by I K Spencer
The man lay on his side facing Anthen, all menace in his face drained with his lifeblood. His dark eyes bulged with only terror and confusion and Anthen felt an immediate reaction to his first close-up view of a violent death at his own hands. The inexperienced guardsman felt faint and staggered to the side of the road to heave up his breakfast, his knees buckling. After the retching finally ceased he lay down with his hands over his eyes, taking deep breaths and waiting for the initial shock to pass.
He had killed another human! They had warned him that shock was a natural reaction but the immensity of the feeling was not something that could be described, much less prepared for. Anthen had not believed the trauma could make him physically ill but he was struggling to keep from retching further, though his stomach was now empty. He knew his hand was forced and was pleased with his performance but the shock he felt at taking human life was overwhelming. He thanked the gods he was at least able to avoid taking the boy's life.
It took several minutes for the sickness to pass and even longer for Anthen's head to clear but eventually he settled down and started to reason again. He noticed he had been crying and wiped the tears away in disgust. His first decision was what to do with the bodies. Should he just leave them or bury them? He needed to hurry; he didn't want the elder guardsman following him to see him in this state.
Moving quickly, he dragged the dead bowman beyond the brush at the roadside, trying not to look at the body again. He returned and struggled with the heavier leader. He used a stick to dig a shallow grave in the soft, spring earth and rolled the two figures in. He covered them with the dirt as best he could, then added any rocks and downed tree limbs that were nearby. He brushed dirt over the bloodstains where each man had lain, then ran off the dead highwaymen's mounts.
After whistling for Rorc to return, the guardsman collected his gear and mounted up, aware that Garrick must not be that far behind by now. He paused to take one more look at the mound covering the two men, wondering if anyone would mourn the outlaws. He shivered as he thought of dying here alone in this desolate place with no one to care or remember him. Tears rolled down the guardsman's cheeks again as he galloped away.
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Garrick had also slept poorly the previous night. He did not share Anthen's special proximity sense; he just knew they were more likely to encounter trouble east of Dolonhold. He arrived at the scene of Anthen's ambush shortly after noon, less than a quarter-hour after the younger man had departed.
Signs of the struggle were clearly visible and Garrick dismounted, studying the tracks and bloodstains with growing alarm. The experienced soldier combed the area and in the tracks he saw the tale—Anthen's dismount, his mount sent running off to draw away some of the assailants and lessen the odds against him, and the ensuing struggle. Still, he did not know the outcome until finding the shallow grave, and only then did he relax. The bandits would not have bothered with a grave, even for their own comrades.
Garrick smiled and nodded. It looked as though the apprentice did well for himself and his estimation of the young man rose another notch. The elder guardsman mounted up and returned to the road, following Anthen's tracks east.
Relieved that the young man appeared unhurt, he had no idea that he was being followed.
Chapter 13
Garrick groaned as he slid from the saddle. He felt old and exhausted and a growing apprehension of the predicament they were riding toward played endlessly upon his nerves. At least the rain, which had followed him for two days and nights, appeared to have moved on.
Later in the day after he had come upon the site of the apprentice's battle with the highwaymen, clouds had rolled in, bringing the heavy spring rains. For the next two days he had ridden into a cold, driving rain. The weather was miserable and at the end of each bone-chilling day, the weak fire and minimal shelter he could muster offered little relief.
Hooded and hunched over in the saddle in the face of the cold downpour, the guardsman had seen no one on the road and very few signs of settlers at all. The first night he had passed huddled next to the fire beneath a tree. Last night he had obtained permission to bed down in a farmer's stable but the roof leaked so much he guessed he was better off under a tree, at least then he could have built a fire.
He had felt miserable upon waking this morning, his only consolation that he would have only one more night in the cold and damp since they should reach Gates sometime the next day. The rain had finally stopped in the afternoon but the weather remained bleak and windy. Though it was well before dusk, he had decided to stop for the night early next to a shallow creek.
The aging guardsman stretched to work his cramped muscles and felt fresh pain as he struggled to lift the saddle from Lance's back. What was he doing here? He was too old and too slow after so many years of the soft life in forgotten places like Kaslow. He was no longer really a guardsman and hadn't been one for some time. Here was this apprentice somewhere ahead, riding into the certain peril and depending on him to be there. In truth, he admitted to himself, he knew Anthen had little or no confidence in the elder guardsman but Garrick felt certain the younger man would need his help sometime before this was over, and that scared him most of all.
Garrick shook off the self-pity somehow and built a large fire. He knew weariness caused such negative thoughts and he reminded himself that he should be in Gates by dusk the next day. One more day of the arduous journey, then he could rest.
It was not wise to build such a large fire in this wild country but Garrick, chilled to the bone and shivering, needed to dry out and get warm. He foraged a bit looking for signs of small game but found none. He ended up boiling beans with dried meat. The hot meal and the fire, combined with his remaining rum, improved his spirits considerably. He sat by the fire, smoking and sipping scalding tea laced with rum while waiting for his wet things, hung round the fire, to dry. Later on he crawled into his bedroll next to the dying fire and looked up at the stars, waiting for sleep to come but though exhausted, the much-needed sleep did not overcome the restlessness he felt.
