Grimenna

by N. K. Blazevic

  Ulrig, alongside Paiva, Renn, and Yulin, stared across the expanse with weepy eyes. “It is beautiful,” he said, and noted the gleam of streams meandering through the rich green valley floor below. “How could men have forgotten it? How could men have turned away from such beauty? How could he forget how small his life was?”

  Yulin seemed in awe of its enormity, and Renn was quiet, his silver eyes gleaming fiercely as they took in the breadth of the view.

  “Where is it?” Paiva asked anxiously, “Where is the Vale of the Spirits?”

  “We follow the streams to their source, that is where the Vale lies,” Maggra answered in her deep tones. “But we cross into another realm now, one that men were driven from long ago. Men may die now.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

  “If it is as you say, to free the beings born of our Good Humors — beings that can bring us peace, and love, and happiness; beings that could have saved lives like mine — it is worth every sacrifice. The world cannot stand the way it does. I will not allow it. I will find my peace down there.”

  Then she turned away and joined her men in preparing for the coming night. Paiva returned to the Far Reach men who were stirring up a fire and setting down blankets and furs to sleep on. The sun was dipping below the horizon on the west, bleeding the sky red.

  They ate from their rations as the stars soaked through the sky and the waning, crescent moon began its celestial rise through the heavens. All about the men were hushed and quiet, staring down into the valley below with the feeling men get when they are staring into the uncertainty of their own fate.

  — «» —

  Paiva rose then and went to find Renn on his ledge, where he sat whittling a stick with his knife. He did not notice her intrusion; he did not lift his head to her as she came and sat next to him and curled her legs to her chin. She swept her eyes out over the twilit valley and her fear returned, knotting her stomach with dread. Almost instinctively she reached for him, looping her hand through his arm.

  He started at her touch and drew his arm away as if she had scalded him. “I’m sorry,” she said, startled. He resumed whittling silently as the sun began to sink behind the mountain. She studied him for a long moment, more interested at his concealed thoughts then the mysteries of the valley below.

  “Is there someone waiting for you on the other side?” she asked suddenly, her mind racing to Jekka. If there was a woman on earth that could have somehow won Renn’s affections surely it would have been her. Tall and quietly beautiful, and a wayward wanderer as Ulrig had said, who had frequented Far Reach over the years. Perhaps she was waiting for him. Perhaps there was an unspoken love between them he secreted away like everything else.

  “On the other side of the Panderbank?” he asked. “No, there is no one.”

  “Why are you so guarded with me then?”

  “You’re a woman, Paiva. Forgive me if I’m a little unused to your sentimentality.”

  “It’s not just that,” she said. He sighed wearily.

  “Everything I touch turns to ash,” he said and threw his whittling over the ledge.

  “Renn. My life, both our lives, have already turned to ash. Right now you are the only thing keeping me from blowing away.”

  “I am a felon,” he said. “I hurt people. I am a murderer of brothers, of Folka, of fellow Wildermen. Black as my dirty hands, my dirty hair, and my dirty heart.” He opened his palm upwards to reveal the scarring that marked him so.

  “I would wear it for you if I could,” she said. “I can’t imagine the weight of it, or the seven years it has stolen from you.”

  His lips twitched at a smile.

  “I’d never let you,” he said. There was a tenderness in his voice that made her dare to reach out again. Gently she pressed her fingertips to the brand, tracing its deformity. She felt somehow this was the most personal of gestures, that touching this hateful mark was somehow touching his guarded heart. It made her own heart skip and she looked up to find his ghostly eyes on hers. They looked at her almost helplessly, plying her for distance and yet somehow drawing her in. She realized what it was then.

  “You’re afraid,” she said in revelation.

  “Terrified,” he whispered. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth and his face came unbearably close to hers. She could feel the heat rising between them, mingling on their breaths.

  “Renn,” a voice from above the ledge shouted. Hastily he sobered and drew away, looking to find Ulrig peering down at them.

