by T. A. White
The feeling under Shea’s skin surged, the angry buzzing turning into prickles just this side of pain, running along Shea’s spine and arms and down the backs of her legs.
She hissed.
This was impossible. It couldn’t be here.
She reigned her horse to a stop and slammed her eyes closed, ignoring Daere’s exclamation and Trenton’s questioning rumble. She listened, tuning out her companions as she strained to feel the world around her.
There. She was right.
Her eyes popped open, the fear in them silencing Daere’s question.
She touched her heels to the horse’s sides, sending it galloping for Eamon. Daere, Trenton and Wilhelm were right behind her.
“Rally your men,” Shea shouted as soon as she got within hearing distance of him.
He didn’t waste time asking questions, putting a small bullhorn to his lips and blowing on it in three short bursts.
Shea didn’t wait for the rest of his men to assemble, swinging one leg over her saddle and digging through one of her saddle bags. She pulled out a coil of rope.
“Get off your horses,” she ordered those that were close.
“What’s going on?” a man asked.
“You want to live and see your family ever again, get off your horses and listen to what I say.” Shea’s voice brooked no argument—her eyes flinty.
Daere obeyed without question. Shea handed her a length of the rope and then did the same with Trenton and Wilhelm. Others followed suit, creating a chain of people holding rope when Eamon made it clear that Shea wasn’t to be questioned.
The sense of urgency under Shea’s skin grew, lending her movements a frantic speed. It was almost here. She was running out of time.
“What do we do with the horses?” Buck asked.
“Put as many of them on a string as you can, but don’t lose sight of us. If you do, you’re gone.”
One of the men gave a small laugh as if he thought this was a joke or that Shea had finally cracked, showing signs of Lowland weakness after all.
Eamon and Buck didn’t laugh, and they didn’t act like this was a joke—their faces deadly serious as they gathered the closest horses and threaded their own rope through their reins.
White mist blew through the trees fifty yards in front of them, swarming across the ground in an unstoppable, unavoidable wall. Tentacles of it rolled in front of the main body, like they were horses pulling ahead of the herd.
“Leave the rest and get back on the line!” Shea shouted at Buck and Eamon.
Eamon yelled at Buck and another man, telling them to go as he tied off the line. Buck sprinted the short distance to Shea and the line of rope she’d made everybody grab. Eamon was seconds behind him, the mist looming behind, threatening to swallow him. The third man scrambled after.
“Hurry!” she screamed.
If the mist swallowed him, if he lost sight of them, his chances of finding them again were slim. Shea wasn’t sure she’d be able to save him.
He reached her just as the mist engulfed them, bathing the world in a thick white that covered everything, including the man who’d been only a step or two behind Eamon. Holding her hand in front of her face, Shea was barely able to see the outline of her fingers.
“Richard,” one of the men on the line called. No answer came. He was gone.
“Whatever you do, don’t let go of the rope,” Shea ordered.
“What is this?” Trenton asked, his voice seemed to echo from everywhere.
Shea could only see Daere, grasping the rope next to her. The rest of the men were just voices in the mist, the visibility almost zero.
“It’s the mist,” Shea said.
“So?” someone asked. “We have this in the Outlands. Never this thick but it won’t hurt you.”
“Not like this,” Shea said. “I doubt you have anything like this in the Outlands. As far as I know this is something that only affects the Highlands and the Badlands. It’s the first time I’ve seen it this far into the Lowlands.”
“Where’s Richard? Why isn’t he answering?” the man who’d called for his friend asked.
Shea was quiet for a moment. “He’s gone. If he’s lucky, he’ll find his way out.”
“What is it?” Eamon asked, the mist making it nearly impossible to pinpoint where his voice was coming from.
“It’s the bogeyman parents warn their children about. Be careful of mistfall, lest you never find your way home again. You get lost in this and chances are you won’t come out. You’ll wander lost and alone, searching for the way out—never to find it.”
Even without being able to see them, Shea could sense the unease among the rest of the group.
“How is the rope supposed to save us?” someone asked. “We would have been better off trying to run and avoid it.”
“You’d never have made it,” Shea said. “It moves too fast, or otherwise I’d have tried just that.”
She peered out at the foggy world, even knowing it would do little good. This was one of the thickest mists she’d ever encountered, not just turning the world odd and dreamy but wiping it completely clean.
“Can you get us out of here?” Eamon asked.
Shea was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”
Relief filtered through the air.
“That’s not our only problem, though.”
Eamon understood without her needing to elaborate.
“Fallon.”
“Yes.”
There was a low curse.
Daere shifted next to Shea, her movements stirring the mist. Shea ignored her, needing to focus on the task at hand.
Eamon had given Shea a copy of the map, knowing she’d want to monitor their progress for herself. Also, it was a good way to check the accuracy of the maps. Neither one thought it was likely the cartographers would give them inaccurate maps—not after the last time, but it paid to not trust blindly and verify whenever they could.
