Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “What were those? Trolls?”

  “Lesser Trolls,” replied the Head Witch, drawing her cloak about her gaunt frame with an audible snap. “Little ones. I shall scout to the south if you would take the eastern flank, good Dryad. We should be certain that they have no cousins nearby.”

  “Cousins?”

  “A handy euphemism for the typical tribal structure,” explained Amadorn, taking Kevin by the sleeve. “We’ll scout the western flank, good outlander. Trollish mating pairs are most often close relatives. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  He would far rather have stayed put!

  The Witch flushed out a couple more Trolls who had circled behind them, and disposed of them with a flash of green light and a muted bang. Kevin whirled to see two statues slowly crumbling to dust. He gulped and returned his attention to their surrounds–but despite his nervousness, there were no signs of danger to the west.

  “We’ll encounter larger Trolls deeper in the mountains, good outlander,” Amadorn continued as they returned after a short turn of the glass. “These are small fry, and more likely to attack directly. The Greater Trolls are larger and more cunning. We may be able to negotiate with them, especially when we seek passage through the Pass of Old Bones.”

  “The Pass of Old Bones?”

  “An ancient narrative of the Druids recounts how Amberthurn’s sire sought to breed giant Trolls from the mountain tribes by crossing them with Yamka Klan, creatures of the nether realms far beneath the lighttime skies. The Pass of Old Bones is said to house the remnants of his experiments.”

  “So what’s the difference between these Trolls here in the mountains,” Kevin asked, “and the Trolls who were exiled far beneath the Forest floor?”

  “They’re as different as lighttime and darktime,” said the Druid. “Once, in times before memory, all Trolls were one people and kindred, dwelling in the Old Forest not far to the northeast of the Sacred Well. They were a civilised people, fond of delving great cities beneath the earth and creating beautiful gardens above for walking and pleasure. They were enlightened, contributing to the wellbeing of Driadorn and taking part in the Councils of its creatures.”

  “They also had a love of beautiful things–as indeed do all Trolls–and loved nothing more than the gemstones and metals that they mined far beneath even the deepest holes and storehouses of their great subterranean cities. As the legend cautions, there are things buried beneath Driadorn that were meant to remain buried for all time and eternity. It was Elliadora who cast down the six Banes, those called the Captains of Darkness–maleficent creatures of power you and I could hardly imagine–and bound them in inescapable stone chambers lest they return to corrupt and destroy the creatures of her seed. She intended for Driadorn to be a place of light and loveliness, untouched by the evil influences rife upon Feynard in those lighttimes. Some say, you see good Kevin, that before the first seeds of Driadorn were planted, that which became our land had been designated a stamping-ground for the Gods, a place where they raised abominations and waged wars. Suffice it to say that the Trolls, in their greed and yearning, burrowed down into the hottest, darkest bowels of Driadorn in search of baubles with which to trade and extend their already magnificent wealth and splendour.”

  “And got their comeuppance?”

  Amadorn gave Kevin a strange, searching look. “I cannot say of any creature, good outlander, save perhaps Ozark the Dark and his yapping Apprentice, that they deserved the fate which came upon the Trolls like the prick of an assassin’s knife wreathed in a subtle, poisonous doom. To this lighttime, no man or creature of Driadorn knows what exactly the Trolls uncovered. First they were ravaged by plague after plague. In their madness they fell upon each other with sword and club and slaughtered their own kin. Second, there rose up amongst them a spiritual leader called Alkarn the Wise, who seized power in a welter of bloodletting such as made even the Trolls blanch in horror. He united the tribes and introduced them to their new God–Yamka.”

  The Human frowned as he squinted at the sunset. “This is getting confusing, Amadorn. Is this the same Yamka who you just mentioned was being bred by–”

  In the coppery light, the Druid’s face was all crags and deeply scored lines. “I told the tale slightly backwards, starting with the Pass of Old Bones,” he grinned. “Yamka was the god-leader of the Klan–a race of netherworld creatures who served Amberthurn’s sire with absolute and fanatic devotion. The Yamka, his people, enslaved the hapless Trolls and carried them off in bondage down into the roots of the world which were their home.”

