After a fruitless search amongst the clearing, they split into several whimpering packs and disbanded that way. Cunning enough beasts, when it came down to it. Some searched high, others dove down into the waters below. The rest branched east, west, and everywhere else in between. Before long, there wasn’t a square inch of wilderness that didn’t have a Slingtail nosing through it. All corners, except one. The very clearing itself.
As soon as the coast was clear, a lot of voices let out their breath.
Then a voice like Crosco’s said, “Good thing your back-end smells about as foul as this bog does, Grogoch. Without your wind, we’d never have pulled this off. Remember, keep those tiddlers coming. But keep them mild. I don’t want to keel over!”
His voice it was, yet there was no sign of any of them, anywhere. Where, the devil, were they?
Suddenly, six spiralling vines ribboned up into the air towards Khrum’s last known whereabouts, where they then latched on better than any grappling hooks. And sure as the sun sets west, each line tautened, as if six invisible beings were using them to scale up the muddy face. A silly concept indeed it would be, to think all of them had just…Alakazam…made themselves invisible, just like that, when Icrick was the only one who had the gift, and was making proper use of it then, too. Insofar as the other’s whereabouts were concerned? Well, that proved a right poser altogether.
The snowy lizards hunted high and prowled low; ever appearing and disappearing, which made the leaves twinkle like yuletide lights, but these animals couldn’t have had any less in common with such cosy Christmassy décor. Some even found the occasional Moss Person to nibble on, if their paths were ever unlucky enough to meet. Hunting can be taxing business if challenged on a wilted belly. As luck would have it, however, this blinded them from all else.
Wherever that tepid pong was hailing most potently, one was sure to discover six vines with, apparently, a passenger to each, who were in the process of making a very clever upward escape. Their guises would’ve worked so much better were it not for a sudden kick of one’s misguided sense of moral conscience.
About a hundred feet away, over a deep, dizzying gap of tree crowns and bedraggled wilds, one of the dragons had snagged himself a very small Úngmin. A newborn; roughly the size of a small, potbelly pig. These were their most favourite dish.
Exercising its hind molars, like a crocodile gnawing bone, it gorged upon the baby’s shoulder (their favourite cut), leaving the tiny Úngmin powerless to do anything but reach for its mother, who was but a stone’s throw above, peering helplessly down, bearing a distinct fear that could disprove all theories about their lack of feeling.
Her child must’ve slipped off her back as she was escaping the invasion, and now she was made watch as he was being eaten.
Three more Slingtails joined in, tails whipping with perverse exhilaration. Then came a loudening hsss.
The Slingtails looked up to discern something. Something of an anomalous nature, which they weren’t even sure they were seeing. A fine needle of wind, which looked static at first, was moving at a fiery rate straight towards them. It flew from nowhere but a cluttered forest backdrop. The dragons quickly lost interest, and so returned to their tasty supper. Then, in a chiming thwack, all of their head were lopped off in a row. The young Úngmin took his chance and slipped away, still intact.
A noble deed, though foolish, as all other dragons were alerted to it, thus revealing why they were called Slingtails.
Rather than spewing flames from their gullets, as regular fire-breathing dragons do, every last perching lizard wound up their catapult-like tails, wherein gilded pellets formed. Armed and ready, they cast these golden rays into the trees, using amazing precision and power, thereby vaporizing everything and anything that got in their path; be it bark, beast, or bold stone.
The bright rays flashed so frantically that they lit up the jungle like daylight. Now our heroes were in real trouble. For it wouldn’t be long before they were fried to crackling. Their grassy disguises hid them well, but were far from fire cloaks. That’s right, they were using simple camouflage. Nothing more.
Impressively arrayed in full suits of twigs, mosses, leaves, and mud, they blended in to their surroundings better than any Úngmin. Even Crosco and his heavily harnessed horse were virtually invisible. Praise was owed to the Úngmín folk, for it was they who’d inspired Stell’s idea in the first place. But all the dry muck in the world wasn’t going to do much good against a hundred scorching rays of light. It was time for them to pick up their pace and really climb.