By Shea’s estimation, Fallon and his entourage wouldn’t be too far from them. The mist could very well have swallowed them, and unlike Shea’s group, they had no pathfinder trained to navigate its miasma.
No one spoke as Shea wrestled with deciding the best course of action. She knew she could lead them out. It might take a day or two, but it wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before.
“If you can navigate this, shouldn’t you be able to find Fallon and get him and his men out?” Buck asked.
That was the crux of the problem. Leading people out was one thing. Finding them in the mist was another. Shea knew of no pathfinder who had walked into the mist blind and been able to accurately find the lost to lead them out.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
Shea wasn’t sure who’d asked that.
“It means I don’t know if that’s even possible. No one I know of has attempted it. Once the mist takes you, that’s it. If you’re not anchored or with a pathfinder, you’re just gone.”
There was a long silence as they digested that.
Shea stared into the mist, angry and scared in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time. She wasn’t ready for this to be the end—for Fallon to disappear, not dead, but not alive either.
No, she wasn’t ready at all.
“I have a theory about the mist. It’s a risk though and could end with all of us dead.”
There was the sound of something hitting another thing.
“Ouch.”
“I knew she would have a plan. Didn’t I tell you?” Buck asked.
“Like I said. It’s a risk.”
“We’ll take it,” Buck returned. “I’m sure it’ll work.”
“I’m not,” someone muttered.
There was another thud and then a different person said, “Hey.”
“Sorry,” Buck apologized.
Shea was very much afraid that Buck’s faith was misplaced this time. She wasn’t lying when she said it was a risk, and the chances of success were
small. If she were still a pathfinder, still answering to the guild, she would never have been allowed to even consider this option. There were too many things that could go wrong, costing her not just Fallon’s life but the lives of everyone with her. It was a heavy burden to contemplate.
Her plan meant finding a large enough object, preferably living, to anchor this group to. Villages in the Highlands rarely went missing. The mist might pass them by but could do little to totally displace them, unlike those wandering the forest.
The soul trees might work. They were definitely big enough and were firmly rooted in this world. It was still a risk—something that had never been attempted before—but it wasn’t as great a risk as leaving them standing in place awaiting her return. She could end up losing all of them, Eamon, Fallon and all the rest.
She kind of wanted to kick her own ass for even considering a plan so asinine. Then she thought of what her life would be like without Fallon in it, and she was willing to risk the world itself for the chance to see him again. It was a selfish desire. Dangerous and at odds with a pathfinder’s duty.
“What’s your plan?” Eamon said.
Last chance. She could follow her training, lead her charges to safety.
What had playing it safe got her before? Betrayal, punishment and heartache. No, she was Trateri now and life was a calculated risk. She could do this. She would do this.
“The soul trees. In the myths, it’s said their roots and branches stretch between many worlds. I know they are rooted deeply in this world. If I can find one here in the mist, it should give you an anchor to our world. After you’re anchored, I’ll head out to find Fallon.”
“Thought you said it had never been done before.”
“It hasn’t, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Shea didn’t need to see Eamon’s face to know the concern that would be on it.
“Fallon wouldn’t want you to risk yourself on such a thin margin of success,” Daere said in a soft voice.
“He’s not here to stop me.” Shea’s voice was hard. “I decide what risks I take.”
The mist stirred, giving a brief glimpse of the hazy silhouette of the figures clinging to a thin rope that was all that anchored them to her.
“Do it,” Eamon said. “We’ve been in tough situations before. I have faith that you’ll find a way. The Hawkvale is worth the risk. We owe it to him to try.”
“My life for the Hawkvale,” Wilhelm said, his words making it clear he found the potential risk in this plan acceptable.
“If we make it out alive, it may very well be our lives when he finds out we let her do this,” Trenton said. He sighed. “Oh well, at least it means we’ll be alive to face his wrath.”
Shea took a deep breath and released it.
“What now?” Eamon asked.
“Everyone needs to be as quiet as possible,” Shea said.
“Understood.”
The others settled, only the faint sound of feet scuffing against the ground letting Shea know that she wasn’t alone. The rope tugged gently in her hand as someone shifted.
Shea’s breath rasped in her ears as she breathed deep and exhaled. She stared out at the whiteness, unseeing. Her eyesight worthless.
Humans have many senses beyond vision— hearing, touch, taste, smell. None of which were any more reliable here where the mist caused sound to echo, the warmth of the sun to be a faint memory, and the only smell that of damp earth and desperation. No, the normal senses would be all but useless, waiting to betray you at the soonest opportunity.
In the last test before an initiate was elevated to the rank of pathfinder, they were led deep into the wilds and abandoned in an area that was constantly ravaged by the mists. Their only hope was to find their way out on their own. Many lost their lives, some made it out but were mentally broken from their time spent in its grasp. Only those remaining gained the ability to navigate its treacherous heart.
The ability gained was hard to describe to the uninitiated. The closest Shea had ever come was likening it to a homing pigeon. There was some sense that enabled her to hone in on the direction that was home, whether that be the Highlands or the Lowlands. It was a tug in her heart that pulled her from the mist even when it was at its thickest and most dangerous.