  “So all the Trolls were enslaved by these Yamka?”

  “Nearly all.” Amadorn nodded at Alliathiune, who as they returned to the camp, was idly listening in. “There were some few who were ambassadors to other lands and peoples, and others were merchants, freebooters and adventurers. Is that not so, good Dryad?”

  “Indeed,” she replied.

  The Druid nodded. “The Dryad histories chronicle a significant relationship between our peoples, which was sundered by the rise of the Yamka–whom many suspect were responsible for unleashing the plagues that crippled the Trolls before the takeover of power. Nevertheless, the Trolls retreated underground, pulling down the fabric of their great cities behind them. Everything was destroyed. That should have been the end of the story, for they disappeared for hundreds and then thousands of seasons. Meanwhile, ugly rumours circulated about their brethren who were left above the surface. Eventually the Forest creatures banded together and cast them out of Driadorn, towards the mountains, where some fell under the rule of the Dragons and others became the ancestors of these that assail us now.”

  “They seem weak. Almost pitiful.”

  Alliathiune snorted scornfully. “Put a hundred together, good outlander, and you’d be corrected at the sharp end of a sword. Trolls are fierce and hardy creatures, and have been the cause of great trouble in times past. Need I remind you of the uprising of the Trolls under Omäirg? Or have you so little regard for our history–”

  “I forgot,” Kevin muttered, turning scarlet at her tone.

  Oh, brave, Jenkins! Just the attitude, he berated himself.

  “It is said,” Amadorn interjected, quieting an awkward moment, “that those Trolls once enslaved by the Yamka thrived in hole and cavern, carrying out the will of their dread masters until they became numerous enough to rise and slay them all. Then Omäirg approached them, promising lordship of the Seventy-Seven Hills if they should ally themselves to his cause. It was a terrible, dark alliance–for the Trolls had become twisted and strong under the sadistic mastery of the Yamka, and learned from them a thirst for blood and a love of battle, and songs of earth magic to release inhibitions and steel themselves for death, and how to make sacrifices to their dark gods.”

  Alliathiune shuddered like a sapling caught in a storm. “Ugh! You mean, to perfect the arts of torture upon innocent creatures of the Forest.”

  “Pain is cleansing for the soul,” said the Witch. “Flagellation of the flesh, starvation, and other forms of self-denial open the paths to the higher planes of existence.”

  “That’s masochism in disguise.”

  Kevin only realised he had spoken aloud when two high spots of colour appeared on the Witch’s cheeks and her hands shot out to grasp his collar. “Impudent whelp!” she shrieked, shaking him like a rat. “How dare you disparage the sacred ways of the Witches! These are sublime matters beyond the reach of Human understanding! You spit upon secrets!”

  The Witch was strong–tall and strong enough to dangle him in the air like an infant. But Kevin suddenly found himself slipping through her grasp, as though his clothes had taken the consistency of a bar of soap. He fell, and sprawled awkwardly. A sharp pain shot through his ankle, but it was nothing compared to the spectre of the furious Witch looming over him as Father so often had, ready to strike with her gnarled fists.

  “Enough!” snapped Zephyr, pushing between them. “Save your fury for the Trolls!”


  Drawing back, the Witch directed a derisive laugh at Kevin, who found that he had somehow drawn behind the tiny Dryad for safety. “Hide behind noble Alliathiune’s skirts if you will, outlander! But stay out of my way!”

  And she strode off into the gathering gloom.

  Chapter 17: The Dark Creature Strikes

  “Can we stop now, please?”

  Despite the strapping on his ankle and a healing draught concocted by Alliathiune–why did everything ‘good for you’ taste so blasted medicinal–Kevin’s bad ankle swelled into a pretty melon. It throbbed with every step. Stupid ruddy Witch and her stupid temper, he thought mutinously, but kept his eyes fixed to the fore. Nobody showed an iota of sympathy for his suffering. They had been marching since before dawn, when the great Eagle had swooped down to warn of the dark creature’s approach. Not that the indefatigable Mancat ever slept! The sharp prick of her claw had comprised his introduction to wakefulness, which put her barely ahead of the Witch in his contemptuous assessment of the hierarchy of friends he had in the group.

