The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  Up ahead, the great roots started to tremble. There were plucking themselves up from the earth like giant worms from hibernation. The others were busy helping Redmun up at the time so they didn’t notice straight away. Once liberated from their muddy abode, the roots whipped and floundered uncontrollably, hoisting up the unwary brigade, each to a root of their own, and helplessly they dangled. Prisoners. William was the only one who was free, but he’d been damaged.

  Stell would have put his new bow to the test, had he not fumbled it when he was snatched up like that. Nor was Redmun of any help, still dazed. As for Icrick, Wren, and Khrum, well, they were hardly worth mentioning, given how their arms were bound so tightly that they could barely twiddle their fingers, never mind swing a full-blown sword. Then there was the source of it all. The puppet-master of this anarchy. Goidoy himself.

  From the eastern bluff tops, far above, he watched his demented little parade. Swinging his ape-like arms about, he made those sinewy roots dance like a nest of cobras to the tortured notes of a charmer’s pungi. Once they’d found their own rhythm, he leapt down, splintering the stone beneath his splayed hands, wherefrom he arose to meet these petty mice in his sett.

  Two, in particular, came of great interest to him. The Elf…and, to no one’s surprise, the sword. You see, Goblins—this one especially—have a sense of smell second to none and, you can be sure, he could sniff out the blade of Margyle just as you or I could smell a turf fire burning two doors down. The sharp taste of its steel made his teeth bite and his tongue tingle. He just had to have it. William, on the other hand, proved of no interest to him whatsoever, with Goidoy having never had a great understanding of the prophecy to begin with. He might have been powerful, but he still retained a Goblin’s wit. That shiny sword was all that mattered to him. So claim it he did. The Elf was going nowhere.

  William, struggling to stand with the sheer pain of his bad ankle, thus heard something over his shoulder…gyrating. A soft, whistling, airy sound. Anxious of what it might be, he turned to see Thérn hovering in mid-air, spinning ‘round and around in one spot. Without giving him a chance to make sense of it, the sword’s point slammed still at his eyes, before suddenly lunging for his face. William dodged it in good time and the sword slid past him, taking a direct course. Thérn wasn’t going for him at all. Goidoy was, instead, using his demonic devilry to draw it into his claws.

  It picked up speed from inch into foot, so he could have to himself this precious trophy. Without that sword, Lythiann’s fate, as well as William’s, was potentially in dire peril.

  Swaying nauseously from left to right in the strangling grip of her root, Wren hollered, “Oh, for the love of… Behold! He’s stealing the sword for himself. We have to get ourselves free. We have to stop him. Redmun…do something! Scorch this shrubbery to cinders and free us!”

  “I would if I could, but I can’t!” he put it, ever nursing his wound, for all the good it did with his root rocking him in every direction. “We’ve no other choice but to let the boy stand on his own two feet for once! It’s the only way he’ll get to prove himself! Trust him!”

  She wanted to trust this, but she struggled to do so.

  Then, “May the saints preserve us,” Icrick blurted, after sighting something even worse. “Is the soil supposed to be moving like that?”

  With strength enough to limp, the boy hopped after Thérn. He was slowly gathering speed, but, in being so preoccupied by the chase, he knew nothing of the ground sinking behind him like a bed of quicksand. In some way, or else through some meddling means, an odd moisture was rising up through it, crumbling the soil to mush. Alike the undead rising from their graves, stalks of skinny arms clawed up through the sludge, swiping at their freedom. You know what these creatures were, just as I do.

  Recognising them without quandary, the Elf uttered in a voice of near recitation, “Strong grows the will of the moon. The Krimmín’s call approaches. And the Merrows unite to obey.”

  William, still oblivious, kept moving. He was fixed on the sword. But Thérn was flying faster now, such that he found it impossible to keep up with it.

  It kept slipping further and further away from him. In the loss of hope, his trot lazed to a shuffle again. His ankle was really throbbing now, and yet, the last thing he wanted was to give up, and it showed. But there was no way he could run that fast. It was simply unachievable, by the standards of any normal human at least, much less one who was injured. Between being throttled by roots, or else having one of their most valuable possessions stolen from them, it’s safe to say that they all had their own problems, and there wasn’t another warlock or witch within a hundred miles who could help.

