by Damien Lake
Crown-General Marik still believed it was his responsibility to plunge into the Rovasii in order to uncover whatever schemes the enemy forces were engaging in. Mage Marik wanted nothing whatsoever to do with that. The terrifying presence he had sensed should be kept well clear of. It would be suicidal madness to enter an arena where visibility was restricted while he still dared not drift the etheric too close to the stranger Xenos. Mercenary Marik had no business mixing in this entire affair in the first place, as Dietrik continually pointed out. A simple vote generated a two-to-one motion in favor of returning to Ilona and abandoning this foolishness.
Yet the crown-general overruled the other two on the argument that a professional put the job first and personal considerations second. Purging Galemar of the Arronaths took precedence over whatever tiny life Marik might piece together.
The backdrop to each argument rose before his eyes in deceptive innocence. Here stood the Rovasii, about which countless horror stories were regaled in the towns populating its fringes. He had been lucky to escape it once without running afoul of the forest’s otherworldly menace. It could be that the task of defeating the Arronaths had already been handled for them. Their mangled bodies might be discovered in the coming years by courageous hunters willing to risk the dangers. Did he truly mean to dare the forest’s interior a second time?
“Hey, why do you think they went in there?”
“If I could read minds, I would be making my fortunes elsewhere,” Dietrik replied.
“What I meant was, this is the second time they’ve approached the Rovasii.”
“I would hardly calling it an ‘approach’ when they bloody marched straight into it.”
“Right. But the battle led by the Arm attacked a large encampment right where we’re standing. Sloan called it a blitz. A hard drive south as fast as possible to disrupt the enemy’s structure. But this group came back.”
“And no simple patrol either,” Dietrik agreed. “Else they would do an about-face to return along the patrol path.”
“So what is happening? I can’t figure out what these Arronaths are thinking.”
“Perhaps they are after the haunts. Or whatever tommyknockers are lurking in the forest’s depths. They have enslaved the monstrous Taurs and their oversized dragonflies. I would guess they are looking to expand their special forces with new fairy creatures.”
Marik frowned. “Mmm. You could be right. I mean, what else is it about this place that would attract them?”
“I sincerely doubt it is the ambiance.”
“No more surprises,” Marik murmured. ‘We can’t afford them.” He squared his shoulders. “Let’s find out then, shall we?”
Dietrik followed Marik into the trees, offering one last comment to skies unblocked by interweaving branches. “Whatever sins I am guilty of in my previous lives, I have heartily come to regret them.”
Chapter 21
The Taurs bellowed. Marik and Dietrik scrambled through the underbrush.
“Was that us?” Marik panted the question while they navigated the wild growth.
“You’re asking me?” Dietrik hissed back.
Behind them, the bestial roaring subsided. The white-robes were forcing a calm over their animal-like minds.
They rounded a bramble patch and stopped, waiting to see if pursuit would follow. When none did they sighed in relief. The white-robes must have assumed the Taurs were restless or that a passing squirrel had upset them.
Marik could see Dietrik’s face had grown ashen. Dark stains still discolored his lips from the blackberries they had foraged earlier. His own face must be similar in appearance. Hearing the Taurs voicing their fury was one sound a man could never grow accustomed to. It still terrified them both.
The four days since entering the Rovasii had been unpleasant. Their rations had dwindled rapidly. They were forced to scavenge whatever sustenance they could from the forest. It sounded easy enough, except they were inferior woodsmen. Finding edible food while maintaining their trail left them constantly hungry.
For the first two days they had kept close to the Stoneseams. On the third the Arronaths had angled southeast, plunging into the forest’s heart. It left Marik exceedingly nervous. Every step brought them closer to the tavern tales.
This was the closest to the Arronaths they had dared draw. Marik’s attempt to sneak around the encampment to see what the humans might be doing had startled the Taurs. How the bull-creatures had detected them, he knew not. They must stay further away from them in the future.