  “Is anyone listening to me?”

  His plaintive complaint was swallowed by the bleak stone walls to either side, which also had the curious effect of not echoing. He would have guessed these Black-Rock Mountains were granite massifs at first, but now he mistrusted his instincts. The Human mopped his perspiring face. Every step of the last three turns had been uphill. The heavy pack containing his bedroll, food, and the solid tome of wizardry he had cursed repeatedly all lighttime, was chafing his left shoulder raw. The tumblethorn either side of the trail was spitefully scratchy. He could die for a sip of water.

  Just then, Kevin’s dragging feet turned on a stone and he pitched sideways amongst the hot rocks.

  “Oh for goodness sake!” He pushed himself back, ruing a skinned palm.

  “Watch out!”

  An arrow hissed past his head. Kevin whirled. There was a large snake sunning itself not two feet from where he had fallen. Akê-Akê’s arrow pinned the snake neatly through the throat.

  Then he saw two bloody puncture-marks on the back of his hand. He had not even felt the strike. Kevin shrieked and fainted dead away.

  * * * *

  When he came to, Kevin found himself slung like a sack of meal across the Unicorn’s back. Some considerable time must have passed since the snakebite, because his hand had been dressed with something that stung like the dickens. There was also a lump the size of an egg on his forehead, just where his carroty curls spilled onto his brow. He touched it gingerly.

  “You’ll live.”

  Akê-Akê trotted along just behind, arrow nocked to the bowstring as always. The Faun looked rather more cheerful than Kevin could stand at that point.

  “I was bitten by a snake, as you’ll recall!” he said coldly.

  “A harmless eater of rodents,” replied the Faun, who had the allegedly harmless reptile slung over his shoulder. “You’ll thank me for the meal this will make this darktime, should we ever draw further ahead of that strange creature. A tastier meat than mole snake I have never–”

  “No doubt our speed will improve now that I’m being carried!”

  “Indeed.”

  “You’re not supposed to agree!”

  “I’m surprised you kept going so long on that ankle.”

  “Er … really?”

  Zephyr threw over his shoulder, “You should have spoken up earlier, good Kevin, rather than suffer so fearfully.”

  “No one was listening.”

  “People rarely do when you whine and complain all lighttime.”

  “Sheesh, Zephyr! Give a fellow a chance. Once again one of Driadorn’s delightful menagerie of deadly creatures has chosen to sup upon my flesh, and the depth of your sympathy would hardly make a puddle in a thimble!”

  The Unicorn chuckled. “Now, there’s a better attitude. You should have put your hoof down more firmly on the matter.”

  “I don’t have hooves. I don’t want hooves, thank you very much!”

  “What’s wrong with hooves?” inquired the Faun. “What do you say, good Zephyr? Would you rather wear strips of cured animal hide tied to the ends of your spindly legs?”

  “By the Well, no!”

  “Besides, you’re just in a tetchy mood.”

  “I am not being tetchy!”

  Akê-Akê patted Kevin on the rump. “One small bite of my mole snake steak this darktime, good outlander, and you’ll be singing my praises like a green forest parakeet. Have a sip of water.”

  “How am I supposed to drink in this position?”

  “Go without, then.”

  “No, hold on.”

  “Changed your mind?”

  “I see sympathy is hardly your strong suit either!”

  “But it is Alliathiune’s,” the Faun added, wickedly. “She was quite concerned when you were bitten. Ready to suck the poison out of your hand and all.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Akê-Akê! I feel ill. And she hates me.”

  Akê-Akê’s fantastically thick eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Does she now?”

  “I don’t appreciate you making a joke of it–not one jot. I look foolish enough as it is. How is our progress? Surely we are leagues ahead of that blasted dark creature? I don’t understand why we are running away when we don’t even know if it’s dangerous or not.”

  “It is keeping pace, according to Glimmering of Dawn. And I think you should take yourself slightly less seriously, good outlander.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Can we drop the helpful advice? Please? Straight answers will suffice.”

