so hasty.

  * * *

  They set into the east and weren’t long stumbling upon the sable steppe of Redwater, a far-reaching realm of unlit trails and coaly mountainsides which, like disgusting puss, leaked with the treacly ochre radiance of innumerable volcanic burns. An unholy place in an unholy realm, ill-famed for the miles of scattered pools within. Watering holes, lapping emptily with the blood of the slain. Oases for sinful things. Thousands of lives must have been sacrificed to fill so many. They went on for miles, in small clusters. What a harrowing place; drizzling down with ash, while a deep fog crept in from the west. A miasma which, for a fleeting second, seemed to mask an onslaught of gangling figures. Yet the more it swirled, the better they realised that it was just their overactive senses deceiving them, so they ignored it. Quite the advantage for some, so their mysterious pursuer upped and skulked in again.

  It wasn’t easy for them, ambling across that forsaken steppe. Everything about it was stuffy and hot, making it harder and harder for them to swallow, let alone breathe. To no end it exhausted them, swaying them as they went along. Much could be said for their toil when even the Erethaoí viewed it grim. Years ago, when he was a younger man, he might’ve been able for it. Only now the years were showing, and even with his new powers, he could not negate the burning in his bones. Stiffly panting, with barely enough muscle to lift his head, his tired legs and fickle stride alone were making even the simplest of tasks demanding. To walk in a straight line felt virtually impossible. But it remained a short journey and, therefore, posed no major threat. Unless, of course, one was silly enough to straggle off and get lost. Such an unforeseen tragedy would’ve made for a tragic end indeed. But no such end was to come, because they soon arrived at the outskirts of Redwater; into a wide gorge, where colour had bled back into the world. Better yet, they were finally upon that mighty tree.

  Carpeting its thick, winding roots was beautiful, dandelion-speckled grass. They weren’t expecting such beauty. As for the royal tree itself, it stood just shy of what Redmun was after.

  “The pool!” he pointed out, exiting the final gulch. “One day, long ago, a young tern flew overhead with a single seed of Iywék caught in its feathers. And when it finally dropped, this pool was formed, and is now the only pure thing left in this decaying county. Hidden metres below those roots, in settings blossoming and green, it has remained, in a lost world of its own. It is so secret, and is said to contain such wondrous curative properties, that even the most eminent apothecaries have denied its existence. After all, who in their right mind would come here to prove otherwise? This is my second time here. I must be utterly insane! Come what may, there is where we shall bathe Pew’s body. First it’ll do to wet our throats in the pool. For where nature can inflict hurt, it can also provide remedy. Leave the evil of Redwater too long in our systems uncleansed, then I fear the consequences could well be fatal. That black dust could incubate inside us like sand to an oyster, only that vile pearl would inflict mortal complications.”

  Icrick, who was mulling over the alleged marvels of this sacred pool, asked, “When you say that it has some medicinal properties, you don’t suppose it means—”

  “No,” the Erethaoí quickly replied, “it will not resurrect your friend. I am sorry for giving you that impression. But this water will give him a final cleansing fit for a king, and he truly deserves no less. It is a far cry from life, but it’s something, at the very least.”

  A faint prospect, but the Grogoch was obliged to ask anyway.

  So, like desperately thirsting souls after spotting a rippling mirage, they collected a new wind and staggered for it, without so much as a backward glance, each fending for themselves.

  Poor William. Always the one to find himself in a bind. He just wanted was to reach the pool, and maybe slake his thirst. But he was staggering so excitedly that he couldn’t feel the knot undoing on his belt. Dragging his feet along, he shuffled distractedly. He was so caught up in the moment that nothing was going to slow him down. Not even Thérn, who’d fallen off his waist some twenty paces ago. Only when he felt a slight coolness under his tunic, where his belt had been, did he stop. His belt and sheath were gone. First he panicked. He turned around and around. But then he spotted it. Ignoring his throbbing muscles and arid gullet, he staggered back to retrieve it. It wasn’t far, so no huge setback.

 
; “Damn it! I’ve gone and dropped my sword! Ye go on ahead. I’ll catch up.” he yelled, and staying in pursuit of the pool, the others waved at him an ‘okay.’

  William was about to snatch up his sword, when he heard her scream.

  Up where he’d left his friends, in amongst the roots of that giant tree, Wren’s cry bounded off every wall in the gorge, giving William such an almighty fright that he swung around to see what was the matter. Was somebody hurt? Or worse. Was somebody dead? What he saw—granted, it was rather far away—was Redmun, sprawled out on the ground, with everyone else crowded over him. He’d been knocked out.

  Hoping it was just a mild thirst which caused him to collapse, the lad shouted ahead, “What’s going on? Is he hurt?”

  That’s when Wren, with an arm trembling, lifted up the unmistakable sight of a bloodied rock. It would appear that she’d cracked him over the head with it herself, only Icrick swore that it’d been chucked from somewhere else.

  William, feeling suddenly vulnerable, budged not an inch. He didn’t know what to do. He felt like he was being watched. Likewise, such a stone to the head would’ve clouted like a good mace. Certainly enough for a killing blow.

  Hesitantly, he brought himself to ask, “I…Is…he…alive?!”

  Nothing was said. Suddenly, he saw the Erethaoí’s knee twitching. He was alive. Hurt, but living. Be it a celebration and a relief to all, the questioned remained: Who actually flung the rock in this first place? Whoever it was, was definitely shrewd, for their intentions were to first remove their most powerful ally from the equation, as an ably trained marksman would do when picking off the general from a troop.

  Whatever of a speedy recovery, Redmun’s injury remained enough to hinder his focus and, accordingly, his power.

  William then got the scare of his life. His legs went from under him and he was lobbed up into the air like a sack of turnips. Everything went topsy-turvy. He couldn’t make head nor tails of it, as nothing (or no one) was near him at the time. He came crashing down, turning his ankle in the process with a jarring wail. Bad things, invisible things, were at work here.