  “Renn, they found tracks.”

  “I’m coming,” he said. Ulrig frowned at them, then hobbled away.

  “I’m sorry,” Renn said and stared out over the darkening valley.

  “It’s too strong, whatever this is,” she said. He nodded and looked away.

  “That is what I was afraid of.”

  — «» —

  “They’re here,” Ulrig said as he stared into the dark trees, lifting a torch higher into the air to cast flickering light into them. At his feet were a myriad of tracks in the loam, trailing the edges of their camp, littering the mountain top. Maggra stood off to one side with her painted man, watching Ulrig, Renn, and Paiva. Her face was a mask, her eyes calculating. Renn studied the tracks, following them out into the trees, his bow in hand.

  “What do you think?” Maggra called. Renn lifted his eyes and peered into the trees, and for a long moment all the world was silent. Suddenly a set of eyes reflected back at him, blinking into existence. They watched him for a moment as the hair on Paiva’s nape rose.

  Renn cocked his head curiously, trying to make out the form the eyes belonged to. Then in an instant he had an arrow notched and he fired it into the trees in one swift motion.

  The eyes vanished without a sound. Maggra chuckled darkly.

  “They’re herding us,” Renn said.

  “Yes,” Maggra answered.

  “What does that mean?” Ulrig swung his head to Maggra, and for the first time Paiva noted fear glowing in his speckled eyes.

  “It means we will all be culled if we turn back,” she said. “It means they want us to go to the Vale.”

  “They anticipate us…” Ulrig said. “That means Varloga is expecting us. What do you make of that?”

  “It means we’ve made a mistake,” Renn replied, and his eyes turned to Paiva worriedly. “It means we’ve fallen into his trap. Perhaps we’ve made things far easier for him than we expected. Perhaps this is what he wanted all along.”

  Paiva felt her stomach knot with dread and with guilt. Ulrig looked to Maggra again who smiled coldly.

  “I told you,” she said. “No man returns from the Highpeaks.”

  “Best we continue forwards then, and hope for a miracle in the Vale,” Ulrig muttered. Renn had another arrow notched and was aiming it into the trees. He picked out a shadow and let his arrow fly. It connected with something, for an eldritch shriek rang out and branches snapped. Then there was a steady silence wherein both Renn and the painted man reached for their blades. Nothing materialized out of the woods, nothing moved.

  “We go to the Vale,” Maggra said, “and hope our Virtue can summon the good spirits to save us.” Then she turned her back on the woods and went back to the camp, her painted man silently following. Renn looked back to Ulrig questioningly, who nodded his agreement.

  “I’m so sorry,” Paiva whispered. Ulrig lowered his torch and looked at her, reaching out a boney hand to clasp to her shoulder.

  “Don’t give up yet,” he said. “We could not have hoped to get through these woods without being noticed. My only true hope is that the Old Ones are waiting for us still, waiting for us to bring them back to the world.”

  “What if they’re not?” Renn asked. “What if there are only ghosts down there?”

  “Spirits are eternal,” Ulrig muttered
. “They do not cease to exist just because we have shunned them. They are waiting, they are not vanished. They could be awakened by one small believer.” His voice was so strong with belief that it sent waves of comfort through Paiva. He smiled at her kindly, then pinched her cheek.

  “Come, back to the warmth of our fire. In the morning we shall find your father and right this mess.”

  — «» —

  The Far Reach gang slept in a close circle about their fire, keeping a safe distance from the Painted men. Renn lay as usual — by her side staring up at the twinkling stars, his eyes far away and lost in the heavens. Paiva followed his gaze into the wide scope of the sky and for long moments the rest of the world was blotted out, swallowed by the quiet moment they shared. She began to feel the sense of being lost again. Her presence and her purpose drifting away and fraying, becoming meaningless.

  “What do you see up there?” he murmured.

  “Maps…fate…time. You?”

