by JW Webb
“I expect they are already dead, alongside those they were pursuing. You know that forest’s reputation?”
Arami inclined his head without further comment. They reined in, seeing Corin still standing and gazing as one struck blind and fey into the wind. Behind him the big horse Thunderhoof stood dark and silent as his master.
“Has he lost his mind?” Arami muttered. The young Anchai warrior was anxious, as he too sensed a wrongness in the atmosphere. Olen shook his head and motioned Arami wait while he spoke with Corin.
If Corin noticed the Kaan appearing beside him, he made no sign, but stood stiff and silent as a man frozen, or else struck dumb by sudden lightning.
“A hard-fought battle took place here,” Olen said, his deep blue gaze resting on the frosted corpse of the illustrious general. “His Bears did themselves proud. Judging by the fallen, they defended their camp against a force much greater. The Ptarnian dead heavily outnumber theirs.”
Olen reached out and gripped Corin’s shoulder. Still his friend didn’t respond. “Come Corin—it serves no purpose us remaining here. Best we return to the Delve and make ready for a long winter campaign. Most of those raiders have fared north but I daresay they’ll return.”
“I didn’t know him well.” Corin’s stony gaze brushed over the ice-crusted corpse of Belmarius. “But he listened to my counsel, and because of that he lies dead and frozen here today. A brave man.” Corin spat into the wind and the spittle flew back in his face. He didn’t notice.
“I heard he was a shrewd battlemaster who would only listen to someone whose advice was sound. You are not to blame here, Corin an Fol. No man may outlive his wyrd.”
Corin turned and smiled at Olen. There was no mirth in that grin, only irony. “Looks like I’m going to Car Carranis alone. Which way is north?”
“You are talking like a fool!” Olen yelled in his face, trying to promote any kind of response that would free his friend from his self-loathing. “You wouldn’t last a day out there alone. I told you these dead Ptarnians were only a part of a much larger force. And if by some miracle you evade their scouts and reach the Gap then you’ll find it filled with a hundred thousand barbarians. Even you, Longswordsman, have no chance of reaching that city alive.”
“We had no chance with Belmarius’s boys helping me,” Corin replied, his gaze still on the general. “But I don’t give a shit about chance. I will find a way through and I will enter that city fortress and find the woman I love. No god, spook, goblin, or fucking army of men can stop me.”
Olen’s hands dropped by his side and his face grew grim. “Then I can do nothing for you, Longswordsman. My responsibility lies with my people. I like you Corin an Fol, I really do, but I’m not prepared to sacrifice my men in some crazy suicide scheme. Either you come back with us, or you fare north alone. I am sorry.”
Corin hadn’t been listening. Instead his expression had changed, his face now lit with savage joy. “We can avenge them! Those men we saw earlier heading west, we can kill them and save Belmarius’s survivors before they get trapped in that forest!”
“Forget it! They are dead men already! And I daresay those Ptarnians chasing them will perish also. No one of sense goes near that wood, Corin. Darkvale is death!”
Corin smiled at Olen again. “Didn’t I just hear you say that no man may outlive his wyrd?”
“That doesn’t mean he should rush headlong to greet it.”
But Corin still wasn’t listening. His mind was set. If two armies blocked the north, then he’d find another way through. A secret way and a road he’d used when stationed in Point Keep.
The Wild Way—the old path threading the mountains’ spine would serve to bring him close to Gap of Leeth without being apprehended. This time of year it would be deserted and the only thing he’d have to worry about was sourcing enough food and fuel for warmth—something he’d done all his life.
Easy. That way Corin could catch up with any stray easterners and kill them and also join with any remnant of Belmarius’s men that had survived. No matter the odds and no matter the outcome. He was Corin an Fol and he was bound for Car Carranis. Nothing else mattered. Simple. Why had it seemed so difficult before? Corin grinned and his eyes took on a feral gleam as he felt the battle madness surge into his veins.
“I bid you farewell Rorshai!” Corin raised a fist to Olen and Arami who watched in stunned silence as the Longswordsman vaulted onto Thunderhoof’s back and yelled his horse gallop full pelt through the chaos of camp and corpses and down the hill to the snow-covered grasses beyond.