  William was about to tumble to his knees, when Khrum yelled out, “Stand to, lad, ‘n’ get those legs movin’. What did I tell ya about quittin’! H’up! H’up outta that, I say!”

  He warned nothing of the Merrows, in case William gave up completely. Besides, they were slow catching up to him, he still had time. Or so Khrum believed.

  The last of the Goblins had emerged from the deepest, dirtiest canyons of Lór.

  From the sides of the pass bygone they swarmed, inching down the black walls like a bleeding shade. Redmun tried harder to generate a spark, but nothing came of it. The blood was trickling to his chin now.

  He had wit enough, however, to cry out, “BEHIND YOU, BOY! STRIKE!” for in that snapping second, he saw two of the water-witches tunnelling up fast behind William. There was a blinding blast of sand, as the Merrows jumped up at him. But in a cunning manoeuvre, William rolled out of the way, then cracked them across their heads with his staff, knocking the life clean out of them. A fragile spot, the temple, when it’s hit right. And this must’ve been a masterful strike indeed to land it, bang on, in the heat of the moment. It just goes to show how worthy a student he truly was, injured or otherwise.

  But his gallantry remained trivial compared to the chills he felt when a horde of Merrows flanked him on all sides. Fifty, at least. They shrieked at William, in an abominably tormented way; bullying him, circling him on their eely tails as that of misshapen slugs. They parted way for the Goblins. Of them, there was a small army. Too many to count at a glance.

  Pandemonium was afoot, but William never once forgot about Thérn. It was halfway across the canyon now, and virtually in the hands of his enemy, but, some way, he needed to get it back.

  As he searched for a way to abscond, an anxiousness suddenly burned up inside him like a fever when he realised where he actually was. How he didn’t notice it till now was beyond him. The canyon itself. There was something dreadfully familiar about it. Same went for his aching leg. His pain. That was familiar, too. In a wave of a thousand memories it then dawned on him. His vision. This was the place of his horrid vision, but there was no sign yet of the hybrid. Was it only a matter of time? Was this his final hour?

  All at once, the creatures piled on William, swallowing him up with their numbers. Wildly they bit, and madly they pummelled. They pounded so cruelly that, for even the strongest to survive would’ve been bleak. Whenever he tried to escape, they just pinned him down, punching him over and again, into the jaw and head, to the terrifying line of bloody delirium. Of all people, Redmun, even with his unbending disposition, couldn’t stand this cruelty. If only he could conjure a flame.

  “Leave him be!” the others cried in vain, pained by the brutality of it all. “Leave him be or fight fair, you filthy cowards. It’s a hundred to one!”

  William was being bet bloody, and there wasn’t a threat they could make to stop them.

  Stell yearned for his friend’s wellbeing as much as any of them, but he was so enraged by it all that he could but stare, in perpetual abhorrence, at the Goblin responsible. How he longed to slay him. No. To annihilate him, such that there would be nothing left bar his broken bones. Come hell or high water, he would honour this to whatever end; but he needed to get free to do so.

  A faint tremor echoed from afar.

  No
body knew where it was hailing from, thinking it the birth of some new mountain. The source of this particular quake, however, echoed from the most unexpected of places, drawing their attention to the pileup.

  In a snarling heap, they tumbled over one another, reminiscent to pebbles down a shaking anthill. Then, like one false tread triggering a landmine, they were blown sky-high across the canyon. Within the fading smoke, the boy stood alone. Enslaved by this unforeseen and storming rage, his gasping soon eased by a steadying heartbeat before dropping him to the ground like a puppet beneath cut strings.

  William, drained beyond comprehension, could barely open his eyes, let alone lift his head. Whatever happened had taken far more out of him upon its withdrawal. He was exhausted.

  Flabbergasted by what she’d seen, so that she almost forgot how to blink, Wren asked Redmun in a sudden excited yell, “Did it happen?! Is he one with the Wrythunn?”