The source of the guardsman's unease sat patiently waiting in a tree about two hundred yards away, watching the guardsman. It would strike soon but was in no hurry. Soon the evil flames of the human’s campfire would dwindle, then its fun would begin. It sensed the fear already in the old man but that fear would be nothing compared to what would come. The creature fed on the fear as much as the flesh.
Eyes closed, the creature still looked anything but peaceful. Its round face bore some resemblance to the elven race, with which it shared a long and troubled history. The small round head was bald and framed with pointed ears too large for the size of the head. Its tough skin, more like a shell really, was scaly with the exception of the leathery wings folded over its hunched back.
At present, the color of the thing was tree-bark gray and it was nearly invisible with its surroundings. In reality, the beast held no color, reflecting the colors surrounding it. Such chameleon-like traits were not naturally found in predators but there was little natural to this unearthly being.
The creature was set in a gargoyle-like crouch, which was exactly what it resembled, and the position made it appear to be deceptively small. When the beast rose up, however, it was over seven feet tall with a matching wingspan. In addition to its chameleon skills, it possessed sharp claws and perhaps its most terrifying trait was its mouth—large, stained, razor-sharp teeth forever set in a half-grimace, half-smile.
Its crimson eyes were closed because they were only used at close range, tending to interfere with its superior sense of hearing. The thing was motionless except for tiny movements of its super-sensitive ears, which recorded the guardsman's slightest position shift in his bedroll more clearly than the strongest pair of eyes ever could.
The unearthly being had, thus far, never been witnessed by man. Or, more accurately, it had never been seen by a man who lived to tell anyone of its existence. The beast was known to elven folklore but, thought ext
inct for many centuries, the average elf would no longer know of it. Eons ago, the two races were mortal enemies but the elves, having superior numbers, hunted down and killed off the creatures. To the ancient elves, it was known as a phaantor—the invisible winged demon.
The only thing about humans that the phaantor feared was their fire. Once that posed no threat, its first move would be to get the prey up and running in panic, then the human would come to know true terror. The man must be made to fear death, next to realize there was no hope, and finally, the man would be brought to fear life and wish for death. Only then would the beast feed on its flesh.
After nearly an hour, the campfire had ebbed to a few weak flames that barely rose above the rock circle surrounding it. The creature stepped off the branch as if off a step and, after a brief dip, flew toward Garrick with slow, silent wing thrusts. It stopped again on a high tree on the edge of the clearing where the nervous guardsman lay.
At the sound of something landing above him and feeling the powerful presence of the monster so close, Garrick's uneasiness grew to a persistent gnawing in his belly. He had seen a brief flicker as the thing arrived and he lay watching that area. When the creature left its perch to attack, he saw the shadow and rose up on his elbows.
At fifty feet away, the attacker opened its eyes for the effect and Garrick nearly froze in terror at the sight of the fiery orbs floating toward him. He did manage to roll out of the bedroll to his knees, his short broadsword clenched high above his head. Apart from the eyes it was only visible as a shadow, like a gust of wind, pushing leaves and small branches aside but moving more slowly than any breeze should. As the creature closed in, Garrick thrust the sword. The weapon was torn away from his grip by something with strength much greater than his own and the impact drove him backward head over heels several times.
As Garrick shakily regained his feet he heard and saw nothing and there was no sign of his sword. He ran to his pack and pulled his large battle hammer and began to swing it over his head. He rotated, searching while swinging the deadly weapon round and round. Suddenly he sensed movement behind and turned quickly to face it. The shimmering apparition was coming and after a moment he saw the eyes again.
Prepared this time, he swung the hammer directly between the glow of the demon's eyes. The beast reared up to avoid the blow but the weapon still caught it in the chest. Garrick heard a terrible clashing sound of iron on iron and was jerked to his back again by the rebounding force of the heavy hammer, a first for the aging warrior. He had never swung the heavy weapon at a foe and had it kicked back at him so. He jumped up again and resumed swinging the hammer about while circling slowly the opposite way. All at once, with a powerful jerk, the weapon was ripped away like a toy from an unruly child. Garrick saw the shadow only at the last instant, this time there was no warning with the eyes.
Now only his dagger remained. Again the swoop, the brief flicker at the last instance, then Garrick's last weapon was gone. His arm bled from three deep slashes and he struggled to his feet more slowly. He circled once, frantically searching for the demon, then began to run to the edge of the clearing and the safety of the trees.
The beast pursued leisurely, savoring the fear emanating from the man. The human was terrified and weaponless but still thought he could escape. Soon would come the realization that the forest offered no refuge and there was nowhere to run or hide. As prey and predator passed the tree line, the phaantor circled quickly behind its quarry and sped up to overtake the lumbering human. It was just about on its prey, when suddenly, the man was gone. It wheeled around and returned but there was no sign. The human had been there one instant and gone the next, simply disappearing from its infallible senses.
The beast circled the area several times scanning for any sign but could detect nothing. Still not satisfied, the beast perched on a nearby tree for two hours, waiting for the human to reappear. Toward dawn, angry and still ravenous for human fear and flesh, the frustrated demon flew away.
