by Jim Melvin
“I loves the loins,” Ugga said.
Elu nodded at the enormous crossbreed, then continued his story. “While the meat was cooking, we began to hear scary sounds from the upper heights. We all knew what animals howled like that—black mountain wolves. In a panic we doused the fires and hid, hoping they wouldn’t find us. But we weren’t so lucky.”
Elu and his companions left their gear and jogged northward along the trail in the darkness, carrying only their bows, arrows, and knives.
“We believed the wolves would find the gutted deer and go no farther. We could hide in the bushes and get our gear the next morning. But the wolves weren’t interested in the deer. They ran right past it and followed us.”
The trail rose steeply and then flattened along a narrow ridge. The land dropped down on both sides into thickets of tangled vines with thorns as long and sharp as bear claws.
“It’s called mountain laurel,” Rathburt said.
Torg looked up in surprise.
“Sorry . . . I couldn’t sleep, after all.”
“Come and listen to Elu’s great story,” Ugga said.
“I’ve heard it before.”
“Go on, Elu,” Torg said.
In the darkness Elu and the other warriors couldn’t see the approaching wolves, but they could hear and smell them. It was impossible to outrun them, but if they stopped and tried to fight, they would be routed.
“Our only chance was to brave the vines,” Elu said. “Bears can run through them very fast. There’s an open area beneath the laurel about this high off the ground.” Elu raised his hand to the level of his own shoulder, about two cubits tall.
“But the black wolves are as big as horses,” Rathburt said. “It’s difficult for them to hunch down low enough to get through.”
“It’s hard for men, too,” Elu said. “We can’t scrunch down like bears.”
“Bears can run very fast,” Ugga said proudly.
“Still, they would have escaped,” Rathburt said, apparently unable to resist joining in. “The wolves remained by the edge of the trail, helpless to pursue. But not for the reason Elu and the warriors believed. Something else lived in the laurel, and the wolves could sense it.”
Elu lowered his head. “The vines . . . eat you.”
Rathburt nodded and then took a deep breath. “Most often, the thickets are harmless, except for the thorns. But there are places in the mountains where another kind of vine grows, hidden among the laurel, and it is anything but harmless. It feeds not on sunlight and rich dirt, but on flesh—usually the flesh of bears and other animals that enter the laurel, but it will consume humans too. At it turns out Elu and his friends escaped the wolves but not the vines.”
“I’ve never heard of these vines,” Torg said, “and I’ve journeyed in the mountains many times.”
“Few have heard of them,” Rathburt said. “They’re rare—though less rare now than before. Lately, they have been spreading. The Mogols call the vines Badaalataa, the plant that devours. And that’s what it does, gradually and painfully. The animal—or human—doesn’t always die immediately. Instead the victim becomes a living part of the plant and sometimes survives for as long as a week.”
“When Rathburt found us, it was the morning of the fourth day,” Elu said, visibly shaken. “We had gotten no more than twenty paces off the trail when the Badaalataa grabbed us. I felt like I was being bitten by an army of fanged snakes. The poison paralyzed my body, but it didn’t dull the pain.” Suddenly the Svakaran cast himself onto the ground and sobbed.
Ugga knelt down and lifted him in his arms, hugging him against his chest. “Don’t cry. I can’t stand it,” Ugga said, also bursting into tears. “Somebody help Elu . . . please.”
“There’s little help for such pain of the heart,” Torg said. “Not even the passing of time will heal it completely. Let him cry, but don’t let him go. Your friendship is what he needs more than anything.”
Rathburt also wept. This surprised Torg far more than Elu’s outburst. He had never seen Rathburt react to anything with such sincere emotion.
Eventually Elu’s sobs reduced to whimpers, but Ugga still held him close. Rathburt’s face was buried in his hands. Bard moved beside him and placed his arm around his shoulders.