They ditched what they could from their camouflage, to make for a lighter climb up Stell’s vines, and this they did, faster than even the most adventurous of Scrimps. But was it quick enough? For the burning bolts set their lines alight, so that they were smouldering faster than they could ascend. It was like trying to race up live fuses. Not, what one would call, a relaxing experience.
William drew a blank amid this hectic vertical struggle of explosions, tree-dodging, fire-ducking, dragon-swooping, vine-singeing, and smoke-breathing commotion. Just imagine it. You’d probably go blank, too, as would I. It was the adrenaline. All he wanted was to reach the top. His friends were the same; grunting and grumbling whilst, in every conceivable bearing, Slingtails were either diving in or saffron streams were making cinders of the place.
Even the fearless Redmun was shaken by all the commotion; out of frustration more than anything. In the normal run of things, he’d just fly away, but now that he was injured, he was forced to scale his burning line with awkward clumps of grass and branches sticking from of his garments. It made the climb a hundred times harder than it should have been. He would’ve given anything to have his power back. And yet, little did he know, the tongues from the red inferno were flickering differently around him than anywhere else in the jungle, like something was luring them to his presence.
They clambered from rock to bough, from knot to lip, in an effort to get out of there alive. A now visible Icrick had scrabbled ahead, when suddenly, he stopped. Something caught his eye. It was only when William caught up with him did he notice a queen’s nest, jam-packed with Slingtail eggs and fresh herbs, hidden in a round hollow. And that’s not all.
Plonked in the middle of it, was Khrum. He was lamenting feverishly with a Slingtail hatchling by his side. Not a particularly evil-looking critter, either. If anything, she looked rather endearing as she tended to the leprechaun; licking his cheek and such. A Slingtail pup with fabulous green eyes; a feature not often found in any common day Slingtail. Usually they possess pinkly, shrunken eyes. And by ‘usually’ I mean ‘always,’ without exception.
All the stranger was that, chances are, the leprechaun was being offered up to these younglings as food. But this one particular hatchling had taken quite a shine to our Khrum, not that Icrick copped it. Specially when the dragon took a lick of Khrum’s wound to help clean it.
“Back! Back off you!” he warned, shooing her away. “Go choke on a worm or something, because you are not eating my friend. Get your filthy drool off his cut!”
As the Grogoch lunged in to grab Khrum back, he suddenly recoiled when the dragon went for his nose. The little critter then fanned out her wings with a squeal, startling both Icrick and William for the fear of her summoning her mother. That is, until one by one, the other eggs started to jiggle, and crack. They were hatching to her call.
Redmun, arriving late on the scene, demanded, “Ignore the pup. Grab the leprechaun. And let’s go! For crying out loud, you’d swear we were out for a leisurely climb!”
William noticed something very unusual about the Erethaoí then. His eyes were flickering white, then normal, then white again. The man didn’t seem to notice at all. He was, I suppose, too distracted.
Icrick took charge of the matter, cocked one leg over the brim of the nest, and squeezed out a wet bubbly one into the pup’s snout, which was enough to sedate her. It made her so dizzy that she reeled to-and-fro, then tumbled straight
through the rim of the nest, making bits of it. The eggs trundle out after her and they all rolled into a crack in the rock below, trapping them in, tight as sardines.
The Grogoch whisked Khrum up, wrapped him in some cloth, and placed him in the horn of the Symphogram for safekeeping till he finished his climb. Then, with newfound vigour, he disappeared up the last of the ascent, faster than a chimpanzee up a banana tree. His intentions to rush topside were all good, but they proved more perilous when the queen herself, who was already hovering in waiting, nearly took his head off as she swooped over. Not that she noticed him, mind, although she wasn’t long spotting the other intruders coming up on his tail.
With a scream so dire, this monster set perch upon an overlook, where she bade her followers to close in on, and obliterate, those impostors in her nest. Swarming into formation like a cirrus of ravenous vultures, the Slingtails altered their course and hurtled upwards to the cliff’s crown where, by out and out chance, Icrick had discovered a crack wide enough to cram them all.