“I am still at a loss for what this will accomplish,” Dietrik whispered harshly, forcing the brambles to relinquish their hold on his clothing. “Other than ensuring we never need worry about the directions our lives are taking again, after we have them taken from us.”
“Quiet down! We need to move over this way.”
“You can’t discern their intention from their bloody camp! You will never know what they are about until they reach wherever they are going to.”
“I don’t want to go any deeper into this forest than we are,” Marik husked back, hoping to somehow speak quietly and convey his conviction at the same time. “Torrance could be anywhere by now!”
“To the lowest hell with bloody Torrance!” Dietrik exclaimed in a sibilant hiss. “Mate, this is the maddest act I have seen you commit! And that is speaking volumes!”
“Shut up! Did you hear anything?”
They froze, listening to the surrounding environment. The Taurs to their rear had settled into their usual non-combatant routine, which was comparable to mountain sheep butting heads to establish dominance. Occasional growls drifted through the trees but they were far short of the hunting cries the beasts were capable of. In fact, they looked to be settling down to rest the deeper into night’s candlemarks they penetrated.
Men moved in their own camp, which was never set closer than five-hundred yards on previous nights. The soldiers maintained a safe distance from the Taurs at all times. Marik would have done the same no matter how many white-robes were present to maintain control.
“What are they about?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Marik muttered. “And I think you’re wrong. They aren’t going anywhere. Whatever they do each night is the reason they came to this forest. Let’s get closer.”
“Mate, this—gods damn it all, mate!” Dietrik slunk after Marik, cursing the entire way.
“There, see that?”
Marik pointed to a forest rise. For no readily apparent reason, the ground rose sharply, creating a steep hillock under a dense forest covering. Trees, unidentified brush and vines grew in a uniform tangle across it. Dietrik squinted, searching for details in the flickering torchlight emanating from the Arronath’s picket line. The forest beyond the torches always remained dark as late evening during the day, becoming nearly unnavigable in the oil drop of the nighttime wildwoods.
The Arronaths had yet to post a single guard on their picket. They staked a torch line alone, providing the illumination they required for whatever actions they performed. Both mercenaries had listened to the wordless sounds, mystified by noises they were unable to identify.
“In the dark?”
“What else,” Marik retorted at Dietrik’s incredulous tone. “Want to light a torch and wave a hello? We’ll see into their camp from up there.”
“A pox on that! We’ll end up ripping away half our flesh. Why don’t you do your ‘looking-down-from-above’ trick?”
“Can’t. Too risky.”
With Marik poking him hard in the back, Dietrik crawled up the hillock. It took them a quarter-mark before they reached a decent vantage point. They moved cautiously, hoping to avoid making any revealing noises, feeling their way through the natural vegetative cages as much as seeing them.
The Arronaths had put their backs to the hillock. Dense growth surrounded them on the other three sides, so thick they looked imprisoned by the malevolent Rovasii. Scattered trees grew up through the camp. I
t was a thin spot within the forest rather than a true clearing.
Seventy feet above them, Marik and Dietrik gazed down into their midst. As camps went it was little different from any that Marik had called home since beginning his mercenary career. It was composed of necessary elements. Horses tethered in a line, a long rope staked into immobility along the ground to which the reins were secured. A central cook pot for a group small enough to get by with only one, around which sleep rolls were arranged. After rest call, men of highest rank would claim those closest to the fire.
The oddity that immediately drew their attention lay on the fire’s far side. Soldiers were adjusting a log they only then finished hauling from the forest. Thick green moss covered the top in a rich carpet. Marik could see no reason for it. It was large. Ten men had to wrestle it into a position beside the fire. To what purpose? He half expected to see them roll it over into the flames, though starting a blaze that massive could easily set the surrounding trees to burning.