As if in response to such tenderness, more of Rathburt’s words emerged. “I was wandering, as I sometimes do,” he said. “I too heard the wolves and hid in the trees, waiting for them to go away. But they didn’t leave, howling nonstop for three days. Something a ways down the trail was enraging them, though I couldn’t imagine what. Near the end of the third day, they finally gave up and loped back to their dark lairs in the upper heights. A pack of more than fifty passed within a few paces of where I’d cowered for so long.”
Rathburt looked at Elu, his stoop even more pronounced. “I wanted to be sure the wolves were gone before I investigated what it was that had befuddled them. I was curious, I must admit, but not enough to overcome my fear. So I slept fitfully through another night and didn’t leave my hiding place until early the next morning.”
Rathburt began to cry again, as if overwhelmed by grief too large to bear.
Elu squirmed out of Ugga’s arms and crawled into Rathburt’s lap, calming them both. “I don’t know how much better it would have been had I helped them sooner,” Rathburt said. “I suppose I’ll never know. But it will always haunt me. The Vasi masters say, ‘What’s done is done.’ I’m not so sure. When morning came I finally found the courage to start along the trail, and it didn’t take me long to find them—or what remained of them. The Badaalataa were enjoying their meal. I could see skin, flesh, hair. Lips. Teeth.
“I remember clearly—as if it just happened—seeing an ear stuck to the end of a pulsing vine. But what I remember most is their eyeballs—eight of them, isolated here and there, but still aware. They stared at me, pleading . . . not to save them, but to end their misery.”
“What did ya do, Master Radburt?” Bard said. “How did ya save little Elu from this terrible thing?”
Rathburt looked first at Bard and then at Torg, as if begging for permission to stop. But Torg’s expression would not permit it.
Rathburt sighed. “You need to understand . . . for someone like Torgon, magic comes easily. But for me it’s difficult—and sporadic. I can’t just will my power to emerge. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. One day I can heal a dying tree; the next I can’t save a blade of grass. I’m not like him.”
Elu hugged Rathburt even tighter.
“But this time . . . this time . . . the magic roared out of me,” Rathburt continued. “I strode into the vines, and they parted as if I were their master. Blue fire spurted from my staff and fell upon the Badaalataa, withering them. The flow of the magic was addictive. I felt as if I could scorch an entire forest. But as suddenly as the bliss arose, the agony followed. The vines were tamed, but Elu and his friends were still there, ripped into hundreds of pieces.”
“And?” Torg said.
“And . . . that’s when it . . . came to me.” Rathburt then grew silent.
“Tell us,” Torg said. But there was no command in his voice, only respect.
“Very well. But only this one time, and never again. Because saying the words makes me relive it, which is more than a coward can bear. What I saw terrified me far worse than the vines. I saw the extent of my power, and knew I could save them. Or, at least, one of them. I could peel the plants off their flesh and mold what remained into a single being. But it would not be pleasant for me—to say the least. The cost to my own body would be immense.”
Rathburt placed Elu on the ground and stood up. Then he strode several paces away, his back to the fire, and whirled to face his audience. “It hurt me to exert the power necessary to mend a broken body. It hurt me to save them—to save him. Like being burned. Or frozen. Stabbed. Tortured. Dismembered. It hurt like madness.”
These last words stunned Torg and the others into silence. The sweet aroma of ro
asting fowl wafted throughout the clearing, but they did not notice. Rathburt stared at the ground, his tears puncturing the snow.
Finally the Svakaran broke the long silence. “The vines were gone, the pain was gone, and Elu was alive. But Rathburt was lying on the ground, and Elu thought he was dead. His face was white like a ghost’s, and he was wrinkled and weak. To Elu, he looked like a giant—ten cubits tall—but Elu didn’t know then how small he had become. Rathburt brought Elu back, but only part of him.” Then he flexed one of his arms, displaying a bulging muscle. “Elu had the same strength as before, just in a smaller body, and he dragged Rathburt for ten days, giving him food and water when he could. When Elu finally reached his village, his people did not recognize him, and they shunned both of us. Elu tried to tell them who he was. They didn’t believe . . . at first. But when Elu told them the things he knew about each and every one, they believed him then, and they gave us the longhouse and asked us to stay away from the village. Once there, Elu tended Rathburt and brought him back to the world of the living. It wasn’t as great as what he did for Elu, but at least it was something.”
