by Justin Wayne
***
Horsey went up the slope of the pass slowly on the uneven ground. Rocks skidded beneath its hooves and tumbled down the climb. Though it wasn’t steep, Outsider made no move to press their pace. He could sense the horse’s uneasiness and didn’t want to stress it and cause it to panic, bolt, or just break an ankle. He patted its neck gingerly and whispered to it reassuringly.
He leaned forward in the saddle to assist its balance by keeping himself aligned and low, and rested his head on the soft, wiry, mane. He watched the trees pass by as they ascended, their trunks growing thicker and their branches taller. They seemed to swell before his very eyes so sudden was the change. Even the air had become different.
It was definitely colder, more chilled and smelled fresh, as if the air here had never been breathed before. The heavy aroma of pine and earthy dirt filled his nostrils and brought a pleasant lull to his mind and body. Sitting there in the saddle among the quiet mountains he realized how busy he had been constantly without reprieve.
He closed his eyes and let the slight rise and fall of Horsey’s gait set him adrift into the trancelike dreams he called sleep. The saddle beneath him fell away and he became weightless, floating up and up through the mountains to soar with the clouds.
Birds flew past with their brilliantly colored wings in a rainbow of alluring hues, illuminated in the scintillating rays of light that occasionally shone between clouds. He watched them go and stroked one lightly with the flat of his hand, then marveled at its smooth texture like a thousand strands of silk combined onto a single seam for every feather.
Then the sun emerged and stung his eyes like fire. The searing pain shot through his corneas and he swatted away the needles he was sure were stabbing him. Blinded and disoriented, he plummeted from his flight into a freefall. The cold air whipped past him with a shrill whistle that continued to grow and grow more intense.
Unable to see, he could only fear when the ground would rise up and he would be no more; splattering across it. So he listened intently as he tried to repair his devastated vision. The high pitched keen of his drop was at a climax now, so powerful it hurt his ears to the point they felt ready to burst. He realized it wasn’t his falling making that noise but actually someone screaming. A woman screaming out for him.
For him?
To him.
His true name. The name he couldn’t remember and now was washed out by the whirling patterns of the northern gales that assaulted him on his way down. How high had he been?
He covered his ears against the noise to hear her voice.
His mother’s voice.
To learn his true name.
But the clamor exploded then into a cacophony of screaming and he heard now another voice paralleling it.
His father’s.
Both called out to him with words he couldn’t discern.
He struggled against the weights upon his eyelids, made all the more difficult by the stinging burn, but finally managed to open his eyes just in time to see he had fallen past the surface and into the darkness below.
Into the Shadowverse.
A thousand pair of dark eyes stared up at him just before he hit.
He jolted awake and to his relief opened his eyes. He was still atop Horsey, still making their way through the Pilgrimage Pass, and still alive. He startled himself to find Darkbane already in hand, blade illuminated like the purest ice.
Its light stung at his eyes in the darkness and reminded him of the overzealous sun in his dreams, so he sheathed it beneath his arm and made sure the folds of his cloak were tucked over it. He shook his head at the comparison and his illogical reaction.
It was then he realized how far he had come and that the twisted tree marking the small clearing he had found years prior would be coming up soon. He sat up straight in the saddle and stretched his arms with a groan. The hours sleeping upon a horse hadn’t been the most comfortable.
But not the most uncomfortable either, he reflected.
He took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air and sought out the tree. All about the dirt path they now rode on were trees of all shapes and sizes; more species than even he, as a hunter, knew. He watched the conglomerate of foliage in its shades of green, red, orange, yellow, and everything in between as winter held on tight to the climate. Snow fell this high in small flurries that swirled on the wind and deposited on the ground in patches around the trees and upon their intertwining branches.
He at last spotted the twisted tree as he came around a bend in the path. It was a tall black oak, its entire length spiraled into a helix that leaned far to the right, sheltering the little inlet behind it as well as hiding it from view. He had long ago checked the security of the tree to assure it wouldn’t become uprooted then collapse and found it was secure in its structure as well as very much alive. Even now he noticed several white buds that had yet to wilt and fall away on the breeze.
He descended from Horsey and stretched out his long legs with an audible pop. Sighing, he led the horse around the tree and into the clearing he had named the Hidden Grove.