  “I wonder if the stars are watching us back,” he answered. “You know the phrase — ‘by all the shining stars.’ We use it as if they were responsible for us somehow. As if we call on them to be our witness. Can stars avenge a broken oath?”

  “I suppose they can. If they are the weavers of fate, the givers of direction and time. Who better to judge us and avenge us than them up there on their perfect perches?”

  Perhaps Renn felt the same, for he reached down and curled his fingers over hers. “By all the shining stars,” he murmured. “I will not let you blow away.”

  The warmth of him seeped into her. Tethered together, they both stared up into the gaping heavens until she could not bear the unknown depths into which she gazed any longer. She found comfort in Renn instead, who pulled her into the warmth of his chest and sheltered her from the cold stare of the stars.

  — «» —

  Maggra lead them into the valley, her painted man at her side, both wielding stone axes and wooden shields. The procession of men that followed her was quiet and subdued, their eyes darting nervously into the greenery about them. For hours they had pressed hard, following the streams until they narrowed into little burbling veins, bleeding from one mysterious source. That was when Maggra stopped and looked back to Paiva.

  “This is the beginning of the Vale,” she said. “This is where men do not dare to go.”

  Paiva nodded and swallowed her fear.

  The woods were astoundingly peaceful, too serene, too beautiful to contain any nightmares. But she was not deceived. No sooner had the troop begun its procession up the stream than the trees began to stir and noises rose in low howls and blood-curdling shrieks. Shadows swarmed towards them, thickening into the shapes of dark beasts. Black, sightless eyes filled with nightmares gaped at them from beneath the bend of branch and root.

  Maggra set her jaw and readied her axe. They came from behind and they came from the front, surrounding the party on all sides.

  “We break through,” Maggra said. “We cleave our way.” She summoned all her rage then, as though it was all the rage and the hurt she had ever known in her life, and roared into the trees.

  Her horse leapt into the midst of the shadow creatures, met with the snapping and tearing of maws filled with tusks and fangs. She appeared undaunted, for she had drank from the blood and eaten the very flesh of nightmares and in turn echoed their own horror back to them. She pressed forwards until the disfigured creatures gathered and formed so thick a wall in front of her they were not passable. They stared at her with their unblinking eyes, making Paiva’s heart shrink with fear.

  Maggra was not daunted. She rallied her men with another cry and raised her axe, her cry so deep and loud with rage it sent chills through Paiva’s already trembling body. They rushed the creatures, charging them with their horses and weapons, attempting to clear a path through. Renn, Yulin, and Ulrig formed a circle around Paiva as they moved forward from behind. Paiva trembled at the sounds of men’s screams as they were torn from their horses. Blood sprayed the air; riderless horses bolted away from the battle. Folka howled and writhed as they were struck with arrows and lances and cleaved with axes and swords. Ennig flew into the fray and disappeared with a roar while the others of the gang stayed close to Ulrig.

  Suddenly the creatures broke through Maggra’s men and fell on the Far Reach gang. Ginver was struck down from his horse and his melodious voice broke into a horrified shriek before he landed on the ground and disappeared beneath a mass of swarming bodies. Ulrig, Yulin, Renn were all moving about her. Swords ripped through flesh and shattering claws. She was flung from her horse and landed hard on the ground, the wind nearly knocked from her chest. As she lifted her head, she came eye-level with a black face with disfigured, twisted features — half-man and half-beast. She could not help but to look up into its eyes wherein she saw all her fears reflected back at her. She gasped, but the creature did not approach her. It emitted a rattling growl from deep within its chest, then moved away, onto the next man.

  She glimpsed Renn charging after her but a Folka beast intercepted him, knocking him to the ground beneath its weight. She screamed as she saw him fall, calling out his name.

  “Stop!” she roared, realization suddenly dawning on her. Her voice was drowned out in the melee. She staggered to her feet and felt the bristling spines of a Folka brush past her as it lunged towards another man. He made one swipe with a spear before he disappeared with a gurgling cry beneath the creature.