  “Just doing my part.”

  But the Faun had given his thoughts momentum, which had been lacking since their departure from the Well.

  They were fairly racing along the narrow defile as they made a beeline for the Pass of Old Bones, which would take them much higher into the mountains, to within spitting distance of Amberthurn’s lair. Kevin was not looking forward to meeting a Dragon–not that he believed in Dragons. He considered himself an unreformed sceptic on the subject of magical and mythical creatures. Better to be prepared, though, for whatever new surprises Feynard might have in store for him. He wondered if the strange creature and the Men of Ramoth behind were worse than the Trolls they expected ahead. Zephyr, never the betting type, had declared he would stake his life on the pass being fortified and heavily patrolled by tribes allied to the Dragon-Magus. Gaining ingress would prove tricky.

  But now another of his companions told him the Dryad did not hate him. She had been–well, not pleasant, but not unpleasant either–for the past couple of lighttimes, upon reflection. The Dryad had splinted his ankle and dressed the snakebite that morning, services she would have performed for anyone, but had not done it as ungraciously as Kevin felt he deserved. The Faun must be wrong. Alliathiune was just being polite, wasn’t she?

  They kept personifying this benighted Forest as though it were alive, and truly mindful of the creatures living within its borders. It was clearly doing peculiar things to his mind. Some ambient influence had compromised his self-control. ‘In all your life, Kevin Albert Jenkins,’ he whispered to himself, ‘you have never surrendered so meekly to that which would harm your integrity.’ By this, he meant those private parts of his being that he considered sacrosanct and impenetrable. Things Father and Brian had never been able to touch. An ability to maintain his objectivity. The power of thought before action. To conquer by knowledge and deduction those things that he did not understand. To not have Mylliandawn drag his private fears out for all to laugh at. ‘You’re terrified, you little weakling. And the truth–the wretched truth, Jenkins–is that you’re most afraid of yourself. What will you do next? What damage have you already wrought?’

  What had become of his conviction that Driadorn was yet a dream? That he might wake back at Pitterdown Manor where Father–? No. He must not think about Father. Kevin groaned softly as that old ache in his stomach reasserted itself. No, he would not capitulate! T
hings had been so good recently …

  Zephyr rounded a bend, and drew to a skidding halt.

  “Sweet grass of my home,” he whispered softly, taking in the scene. Lurk, Mancat, Witch, Dryad, and Faun, all skidded to a confused halt too.

  The pass was not just fortified–it was a fortress. A hick curtain wall of dark grey stone spanned the width of the pass. Ahead stood a gate Kevin estimated was twenty feet tall if it was an inch, nestled between two towers that made his neck creak just to take in their height and breadth. At some distance beyond the trail ascended a ridge until it climbed out of sight, but the immediate problem lay right before them. For the gate was shut tight, and the battlements were lined with quite the grimmest-looking assortment of Trolls imaginable. It fairly bristled with an array of weaponry and siege implements, every last one of which was trained upon the intruders.

  A squad of some three or four dozen Trolls emerged from the shadows beneath the towers and moved purposefully toward them. These creatures made their kin who had attacked the previous evening look like children. They were tall, broad, and armoured to the eyeballs. The heavy tramp of their boots made the ground tremble and the dust quiver around Kevin’s boots. His knees danced a tattoo all of their own. Their skulls had to be twice the size of his own, all armoured bone, and their curling horns were clearly sharpened to fighting points.

  “Well,” said the Unicorn, “this has changed since I last passed through.”

  “Nothing bar an Eagle is going over that wall,” said Akê-Akê, lowering his bow. “And there must be–what, two hundred Trolls up there? Not that they need that number, all things considered.”

  “Speaking of the Eagle …”

  Glimmering of Dawn arrowed down from on high at a fearful speed, his great wings unfurling as he dropped to execute a pinion-straining pivot just above the ground. “Beware the rear!” he cried, and flapped to gain height again.

  The travellers scattered, each looking to the scant shelter offered by the terrain. Some thoughtful and efficient engineer had cleared the space before the wall to prevent a sneak attack.