Once they had it in place, the soldiers retreated to the space between the fire and the hillock. Dietrik tensed. When the Arronaths formed ranks facing the log, he relaxed. Marik released a breath he had no memory of holding. His fingers were curled around his sword hilt in anticipation of the enemy swarming up the steep slope.
When a man appeared from the darkness beyond the horses, Marik felt less apprehensive. Clearly this was a leader. He must intend to stand on the log in order to address them, following whichever alien customs the Arronaths held to. His bearing would have been sufficient to give away his stature, but his clothing set him further apart. Robes of rich brown rather than armor. Marik might have taken this man for Xenos except he could feel no sense of the terrible presence that he had while laying prone on the rain-soaked ground.
Following the leader came two soldiers hauling a chained man between them. Dietrik elbowed him in the ribs. With Marik’s attention, he pointed beyond the horses. For the first time Marik noticed four women and a second man chained together in an unsettling parody of the mounts. Where had they come from?
At the leader’s direction, the two soldiers bound the wailing man to the log, face up, his arms stretched far above his head. Knives appeared. With ruthless precision the man’s clothing was reduced to torn shreds burning merrily in the flames.
The leader spoke. Marik strained to hear better, to restructure the tantalizing mumbles into coherent speech. A terror sparked within the bound man. He began shrieking into the forest. They were calls to Sheirleon for deliverance from evil. That his cries were intelligible meant the man on the log must be Galemaran. A soldier the Arronath patrols had captured, or a hapless villager who had survived the devastation wrought by the Taurs.
Suspicions grew within Marik the longer he watched. A black knife emerged from within the leader’s robe. Soft as a lover, the leader caressed the bare chest. He knelt beside the screaming man and lowered his face closer. The knife moved down the torso with grace, seemingly without touching the skin.
Yet in its wake ran a thin, red line that had not been there before.
The screams intensified. Marik felt sick, watching with his magesight as the Galemaran’s aura burned feverishly bright. Absolute terror and physical injury were causing his body to manufacture life energy at an accelerated rate. Worst of all, that which churned Marik’s stomach most, were the vapory trails leading from his aura into the leader’s own. Without question, the leader was harvesting the man’s energy, adding it to his own power.
Could this be any man other than Xenos? The dark harvester his father had spoken of, had hinted was making his way in Galemar’s direction? The crippling terror that had earlier struck at his passing was absent. How could that be?
The knife rose to cut across the living medium of flesh, carving a cross whose arms sliced through the vulnerable nipples. For a brief instant, Marik saw the victim’s aura surge…and then the same cold paralysis from before struck him anew. It passed a moment later as the renewed scream split the night.
What did it mean? Had Xenos come to the Rovasii to kill prisoners? Did the forest somehow amplify the power he would gain? Perhaps whatever evil spirits resided here were sympathetic to his cause, and could increase the effectiveness of the blood rituals. Or did he hope to lure a dark sentience beyond imagining out from hiding by using this bloody work as bait?
Xenos made a gesture with one hand that Marik missed because the angle was bad. He moved three steps closer to the slope to gain a better view. This would bring him to the last tree growing along the hillock’s heights.
The instant he reached the tree, a piercing sound rent the night. It drowned the Galemaran’s screams, reducing him to a voiceless mouth open wide in tortured pain.
A pure, crystalline tone battered him with force enough that his body quivered. His blood froze at the sudden attack. The sound assaulted his body like a fierce wind.
Dietrik’s hand yanked him backward. His mouth moved soundlessly. Only the shrieking tone filled their ears. When Dietrik pushed Marik hard, Marik finally regained control. He and Dietrik leapt away from the light and plunged into the Rovasii.
On the opposite side of the hillock, Dietrik’s foot caught a root. He sailed headlong into a tree. Marik’s clumsy hands helped him back to his feet. Dietrik’s face bore numerous scrapes and enough blood flowed from his nose he feared it might be broken.