They could have stuck to their original course, but this fissure looked like a shortcut. Light shone through it from the crooked spire of the Pooka’s haunt in the, all too uncomfortable, distance.
That ominous wave of dragons glided up with such menace that it would put any one dragon to shame. Even so, William, Stell, Wren, and the Dullahan had since reached Icrick’s secret passage, with the Erethaoí closing in last.
He was almost there. William lent him his hand. The man grabbed it. Stell went to take his other arm, but before Redmun could take it, a flare cracked to his right, startling him. Redmun, he let go. The scorched wilderness swelled like a lake of pure blood, into which he plummeted, completely out of being.
“The…fires,” the Elf gasped, so floored by his own uncertainty that he could hardly react. “they have…consumed him? H-How? Denied existence by his own craft? It makes no sense!”
The Slingtails, the flames, even the mission, didn’t seem to matter anymore. Not when they’d lost another precious member of their already dwindling group.
The fires flourished below, and mushroomed, and spun, as though giving their wielder a final send-off from the world. Only, they weren’t sending him off. They were brewing.
Whirlpools of crimson waves undulated and spat, consuming what was left of the jungle. Higher and higher still, those rumbling tongues rode, when, with a rolling blast of greys, yellows, whites and reds, the Erethaoí shot up from that cascading inferno. Flames scaled behind him, cooking every last Slingtail in sight, including their mighty queen. The explosion was enough to put William and his companions on their rear ends, but they didn’t mind, they had their friend back. He landed in beside them.
“That takes care of those!” he said, like he never ever broke a sweat. “It feels good to be back again, let me tell you.”
“But…” Wren blurted out, only to reconsider.
“But?!” Redmun bit. “You’d prefer I perished in that fall?”
“Oh, no, no, I’m glad you’re alive,” she clarified, “but…the Moss People.”
They forgot about the Moss People.
“Ah, I see,” the Erethaoí said. “You need not worry about the Úngmín. Those flames were not intended for them. Nor the other benign species of this forest, for that matter. It was meant for those lizards, and them alone. The Moss People will live to see the end of days, no doubt. Mind you, sparing them felt about as pointless as themselves. But who am I to decide what innocent creatures live or die?”
“Well, maybe they do have a purpose,” Wren sympathized, like she could relate on some level. “Maybe we just don’t know what it is yet.”
“It’s possible. Either way, they will remain safe. For as long as this world is, at any rate.”
William peered down into that perfectly unspoilt jungle to distinguish hoards of grassy folk who were slinking back into their cosy little hollows. Then, not so far away, he noticed that same baby Úngmín and her mother. And, for a split-second, he thought he saw them smiling at him. Such prospects, however, were preposterous, surely.
“And what’s this?” Redmun asked of him. “You do not trust my word? Have you not greater matters to be concerned about than Moss People? Shattering that Krimmín stone, for one.”
Just like when he was back at Goidoy’s corpse, William shrugged it off like he cared not a whit, then fell back in line.
Redmun told them to get ready for their march into the east, whilst he readjusted his vambrace. Icrick took that time to check up on Khrum. He tried tapping his cheek in a far-reaching effort to get him to come around. The feverish leprechaun did not react well. He was burning up and his face was whiter than spoilt cream. The death bringer was not at his gate, yet, nevertheless, his wounds still required immediate attention.
Doing his best with what was at his disposal, the Elf dressed Khrum’s abrasions with some lamb’s ear which he’d used to camouflage his reflective spear. There was little else around that was of good use. He needed some proper herbs to work with. This he insisted on. Yet nobody knew how long it would be before they found such ingredients again.
Come what may, they remained optimistic. They hoped that the faster they moved, the quicker obtaining those supplies would be. Nurturing such bright mind-sets can sometimes work miracles, more often than you might think, as it is not uncommon for one’s wishes to come true, depending on how deeply they are desired. But they could’ve done without the ‘trip’ they needed to take in order to reach such miracles. For as they squeezed through the dank cleft, Crosco, without knowing, tripped over a crooked stone, then knocked them down a gritty slope on the other side.