“He rides to his death!” Arami shouted. “A brave and foolish man.” He shrugged and followed the Kaan back down at a slower pace to where the others waited on their horses.
Olen’s face was bleak as he guided his horse to join Kerante. “Where is Corin?” the older man asked.
“Gone.” Olen would say no more on the matter. “Time we departed,” he muttered instead, and made ready to address his riders. But before he could issue his orders, Olen froze.
Clear as the day surrounding him, he saw her standing there, just for the glimmer of a second. The Seeress of Silent Mountain. There she stood, her eyes accusing and her bony fingers pointing at him. Even now her husky voice echoed around his head
Corin an Fol is the fulcrum—the Chosen One. You must not abandon him!
Olen gasped and blinked, and when he opened his eyes she was gone. Though she had vanished, he stared at the place where he’d seen her for several long seconds, his body shaking and mind hard-wired. Men shuffled and fidgeted on their horses, and some exchanged puzzled glances, though most eyes were on the Kaan. Arami steered close. “You were saying?”
“Nothing.” Olen squinted up at the sky. “Looks like more snow coming,” he mumbled to Arami, whose expression was beyond quizzical and concerned. In a quieter voice he added, “I’ve just seen her.”
“Who?”
“The Seeress. She was standing watching us just over there.”
“Are you certain?” Arami’s face blanched and he turned to stare to where Olen inclined his head.
“It was she. I could hear her voice inside my head, telling me we cannot abandon Corin. That we have to help him.”
“Then we are dead men too,” Arami growled as Olen turned to face his riders.
“Rorshai, you now face a choice. Ride forth with me or ride home. A vision of the Dreaming has come upon me and I now know what I must do. But it is no comfort knowing.”
“What are you talking about?” Kerante of the Oromai yelled, “Speak up! What vision? What’s weighing you down, Tcunkai?”
“The Dreaming—the Seeress. She spoke to me. He who has left us is the chosen one, and here we sit as he rides like a madman to his death.”
“Who?” Kerante again. “You are talking nonsense, Kaan!”
“He means the stranger, Corin—the man’s lost his mind and is riding bewitched toward Darkvale Forest!” Arami yelled.
“And I am riding after him,” said Olen in a flat voice. “As I now know I must.”
“Why?” Kerante’s voice was joined with several others there.
“Call it destiny,” Olen replied. “None of you need accompany me, but I ride to rescue my friend ere he ends himself in yonder wood. And you, Kerante, can avenge yourself on those Ptarnian dogs still living should you wish to.”
“I’m coming with you!” Arami steered his horse in a circle. “If this is what the Seeress wants, then we must comply!”
“This is madness,” Kerante shook his head. “But I will ride with you and see this thing through, though I fear your infection has spread to me also and my senses have I lost.”
“Then let those who will ride out with us today!” Olen spurred Loroshai forward into the murky grey of fresh snowfall, whilst his grimacing Tcunkai warriors mustered around their Kaan. Behind them rode Arami and his Anchai. After a moment, Kerante roared, “Vengeance!” and spurred his beast forward, and soon after, all one hundred volunteer
s galloped full speed behind the Tcunkai Kaan. One turned back at Olen’s shout, his task to return to Rogan and let the army know their latest decision. Olen doubted not that they’d all be dead before Rogan got that message.
***
Corin’s mind surged as he urged Thunder on mercilessly, digging in his heels, making the big horse speed into a deep cleft that led down and then opened on a wide vale framed by shadowy trees in the distance. Darkvale.
Ahead was a column of soldiers hurrying on foot with spears. Beyond them, a smaller group mustering heroic at the edge of the woods. Both groups appeared agitated and uneasy, as though they were unsure what to do.
Corin hardly noticed them. Instead he laughed as the berserkergang (that wild northern rage) tore through him, shaking his limbs and rattling his mind. He wanted to kill, cut, and maim—destroy all in his path. It mattered not how many they were. Corin would avenge Belmarius, and then he would fare north along the mountains, and all the gods and spooks in Ansu could just try stopping him. He had Clouter and Biter and his wild untapped rage. He was fury and he was death!