“It was more than just something,” Rathburt said. “Thank you, my friend.”
Ugga and Bard began to cry again. But Torg did not. He stood and held his muscled arms aloft. “I believe the five of us have been brought together for a purpose,” he said in a loud voice, as if speaking to more than just his companions. “The fate of Triken lies in the hands of a few. I stand on the side of good and invite any and all to join me. What say you?”
“We are good friends,” Ugga said, as if that were all the answer Torg required.
Then they gathered in a circle.
“Good friends,” the crossbreed said again.
“Good friends!” they shouted in unison.
At that moment, an alliance was formed that would change the world.
3
In Torg’s perception, it had taken Ugga less than a day to form an adoration for little Elu. And if there were any lingering doubts about Ugga’s feelings, the roasted fowl and che-ra stew seemed to erase them forever. The crossbreed devoured the food with the urgency of an animal, and his contagious smile widened farther with every bite. The rest ate with similar passion.
Torg and Rathburt remained silent about whatever it was they had discussed in the hut, but it was evident to Torg that it had taken a toll on Rathburt—and the tale of the Badaalataa had made matters worse. The gardener, as Bard had begun to call Rathburt, looked even older and more haggard than when he had first arrived.
It was nearly dark when they finished their meal. A new storm was brewing. The wind increased its vehemence, prompting the pines to whisper urgently.
There still was no sign of Jord. If she were anywhere near, she was well hidden. But Torg believed she was far away.
“It’s time to go inside,” Torg said. “It’s going to be an ugly night. In the morning we’ll make our final plans. Rathburt suggests we wait out the worst of the winter at his longhouse, rather than venture to Kamupadana now. I agree. The longer I remain undiscovered, the better for all of us.”
Ugga was especially pleased. “Elu says there is lots of beer at the longhouse. I says we stay there all winter—maybe all spring, too.”
Rathburt laughed. “Ugga, you’re a charmer.”
“Thank ya, Master Rad-Burt.”
The storm struck not long after they had retired to the hut, sweeping through the forest like a giant broom. But the house of Jord was up to the challenge. Though winds ferocious enough to topple trees surged all around the small hut, its roof and walls held firm while the hearth fire burned merrily, as if unaware of what was transpiring outside. Torg slept side by side with the men, snoring and farting as only men can do, and caring not a whit.
By morning the storm had dissipated, and the sky was as blue as a Tugar’s eyes. But it seemed to take all of Ugga’s strength to push open the door. More than two cubits of snow had fallen, which would make the march to the longhouse even more difficult. Elu predicted it now would take from morning till dusk to complete the journey. But at least they wouldn’t starve. There still was enough roasted turkey left to last through the day, and Elu said there were grapes high in the trees that remained edible.
The stores at the longhouse had been stockpiled to sustain two men, not five. Once there they would have to hunt frequently, and fruits and vegetables would be in short supply, unless they could convince the nearby Svakaran villagers to part with some of theirs.
“That will be your job,” Rathburt said to Torg.
Besides their weapons they packed little gear, other than a litter that had been built to haul the impressive stack of skins collected and tanned by Bard, Ugga and Jord during the fall. Torg bore the Silver Sword, Ugga his axe, and Bard his spear and the bow and quiver of arrows abandoned by Jord. Rathburt carried no weapons except for his oaken staff. Elu had a pair of daggers. His spear still was buried in the trunk of the tree, and they left it there. Perhaps anyone who found it would take it as a sign that the hut was not to be disturbed.
“Other than our pretty faces, the skins are the only things we’ll have to trade in the markets of the Whore City,” Bard said.
“I have no desire to see Kamupadana,” Rathburt said, “but if you want to go, I certainly won’t try to stop you.”
“I likes the Brounettos,” Ugga said.
“Aaah . . . I see,” Rathburt said. “Beer and Brounettos. What an excellent combination. And what hair color do you favor, Torgon?”