  “STOP!” she screamed. Renn reappeared, struggling towards her. Ulrig somehow surfaced behind him, staring at her with horror filled eyes.

  “Renn! Stop! Relent! They will let me pass!” Paiva screamed to him as hot tears burned down her face. Renn slashed into a beast’s face that snapped close to his. He met her eye and took a step back, seeing that she was surrounded by Folka yet none dared touch her.

  “Stop, Renn! They will let me pass. You needn’t fight them!” she screamed to him as the Folka began to circle her like crows, blotting him out from her vision. Renn lowered his blade tensely and stepped back, Ulrig bellowed the order at the top of his lungs.

  “Stand down!” he roared. “Stand down!”

  Soon the sound of battle quieted. The Wildermen gathered together and bristled their weapons towards the Folka that circled them guardedly. Paiva looked to Renn one last time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should not have brought you all here.”

  “Go!” Ulrig shouted. “Find Morinvere. Find your father, wake the old ones! Go now! Before it is too late.”

  Paiva looked to Renn over the swarming bodies between them, his face twisted with panic. His eyes on hers were filled with desperation.

  She nodded and turned away without a word. He started after her, but a Folka stepped towards him and drove him back with a rippling snarl. She disappeared from his sight in seconds, heading into the trees, herded by the Folka.

  — «» —

  “This isn’t right,” Renn hissed to Ulrig. “We’re going to lose her.”

  “Have hope,” Ulrig muttered desperately.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Renn snarled. “They are driving her there just as they drove Viviel. She won’t come back.”

  “Don’t,” Ulrig warned as he saw Renn’s grip tighten on his sword. “Even you can’t cut through them.”

  “She won’t come back,” Renn said with conviction. “I won’t stand to lose her.” He lunged into the black bodies before him, ripping and cleaving his way. He ducked and leapt and thwarted them with daring agility as Ulrig cried out after him. He broke into a run and plowed through them.

  Ulrig roared in warning, but it was too late — a Folka leapt upon him and tumbled him to the ground where he disappeared beneath the slithering bodies.

  “RENNIK!” Ulrig screamed, but all he saw was black.

  Chapter 17

  Babbling through the mossy roots wov
en across the forest floor were the seams of water that flowed from a crumbling shape shadowed beneath the twisted branches of trees. There was a tower, its ramparts rotten and decayed with its battle against time and the elements. Crumbling walls with foundations undermined by the upheaval of roots stood unsteadily, surrendering their might to the trees that invaded them. It was nothing more than ruins, standing as a tomblike testament to man’s struggles in the Forest.

  Paiva felt a deep sense of foreboding as she gazed on it. It was Morinvere, swallowed by the Forest.

  Unable to look away, she stepped towards it, the Folka slithering and hissing at her heels, urging her forward — herding her, driving her. The image of her father’s face burst into her mind and she broke into a run, calling out his name in a panic. All other thoughts fled from her; the only one that remained was to find her father — the spirit, the Incarnate, that could repair the damage she had done.

  She staggered into the ruins through a crumbled arch, tripping on the mass of roots and flowering thickets that grew abundantly over the floor. The Folka watched her enter with their deep, malevolent gazes and then turned away and flitted into the trees where they disappeared.

  Paiva found herself inside the structure and peered around. The tower loomed above her, its stones shifted and cracked from the invasion of vines and time. Four crumbling walls contained only a wild garden of vegetation. It must have been a shrine or a church of some kind, for there were carved stone pillars that rose up from the ground and stood, bearing only the weight of the open sky. The remaining timbers of a roof the walls must have once held decayed and rotted away. All was strangled with snaking vines, some timbers fallen and cracked into shards from which grew all things green and flowering.

  In the middle of this enclosure, glimmering like a mirror, was a pool into which sprays of roots and flowers were growing. From the pool bled the rivulets of water Paiva had followed, and above it, on a fallen pillar, sat a figure. His clothes were dirty rags, his beard mossy and tangled with leaves and flowers.