Gone was Corin’s reason and gone any thought of Shallan—save a seed deeply embedded that gave him distant purpose. It was as though something alien and cruel had gotten inside his head and was feeding his inner fires. He felt an uncanny, potent force giving him strength and anger beyond any he’d known before. This was no common rage but rather an inferno that threatened to unhinge this mind.
A face took shape in his head as Corin rode. The face of a woman, beautiful and perfect and stunning in a way that made Shallan look plain, and Vervandi dull as dishwater.
The woman was smiling at him, promising warmth and love and an end to all his woes. Her green eyes and full red lips urged him hurry, and around her perfect face, smoky black hair floated in slowest motion.
You are close…
Her voice was silk-soft and sultry. It stirred his loins and dizzied his head. Corin felt his memory blur and his vision dim. The trees ahead blurred too, and the sky was shrouded by sudden heavy snowfall, the flakes descending so thick that Corin could scarcely see at all. It was as though a cloud of gloom had risen up from before the forest, fogging his senses as well as his vision.
But Corin cared not, as the mystery woman was inside his head now, yelling that he kill and kill and kill, and guiding him to where the Ptarnians struggled and panicked in the sudden violent snowfall.
Corin laughed as he crashed upon them, a deathbringer swinging a great Longsword. Men cried out and were hewn, or else trampled by Thunder’s mighty hoofs. Corin laughed and swung Clouter, caring not who he struck, and Clouter’s steel dented as it smote armour alongside mail and steel.
Spears thrust up at him, but he sliced them away. He glimpsed odd-shaped helmets and heard muffled yelling, then screaming as he slew those who yelled. Hack and slice and stab and hew! Corin’s rage burned within him until he thought he was on fire.
He heard distant shouts—a man calling out his name. Corin didn’t register—he just kept lashing out with Clouter as the blizzard densened to blinding fog, and even the shuffling, shouting shapes of his enemies were lost to view. A man grabbed at his feet. Corin brought Clouter’s wolf pommel down hard splitting the attacker’s skull through his helmet. Never had he felt such strength.
Corin laughed and swung Clouter again. He had claimed a dozen more lives when he felt Thunder shudder and jolt as something struck the big horse’s side. Thunderhoof reared and lashed out with his hooves, tossing his rider to the ground. The big horse whinnied and then crashed to lie still. Corin landed badly on his left elbow, snapping it like a rotten twig. He felt no pain, but the hand hung useless at his side and Clouter was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Thunderhoof.
Corin snarled and slid Biter free of its scabbard, as armoured figures lurched out at him from the fog. He laughed at them and sliced Biter through steel and flesh, his alien strength unstoppable. A man sobbed as his guts spilled free. Corin laughed again and closed in with Biter, killing two more men before a sharp blow struck the side of his head, knocking him forward, his vision blurred.
He rolled and lashed out with a foot. A helmet looked down at him then disappeared. Corin heard muffled shouts. Again a familiar voice called out his name. Then, like a tapped faucet, the fiery flow and strength and rage fled his bones. Corin stumbled and fell, rose half-blind, and stumbled again.
Corin heard more voices amid angry shouts and the urgent clash of steel. His strength had deserted him, replaced by an icy stab of fear clawing like a rodent inside his belly. He had to escape this place. Something inside him knew it was a trap. Corin ran and stumbled and ran again, but the fog inside his head and all around him closed like a net cast over him. He heard a voice—her voice—biidding him seek her deeper in the forest.
I will save you, but you must come find me!
“No!” Corin feared that voice now, and he winced when he saw the woman’s green eyes gazing at him through the murk. Those jade lamps were laughing at him now. Corin ran, tripped, and righted himself with a tree branch. He shook his limbs into motion and then froze, as looking up he saw her standing there smiling at him.
Why are you afraid, when all I offer you is love? Come—my home lieth deep inside this forest. There you will find warmth and wine and love, and all your troubles will dissolve. Come visit me, Corin son of Fol!
The driving flurry hid her from him again, and Corin gasped as sudden pain tore into is left arm.