Chapter 14
The first thing Garrick noticed was the terrible pounding in his head. He opened his eyes but saw only darkness. He lay on his side trying to regain his senses, which was difficult without the aid of sight. His temples throbbed with pain and the back of his head felt slick. He rolled onto his back and his body protested the movement with shooting pains in his ribs. Slowly opening his eyes once again, he could make out a small circle of light far above him.
The guardsman then remembered the beast and staggered to his feet, the pain instantly forgotten. He frantically searched all directions, dreading that he would find those terrible disembodied eyes coming toward him in the blackness. After a few minutes he realized that the creature was not near and gradually calmed down. Slowly his memory returned. He remembered running into the trees and knowing that the invisible demon was nearly upon him, then the sensation of falling. After that, only darkness. He must have fallen into some sort of cave or den.
He shivered as he recalled how easily he had been disarmed. The creature could have instantly killed him and Garrick could not help thinking of the tale of the one-eyed stranger retold by Anthen, how the beast had toyed with its victims. Could this attacker be the same? After this experience, Garrick could easily understand why the tortured look to the wanderer. He also wondered if the terrible creature related to their mission somehow. Could Cidrl have a hand in this?
The warrior reminded himself that now was not the time to ponder such questions. His first task was to find a way out, though he couldn't stop from momentarily imagining what would happen if the terrifying demon had not given up the pursuit. He could tell from the small amount of light from the hole only that the underground cave was vast. He fumbled inside his cloak for a few moments, then pulled out a slender object about as long as his forearm. He snapped the top off, which produced a bright flash followed by a small, scarlet-colored flame sputtering from the top. The red flame grew and steadied.
Garrick held up the torch and looked around. The sight frightened him. He’d somehow landed on a small ledge high up on the wall of an enormous cavern. He could see a good distance down over the ledge but the light did not penetrate far enough for him to see the bottom, if there was one. The hole above was not directly over the ledge and he realized with shock that had he approached the aperture from any other direction or fell straight, he would have missed the ledge and fallen into the abyss below.
Remembering that his light source wouldn’t last that long, he turned his attention to the wall behind the ledge, looking for a way out. The wall was about fifteen feet tall and to his relief, looked a reasonable climb. His eyes followed the foot and hand holds that would take him to the roof of the cavern and his heart sank. At the top, a dome-shaped and smooth ceiling traveled another six feet to the opening; climbing out that way would be impossible. He hurried up and down the three-foot-wide ledge looking for other possibilities but found none.
Despondent, Garrick sat down and leaned against the wall, all out of ideas. He stared morosely at the small circle of light overhead, which might as well be a mile away. He was about to look away when something caught his attention. Hanging down on the far side of the aperture was what appeared to be a tree root. He moved to the edge of the ledge as close as he dared and lifted the flare as high as he could. It was indeed a hanging root, not much thicker than his thumb. He strained to see if it was solid and anchored but could tell neither and the sputtering of the torch reminded him that he didn't have much time to decide. He gauged the distance to be at least eight feet and wondered if he could even reach it or grip it securely if he was lucky enough to leap that far. It didn't matter. There was no decision to make; it was his only hope.
He hurried back to the wall and started climbing. He found an ample supply of hand and foot holds and reached the top quickly. He turned around and pressed his back to the wall. Holding the torch out in front he looked at the tiny target one more time, hoping he had overestimated the distance of the leap. The root still s
eemed too far away and to make things worse, the flare sputtered again, this time for longer.
He stuck the end of the weakening torch in a small crack and looked back. He could just make out the root. With his eyes locked on the target, no more than a dark line impossibly far away, Garrick crouched and swung his arms behind until they met the wall. He paused for just a moment, then leapt forward while swinging his heavy arms forward at the same time. He laid his short frame straight out and willed himself to the root, his eyes never leaving the target. He felt himself dropping and he thought he was lost but then his right hand touched something besides thin air.
He gripped the root with his right hand and after a moment of flailing, found it with his left as well. The slick root slid through his hands but he grasped it as hard as he could, though it burned his palms, to stop slipping. He held his breath, waiting for the snap, as he swung wildly back and forth. He shut his eyes as the root, and maybe the entire tree to which it belonged, dropped a couple more feet under his considerable added weight. After what seemed an endless period of swinging and falling, the root stabilized. It was holding, for now, but he was a good six feet below the bottom of the opening.
Slowly, he pulled himself up. His arms were incredibly powerful but his thick frame bore more stone than he cared to count. After a few feet his arms and hands were in agony and shaking badly. He knew had there been anything other than certain death awaiting him below he would have let go but somehow he found the strength to hold on and pull himself further up. Hand over trembling hand and moaning from the pain, the determined warrior slowly made his way toward the small circle of blue sky overhead.
Finally, the bloody and bruised figure emerged above the ground and swung a leg over the rim. Closing his eyes against the sudden glare, he levered himself out of the hole and collapsed to the ground. He lay panting and motionless for several minutes, appreciating anew the vivid colors and smells of the trees and budding plant life surrounding him. The warming sun felt wonderful on his upturned face.