  Pausing for a moment, the man grimly said, “Not yet,”

  “You don’t know that!” she voiced, for who’s to say he wasn’t mistaken. “How can you be so sure?”

  Guilty for ever being the bearer of ill tidings, he ended all anticipation by pointing out, “I heard no music.”

  “But…the sheer strength…” Icrick was about to debate.

  Then the man cut in, “I know what you would think, Master Grogoch. However, it was a mere hitch in his being. A conflict to all that is going on inside of him. Believe me. I have seen it before.”

  What he meant by this they could not be sure, but he had a point about them not hearing the Banádh. A sorry truth, which they had no choice but to accept. It was, I suppose, Redmun’s intention not to raise their hopes. Whereas in secret, he himself was also holding out for the slim chance that something may actually happen, as it was, by rights, an extraordinary display of power on William’s part. Redmun could not help but pray. Praying for his apprentice’s magic to finally surface. It needed to. Now, more than ever. For all their sakes.

  William’s momentary bout of force, alas, remained precisely that, momentary, akin to times before. His fighter’s will had long vanished, razing Redmun’s expectations to nothing. He’d honestly believed that William’s gilded journey into the beginnings of that unique power had at last come upon him, despite what he’d said to the others. Then again, “How could it be?!” he realised, when William’s sacred sword was so firmly believed a vital factor in it all. This was not a rule set in stone, but the fact that he’d been disarmed of it wasn’t much help either.

  Redmun thus changed his mind, by saying loud enough for everyone to hear, “You were right. We do need to help him.”

  He glanced at the blood in his hands. He’d been dazed. This encumbered his focus, yet there was no time to pass blame now. He needed to help that boy.

  “He mustn’t lose that sword!” he cried. “Do what you can to get free. Gnaw through these roots if you must. Either way, we must get to his aid.”

  He battled to reanimate his inner flame. Nothing came of it, no matter how hard he struggled. Weak sparks and worthless tufts of smoke were all he could manifest. He was the boy’s only hope, so he tried, and tried, and kept trying till his hands were practically raw from rubbing them together. On the contrary, William had life in him still.

  Building up more speed, Thérn was nearing the farthermost end of the canyon. The Goblins closed in on William. Creeping. Taking their time. Revelling in this pre-moment of battery and feeding. He knew that his friends were trying for him. He heard them beckoning for him to keep strong. Words, however, can sometimes be meagre in the presence of enemies, and William was all alone. Be that as it may, he knew that something had to be done. It was now or never, and only one person had the chance to turn it all around. Him.

  He ridded his mind of visions, pain, and fatigue, and ventured forth a step. Power and purpose stood with him. With the other foot following, he limped, sluggishly at first, until he found himself moving swifter than he believed he could. Determination numbed his pain. Numbed, but not healed.

  Staggering all the faster, he lifted into a jog. He stumbled once or twice, but still, he didn’t give in. A trier’s heart had he. Those beasts hastened behind him, snorting in the thrill as they slithered in long, creeping strides, hands after feet. They mocked him whenever he fell, but William would not listen. Just like when Blackhead used to scold him.

  He scrambled upright, every time, only to cast himself into an even flightier dash. The Goblins kept toying with him. They’d let him off for a few metres, before taking the legs from under him, making him tumble, head over neck. Painful spills. Tough to watch. But he always managed to recover himself and scrabble along again. Nevertheless, determination’s sway is often short-lived and easily broken.

  It took but two more slaps before he fell down, and stayed down. He was weak, drained, but he couldn’t give up. Then, like a growing drizzle over a forest blaze, something came to him. In his pack, he had one truffle left. A long shot, but a shot by any means.

  William dipped into his bag and whipped out the case. Prying Goblins tried to see what he was up to, but William hid it well. Snatching the truffle from its pocket, he ripped off the foil, and this is what it read:

  Firefly

  If your desire is to be fast,

  To dash along with speed.

  Use this quick as it will not last,

  Of time you must take heed.

  Eat this truffle and then you run,

  You need not stop and think.