“Can you help me?”
He heard soft laughter drifting through the snow. Despite his senses warning him to flee, to Corin’s addled mind it seemed he had but two choices: stay put and freeze and die, or else seek out the promised respite deeper in the forest.
He lacked the strength to go it alone in the wild now that he was wounded, his horse gone, and his berserk rage dried up. And he had reached the forest’s shroud, and something within its shadowy mantle assured him that was where he was meant to be. And she waited—the green-eyed witch—her eyes glowing with promise of all his desires’ fulfillment.
Behind him, Corin heard harsh shouts, and turning, could just make out the blurry shapes of men rushing at him from the gloom. He lacked the strength and will to fight, but a sudden urgent desire fuelled movement back into his limbs. Mind made up, Corin rushed headlong into the darkness that was Darkvale.
“Corin, wait—do not enter the forest!” He turned and briefly glimpsed Olen’s blanched features through the fog. “Save yourself!” The voice faded as wind and storm carried Olen and reality far away.
Farewell Olen.
Corin turned and slung Biter back into its scabbard so that he could grip his wounded arm. The pain was screaming at him now, as was every warning bell inside his head. What madness had fallen upon him?
Again he heard the crone’s voice by the river as she washed her bloodied rags. “You ride into peril, Corin an Fol.” But it was too late. Already the mistress of the forest had cast her nets upon him.
End of Part One
Part Two | The Wild Way
Chapter 17
The Forest of Nightmares
Olen stood at the edge of the forest of Darkvale, the whirl of snowflakes dancing past his face. The blizzard was easing at last, and he could make out the shapes of dark pines rising like ice spears into the distance.
Close by, Arami knelt by Corin’s horse, attending the wound on the beast’s flank. They had found Thunderhoof staggering around riderless, a cluster of corpses lying at his feet, and a cast spear protruding from his right flank.
“He’ll mend,” Arami said after removing the shaft and cleaning the wound with Thunder hardly making a sound. “He’s as tough as his master.”
Olen nodded and watched as Kerante loomed out of the white. “Still no sign?” Olen enquired as the Oromai Kaan slipped from his saddle and dusted snow from his purple cloak.
“Nothing.” Kerante’s expression was grim. “No tracks, sign, blood, or anything—just more Ptarni
an dead scattered about, but no Longswordsman.” Kerante’s scimitar was crimson; he’d been mopping up the last of the Ptarnians they’d found. “What say you—do we keep looking?”
“Aye so.” Olen’s eyes were on the trees scarce twenty yards to his left. “Though I fear we’ll have scant success, and suspect he has fallen victim to the evil residing in that wood.”
“We have to try!” Arami rubbed his mittens and stamped his feet. The young Anchai had a renewed respect for Corin and now saw it as his personal quest to find the missing Longswordsman. “At least the Ptarnians are all dead. But what of the other lot, Corin’s allies?”
“Disappeared too.” Olen watched as a lone raven settled on the closest pine and glared their way. He shivered; there was something strange about that bird, and Olen got the strong impression someone watched them from somewhere close.
“We cannot linger in this witchy place. If Corin’s entered that wood he’s on his own. If he’s who the Seeress says he is, then maybe he’ll pull through. In the meanwhile, let’s comb for tracks going the other way.”
The Rorshai riders spent the rest of that dreary day searching for signs of Corin an Fol and found nothing. Olen blamed himself; if he had followed after Corin at once then perhaps he could have saved his friend. He had spied Corin twice in the distance as they drew near the wood but had been disoriented by the blizzard and had lost him again.
The Rorshai had killed a great many Ptarnians. That hadn’t proved difficult, as the marauders had been cold and confused and evidently terrified of the forest surrounding them. And Olen could understand their dread as he cast a bleary eye toward the trees again. There was real malice in there, and every bone in his body bid him flee while he still had breath.
But they stayed close till nightfall, then retired a mile away and risked a small fire as it was bitter cold, but at least the snow had stopped. Soon a pale moon winked silver through cloud, spreading its gaze on the dale surrounding them, but not on the forest beyond.