They leaned on each other while they fought the forest. It refused them passage with ominous deliberation. In the faint torchlight the branches looked like they were reaching for them, intent on holding them back. Marik felt the thudding in his chest quicken with every half-glimpsed movement, with every hint of gnarled fingers stretching out from corded tree limbs.
The strident tone abruptly cut off while they leapt a particularly spooky cluster of entwined roots.
“Gods above,” Dietrik panted. “What was that?”
“I don’t know. Some sort of warning. An alarm to catch intruders.”
“Well it bloody well worked! Why didn’t it go off sooner? We were there for several minutes!”
Marik spat out a mouthful of sappy leaves.
They could hear the Arronaths shouting from the camp. Predictably, they sounded confused and furious. It took only moments before the noises changed to ones of pursuit, to branches snapping or the leaf-covered ground pounding under numerous feet. The distant glow changed when men snatched up the torches to carry them into the trees.
“Dietrik, hold onto me! Don’t let go no matter what!”
Marik switched to magesight. As long as he stayed inside his physical shell, Xenos could not harm him. Or catch him. Or do whatever it might be that Marik feared the man would do. If the bastard even could in the first place. He clenched his teeth in frustration, wishing for answers that lay beyond his knowledge.
The thick, almost jungle-growth fought him as stubbornly as it had since the beginning. Plant life glowed the vibrant green it always did, far brighter than anywhere else he had ever seen it. Energy saturated the Rovasii growth. These were, perhaps, the healthiest, strongest plants in all Galemar. Many a farmer would sacrifice an arm to know how to achieve such miraculous results.
Under his magesight they glowed blindingly bright until they merged together in more than aura. The lines defining their physical forms were blurred. It became difficult to distinguish where one tree ended and the next began. Was that blur a sourberry bush in front of the broad oak tree, or flush up against it? He ran into obstacles as often as avoiding them.
The Arronaths gained. They had the advantage of their torches. Also, they could hear Marik and Dietrik crashing through the darkness ahead. Marik waited for the whine of arrowsong. He could not remember seeing any standard Arronathian soldiers carrying a bow. Thankfully, this lot must be continuing in that vein.
Marik ran into a tree…and his foot vanished into empty space. He held the branches in startled terror. His foot stabbed wildly about, finally finding ground behind him. Dietrik pulled him back.
“Mate, that’s the backside! It is a forest cliff. We must go along the edge!”
“Right! Stay with me!” He ran along a new track, following a southerly heading.
“Marik! Look out!”
The cry made Marik grip his sword tightly. He darted his gaze everywhere, searching for a threat while he continued to run. But the way was clear. They could escape if they kept—
Pain exploded through Marik’s skull. The otherworldly colors his magesight revealed swirled in whirlpool spirals. Bright points of light burst across his vision, then they were alone against the darkness. His magesight had collapsed. All that was left were the growing fireflies swarming toward him.
The bright lights…and a lone figure. A man standing where Marik had been running. Must have been…right in front of him the whole time. A man…dressed in…robes…
* * * * *
When Marik regained consciousness, his inner voice suggested he dive back into the darkness of mental suppression. His and Dietrik’s hands were bound behind them with leather straps taken from the horses’ riding gear. The soldiers had carried them to their camp. Both mercenaries sat splaylegged on the ground, their backs against the log. Marik could feel the moss cool against his neck.
On the log, the bound Galemaran man’s head lolled woozily. Marik could not see how badly injured the man was from where he sat on the ground.
The robed leader walked into view around the log. When he saw Marik awake, he smiled genially. He moved to stand between Marik and Dietrik’s feet.
“For a moment, you two startled me. Yet I have ascertained that you are alone. No righteous force led by a dead Arm of Galemar will be forthcoming this night to disrupt my plans.”
Neither mercenary replied.
“I would take you for hunters, except you lack the accoutrements. Neither bow nor traps do you carry, so what purpose brings you across my path in this dark forest? No answer? Keep your silence as you please, then. I will have my answers nonetheless.”