It was a small area, no more than twenty feet across in roughly a circular perimeter. Trees surrounded it on all sides aside from two exits where the trees were wide enough to pass through with a steed, but too low if you tried to ride in. The grass was short and never seemed to grow due to the near-constant shade it was bathed in year round.
Thom was sitting there near the center, Merlon lying beside him still asleep. Jiff neighed in welcome and tugged at his reins that were strapped to a tree. Outsider patted the gelding then and placed Horsey beside him.
“What happened?” Thom asked as Outsider approached and crouched over the unconscious dwarf. “How did the battle end?”
The elf shrugged. “A group of Warriors appeared and decimated the orcs. Even the one with the skull; though I doubt it is truly dead.”
The hobbit stared incredulously at him. “Warriors? From where?”
“I think I recognized your friend from the tavern.”
“Fantastic.” the hobbit replied sarcastically. “Why don’t you just give them the dagger?” he said, his voice going up an octave. “Then they’ll have no reason to come after us.”
But Outsider was already shaking his head. “You stole from them. Not to mention it’s a legendary weapon worth a fortune. Warriors are a traditional people with generations of culture to call upon. And thievery to them is punishable by death. They would just accept the blade then stab you with it.”
Thom stared down at the ground and his troubled face showed his inner turmoil. Outsider looked down upon him and knew with morale so low they wouldn’t last long.
“However I don’t think they would follow us far from their town. It would be too much of a risk that they would lose their hold to the dwarves there.”
That seemed to cheer up the thief a little. But his mood soon faltered as he looked upon Merlon. The dwarf’s face remained a pale gray that seemed less of a color somehow, like the hues had simply vanished from his flesh, and deep bruising around his eyes shone a dull purple. His lips were chapped and resembled paper torn in several places.
Outsider inspected the wound and found the bandages to have held, but they would need changing soon. He cursed under his breath as he realized they were out of such medical supplies.
He stood up straight suddenly, eyes wide.
“What are you—“Thom began but the bounty hunter walked off without a word. The hobbit watched him as he leapt up a tree, and using only his arms, disappeared into its thick leafy boughs. A few moments later he dropped lightly upon the balls of his feet with a bag in hand.
He pulled the drawstring loose and reached inside, removing a length of aged bandage, a vial of ointment he had made from aloe leaves, rope, and a bundle of rations he wouldn’t eat unless absolutely necessary.
“Where’d you get that?” The hobbit blurted unable to hide his curiosity. He feared he would be reprimanded for asking so many questions
but the bounty hunter didn’t seem bothered and shrugged as he began unwrapping Merlon’s wound.
“I stashed it there years ago while hiding from a patrol. Guess I knew I’d need it eventually.” He bit his lip as he peeled off the final layer. Coagulated blood stuck to it and even tugging it free as gingerly as he could caused fresh blood to ooze from the puncture. He opened the vial, sniffed it to ensure its quality, and poured the thick salve onto the wound before wrapping it up tight.
“What was that stuff you put on him? It smelled sort of minty.”
“A paste of aloe leaves to ease pain and lower inflammation. It’ll help keep the wound from infection.” Outsider informed him. He eyed his handiwork a moment then decided it would suffice.
He wiped the blood from his hands on the grass then in a patch of snow until they were clean then wrapped his thickest blanket around Merlon. The dwarf’s face seemed calmer now and perhaps he was minutely aware of the lessening of the sting. Thom stared at the dwarf a second longer then acknowledged it was all they could do for him.
“You think he’s gonna make it?” he asked as monotone as he could to mask the eager hope in his voice.
They were silent a long while as Outsider considered the possibilities and their current situation. He knew the dwarf was a tough one, surely made from the rock he loved, and they had gotten to him quickly.
But he was getting on in years and they lacked the thorough knowledge on dealing with such grievous wounds he believed would be instrumental in saving him. Yet he couldn’t deny the tiny fragment of optimism, a dangerous thing he usually avoided, present in his consciousness.
“Perhaps.” he answered at last, deigning not to go on as Thom had expected of him. He leaned back against Jiff’s side, who was lying beside him, and rested not his body this time but his mind; the horse’s powerful heartbeat steadying him into a rhythm his mind followed to ease through ideas and options thoroughly without rushing to meet imaginary time constraints.