She resisted that tug, trying instead to hone in on something closer. Something that could keep her friends safe until the mist relented.
She strained, sensing things in the mist that she hoped would continue to ignore the small existences of her and her friends. There were creatures here that made beasts look like tame puppies. She had no desire to run into them.
There. Her sense caught on something bright and warm. It felt big, an immense presence eclipsing the denizens of the mist by many factors. Her mind’s eye sensed that it wasn’t just of this world, its branches reached into many. Her curiosity sparked. If there had been time, she would have liked to study this effect. Perhaps explore those branches—see where they led.
“Follow,” Shea ordered, moving forward. Her footsteps were sure and confident as she headed toward what she hoped was a soul tree.
The others made no protest as she led them through the whiteout. There was the faint nicker of the horses as someone tugged on the lead. Their hoof beats echoed in the air, seeming to come from everywhere.
Time passed, slow and fast at the same time. That was the way of the mist though. It was hard to judge how long you spent wandering. It could be hours or days as they made their way to the tree, a shining beacon in this colorless world. Shea had to push down the sense of urgency growing in her chest. If Fallon was caught in this too, time would have that weird distortion to it as well. She sensed that if too much time passed, her opportunity to find him would close.
At last, the great tree loomed in front of Shea— a dark figure that rose high above them. Shea tugged on the rope, sliding it through her hands until Daere’s hands touched hers. Daere looked up at the tree with trepidation.
Shea caught her hands and placed them on the tree. “As long as one of you is touching this, you should be fine. Wait here until the mist dissipates or I come for you.”
“How do you know this will work?” Daere asked.
“I don’t. It’s the only hope I’ve got, but it’s better than nothing.” Shea didn’t mention she’d based this theory off two sentences of a tale that was so old that her people didn’t even know when or where it had originated from. It was a story Shea’s mom liked to tell her when she was younger—a cautionary tale about a man who’d been separated from his wife by the mist. Shea hoped their outcome was a little happier than that man’s.
Whispers echoed through the mist. Voices barely heard, their words indistinguishable.
“What is that?” Buck asked, his voice hushed.
“Ignore it,” Shea ordered.
Damn, it looked like something had found them after all. She’d hoped they wouldn’t have to deal with them.
“I think I recognize that voice,” a man she didn’t know said.
“You don’t. They’re shadows taken from memories. Whatever you hear, whatever you see, it’s not really there. They’re temptations meant to make you stray from safety. Don’t fall for it.”
“Will they attack us?” Eamon asked.
“They shouldn’t. The shades don’t have form. They attack by imitating the voices and faces of loved ones, usually those lost in tragedy. As long as you stay with the soul tree, you should be safe.”
She felt decidedly less confident now that she knew shades had found them. It made her hesitate, question what she planned to do.
Sensing she was waffling, Eamon said, “We’ll be fine, Shea. I’ll make sure we don’t leave the safety of the tree. You concentrate on saving Fallon. That’s your task, that’s what’s important.”
Shea took a deep breath and released it. That was what she loved about the Trateri. They didn’t take the easy path, even when death lurked on the harder road. They didn’t leave their peo
ple behind just because it was dangerous. They were stubborn, hardheaded and courted a death wish more often than not. She fit in perfectly.
“I should go with you,” Daere said.
“No, you’ll only slow me down. I need to be able to move fast and without distraction if I’m going to do this.”
What Shea didn’t say is she didn’t want the responsibility of another soul if this went wrong. She was as sure as she could be that they would be fine as long as they ignored the shades and kept in contact with the tree. Even with the shades present, what she was about to do was infinitely more dangerous.
“If it’s possible, I’ll bring him back.” It was a promise Shea intended to keep.
Shea could sense that Daere was torn, not wanting to let Shea take this chance but also not wanting to be the one responsible for Fallon’s death.
“Don’t fail,” she ordered.
Shea made a small sound of assent. She didn’t intend to.
“And come back safe,” Eamon added.
Shea took a deep breath. Her hand dropped, the rough texture of the rope sliding from her fingers. She took a step back and then another. A thick wave of mist blew between them, obscuring Eamon, Daere and the rest, muffling their voices until Shea was standing alone with only the sound of her own breathing to keep her company.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHEA MADE her way through a landscape unrecognizable from the one she’d set out in that morning. Even with the hazy white around her, she could tell this place was not the Forest of the Giants. It was a desolate place, filled with a deep quiet that swallowed Shea’s soft footsteps. Even if she screamed, that quiet would consume the sound, leaving not even the memory of it behind.
There was nothing holy or divine about this place. It was instead, oppressive and threatening with its inescapable never-ending sameness. If you got lost in this, you’d wander, never getting hungry or thirsty or tired. You’d just walk and walk. Forever. No purpose, no joy, no pain, no happiness, no sorrow. Just existence. Or so the stories said.