  For in mid-dash the magic comes,

  Fly faster than a blink.

  A miracle if ever there was one. Of all the things he needed then and there, speed was precisely it. Such dumb luck. Euphoric over this one stroke of precious fortune, William jumped up, smiling at it with unbroken mesmerisation, but Goidoy could smell this new magic in the air.

  Combined with that chocolaty aroma, which William scarcely deemed real, that milky truffle was practically on his lips, when it suddenly shot out of his fingers like a magnet. Goidoy’s powers were at large again; removing this potential threat, just as he’d done with Thérn.

  What was William to do now? He rocked inanely. His sense of good fortune was being sucked out of him, so that he was left stooping lifelessly in defeat.

  Beaten to wick’s end, he tried hobbling after it, but his mind was as rickety as his footsteps. His friends, who were as downtrodden as he, didn’t know what to say as they watched him wandering mindlessly along. Nobody could question his heart, but there was no way he was going to retrieve Thérn now. Not with all the grit in the world.

  The Goblins were right on top of him now. Swamping around him as he shambled on; spectators of his rout. For them, this was far more satisfying than gorging into him. This abandonment in oneself was like watching torture before death. Far more precious a thing to them, than the taste of his blood.

  It wouldn’t be long before the sword was finally in the hands of his foe and the truffle thereafter.

  William, dragging his bad ankle along, moved as best he could, which wasn’t very well at all. But he kept going, through some lost sense of rectitude. He had to. To go down fighting was the only way. He couldn’t very well hand everything over to this evil under some dim promise of mercy. Such ideas, as he well knew, were naïve and foolish. He needed to oppose the odds. Even with no strength in body, he needed to fulfil his final minutes with strength of mind, of will, of spirit.

  Hidden within the dim light ahead, he saw the sword glinting one last goodbye before abandoning him forever. Then, with little reaction from William, as if he knew it was coming, a sound woke in the eastern pass behind him. A sound which he hoped he’d never have to hear. The frightening utterance of galloping upon dirt.

  It battled along at a fearsome rate. William’s head was dunked back into the squalls of his vision, stealing him of his already bare composure. Stricken by more panic, he saw Valstarius’ face in his mind’s eye. After which, the skull of death came, sniggering as always
. Gasping for life, William pulled his head out of these images. He tried to see what was coming, only the Goblins were blocking his sight. Nor did they fear the hybrid’s arrival, having probably shared allegiance upon Drevol’s wish.

  With nothing else for it, William braced his leg with both hands and pulled it after him to make him go faster. But to outrun such speed was pitiful. He would’ve stood just as much of a chance of catching up to, and outrunning, Thérn. But he gave it his all anyway.

  The galloping gained, breaking not a sweat; closing in, and in, and in, and, by God, was William scared. As would you be, if you knew your death was waiting on your doorstep. Nearer still was the hybrid’s snort. So, in one faint and final longing that Thérn may somehow be drawn to his will, William stretched out his fingertips; but already his enemy was on him, having rammed through that mob of worthless Goblins without care. Who were they to get in his way? With that, William felt his breath on the back of his neck. All he could think to do was to drop to the ground, in the off chance that the creature might overshoot him like before. So that’s exactly what he did.

  Yet, just as he dove, he was snatched by his sash and lifted heftily onto a saddle, when a voice commanded, “C’mon! Let’s get this sword back for ya, lad!”

  Young William could not believe what he was hearing. He knew that posh voice. It wasn’t Valstarius at all…it was the Dullahan! The others couldn’t believe it, either. Khrum, most of all, who was wriggling about, as hyper as ever, whipping the root with his hat like an old mule, while cheering, “It’s the Dullahan, Ha-ha! I knew he’d come back, the blaggard! An’ look at Ifcus would ya. He’s runnin’! Ho-ho, show ‘em what you’re made o’, lads. YA-HOO!”

  The tables had turned, or at least levelled, and this put Goidoy on high alert. He tried using both hands to lure the sword in even faster, but Thérn neither sped up, nor slowed, being already at maximum velocity, and thereby kept a steady course.