William couldn’t tell which way was up, let alone where he was actually tumbling to. His only certainty was that they were out in the wide open again. He saw the moon spinning ‘round, and ‘round as he tumbled down. He thought he was going to throw up in mid-roll. If I could just slow down, he thought, but he was speeding up, if anything.
Scared of what pitfall may be awaiting him at the bottom, he tried digging his heels into the gravel, to slow himself down. First attempt threw him head over heels, whereas the second slowed him considerably. By then, he was already at the bottom, where there was no threat after all. He also felt something of a dope when he saw the others skiing down in graceful zigzag motions to meet him.
“Typical!” he grunted, slapping the dust off his kilt; and that’s when he set eyes on something quite tremendous, and also very menacing.
The greatest and driest chasm of all opened out miles ahead of him. He felt so small and so very insignificant, in comparison. The chasm was of brown rock, and faint shimmers of moonlight speared through the dark clouds to alight upon the stone. All types of offerings were scattered throughout. Not what they expected to see strewn about some abandoned canyon. Mounds upon mounds of good produce and fine trinkets. And yet, it was there for good reason.
Presented to Drevol throughout the years by his devoted worshippers, was everything you could think of, from barrels of the finest Ráth wine to casks of Old Horthwán, the eldest and most precious ale on Lythiann. Not even King Thide could get his hands on this sweet beer. There were carts stacked high with vegetables, dried fruit, smoked meat, and smoked poultry. And piled in hills by the walls were the distinct sparkles of jewels and precious gold. Slides of the stuff. Everything was as fresh and as sparkling as the day it was offered. Not that it really mattered, as Drevol cared not for such gifts. So everything remained where it was, untouched, amassing over time. But that didn’t stop his followers. Year-in, year-out, they brought their offerings, as a way of attesting their loyalty to him. Surely there was something here to treat Khrum with.
Then, behind it all, something was tucked away, beyond a stone pass at the back of the chasm. The crude, black shard of Drevol’s keep. Their journey was nearly over. Nearly at its end. Which end, they knew not. It was to be there, in that place, that their fate would be decided.
Having no interest in meat or trea
sures, William peered through chasm and on into the pass of beyond. Those enclosing cliffs dominated this place to the end, running rough and deep, until all sides vanished into the clouds overhead. Even out in the open, the air in that chasm tasted stale, whilst not a star would dare gaze upon them.
William didn’t first perceive it, but he actually knew of this place. He’d seen it before. Suddenly, in a flash, an image struck his mind.
“Get her! Grab her! Scratch her! Maim her! Murder her! Murderer! Murderer!” those stony voices chanted.
This was the place he’d dreamt about all those many months ago. He shuddered sharply, such that he leered at even the slightest movement. There may not have been any Glogs around, not yet, but he wasn’t about to give this place the benefit of his doubt, either.
To the north resided a long passage, as with the south wall. Great mouths of channels. And whatever creatures were skulking inside, could very well have been ones they’d never before encountered. Rotten beasts of all species and of loathsome natures. The very thoughts of them made William tremble. A bitter sweat glazed his forehead so torrid. His insides, clenching with apprehension. He’d felt scared before, yet never this scared. Pins and needles stabbed him all over. His hands went numb. His throat dried up. His lungs laboured so hard that he needed to gasp. Anxiety was setting in.
“William,” asked Wren, “what is it?”
Then, by a distant, sinking drone in the north, as of a great, falling tree, the sky darkened more, the winds changed, and the moon, unhidden from the drawing cloud, dimmed behind by an accursed, outlandish shadow.
It was here.
It was finally upon them.
The eclipse.
- Chapter Nineteen -
Briggun
They stopped to gaze up at it. Its unstoppable force had closed down any light which had seeped into the otherwise devilishness of the canyon. Whatever solace they perhaps saved in their hearts was stolen away when it sealed the moon into blackness, like a cast-iron vault locking into place.
The Other of One: Book Two Page 58