Torg reached over and pinched Rathburt on his shoulder near the base of his neck. Rathburt yelped.
“Some jests are beneath even you,” Torg said, threateningly.
“Sorry . . . sorry,” Rathburt said. “Some people have no sense of humor.”
“I doesn’t understand,” Bard said. “Does Master Hah-nah not like Brounettos?”
“Drop it!” Torg said, and he grumpily lifted the arms of the litter and strode into the woods. The others shrugged and followed.
Soon they passed into a thick grove. Torg stopped and gazed eastward, the opposite direction of the longhouse. The others watched him, puzzled. Finally Ugga could stand it no more.
“What is it, Master Hah-nah? Do ya see something? I would dearly like to know.”
Torg emerged from his reverie. “Do you not hear their song?”
“Whose song?” Rathburt said.
“The giant pines. Jord’s pines. They sing to us.”
“I hears nothing,” Ugga said. “Do ya hear the pines, Bard?”
“I hears nothing but the crunching of our boots. But if the pines call to Master Hah-nah, I would not be surprised. Maybe it’s Jord saying goodbye. If so, I hopes it’s not forever.”
“Me too,” Ugga said.
“Elu has seen the pines,” the Svakaran said. “His tribesmen believe they’re possessed by powerful spirits that protect Bard and Ugga. If not for the pines, our warriors would have raided their hut and stolen their skins.”
“We’re not helpless to defend ourselves, nor is Jord,” Bard said.
“Elu has never seen Jord,” the Svakaran said. “Only Bard and Ugga, though Elu didn’t know your names until we were introduced. Our warriors call you Man and Bear.”
Torg raised an eyebrow.
“If ya know of us, ya would have to know of Jord,” Ugga said. “She’s with us lots of the time. She likes to pretend she’s a helpless woman, just to have fun. But when she’s angry, she scares even Ugga and Bard.”
Elu shrugged.
“Jord played that pretend game with me,” Torg said. “But she has revealed herself. And I will not be so easily fooled again.”
“All your strange talking is scaring me,” Ugga said. “Without Jord around, this place feels creepy, almost like we’re trespassing.”
But Rathburt wasn’t quite finished. “When we were in the hut, you mentioned these great trees, Torgon, but I was too weary to pay much attention. Now you’ve made me cu
rious. You know how much I adore trees. How far are they from here? Do we have time to see them?”
“We’ve dallied too long already, thanks to me,” Torg said. “We’re hardy men and can endure the cold, but I’d prefer to arrive at the longhouse before dark . . . if possible.”
“There are more reasons to arrive before dark than just the cold,” Elu said. “Beasts roam the wilds that are new to Elu’s land, nameless things that can shrivel the stoutest heart. They come from the south in search of prey and take the unwary back with them.”
“How do ya know all this, little guy?” Ugga said.
“Elu still has friends in the village. The Svakarans know these mountains and foothills better than anyone. Some stray as far as Lake Ti-ratana. When they return, they speak of the sorcerer’s slave hunters.”
“In that case, I’ll visit the trees another time,” Rathburt said. “I have no desire to be captured by the sorcerer, especially if he is as powerful as Torgon says he is.”
“I don’t know how powerful he is, but I do know I’m in no position to find out right now. Enough talk. Let us travel in silence for a spell. Elu, you lead the way.”
“Yes, great one,” the Svakaran said. “But Elu must warn you that parts of the trail will be treacherous, especially with this new snow hiding all the roots and fallen leaves.”
Then Elu strode through the trees. Because of the pines and hemlocks, the canopy was dense enough to hold back a portion of the previous night’s snowfall, and in some areas it was only about knee-deep to Elu, and barely above the ankles of the larger men.
The Svakaran expertly avoided the thicker pockets of snow. By noon they had traveled more than a league, seeing and hearing no humans or animals, not even a rabbit or woodpecker. When they stopped near a tumble of boulders for a rest and some bites of turkey, Elu scampered into the woods to search for grapes.