Mel shook her head. “We’d only double back on the Governor’s estate, and by nightfall we would be sitting ducks––provided they are chasing us, of course. I’ve yet to see a carriage or horse with Lhord’s Army emblems.” While July considered this, Mel continued. “We’re headed towards the border of Indo-Sota. There’s not much for settlement there, but beyond Indo-Sota is the Ajan Shore, and a major port. That’s probably your best bet of getting home––across the sea. But it’s at least a week of walking.”
July delayed thinking about home for a little while longer. “It’s our only option, right? There’s no way we’d get past Wall Bal’Lhord.”
“You’re right,” Mel sighed. “Walls serve two purposes; keeping things out, and keeping things in.”
There was a moment of tense silence. In it, July tossed over the predicament in her mind, approaching it from every angle. Amelia’s name would surely be recognized at the border––if not because of the prince, then because of her reputation. July, on the other hand, had never given her name in full. There was a chance that she could get through Wall Bal’Lhord on her own. But that meant abandoning Mel to run from the Lhord’s Army, across hostile territories with no means of defending herself––even if she had a sword of her own, her pacifist self would probably surrender anyway. July decided the best chance of them both surviving was to stick together.
July broke the silence. “You’re not coming back with me, are you?”
Mel gave another resigned sigh. “No, I’m not. Calcifer is out there somewhere. If he’s the key to bringing my home back to life, I have to know. I’m headed to the Boreal––to Warden.”
July knew there was no sense in talking her out of the trip, so she didn’t try. She would probably be fine––she had travelled for most of her life, according to the night they spent in the barn in Raoh. “So, you said you know where we’re headed. Where is that, exactly?”
“See for yourself.” Mel gestured to the horizon, where a wall of an entirely different kind rose up. At a first glance, it appeared to be a dense patch of forest, dissected in places by thin walking paths. But as they came closer, July realized that these were not trees at all. They were tall and thin like trees, but their bark yielded tiny spines and pores instead of grooves. Instead of leaves, the “trees” bore mushroom caps, wet and spongy to the touch. A grand, flat cap topped each one, giving it the appearance of a huge umbrella.
“A mushroom forest?” July asked, incredulous.
Mel smiled. “It’s called Chitinwood––the Chitinwood, actually. It’s the only one of its kind.” Living in Lochmount, July had never supposed such a thing to exist. She had a basic teaching in living sciences from school, and it told her that nothing was intrinsically wrong with the concept of a mushroom forest––the strongest organisms survive to reproduce, and in this case, the largest fungi were the survivors. She wondered if this was the kind of wonder that pushed scholars and adventurers to form expeditions.
As they followed the widest footpath through the Chitinwood, the large caps atop the fungi began to overlap, creating a thick canopy. Only intermittent shafts of light were permitted to reach the moss-carpeted earth, which, July supposed, made sense––mushrooms thrived in the dark.
Mel slowed, then stopped. “We’d best settle in for the night––once these spots of sunlight start to go, we’ll be working hard to see our own fingertips.”
July pulled her hatchet from its leather sling on her back. However, before she could do any chopping, she turned back to Mel with a concern. “Uh… Does Chitinwood burn?”
Mel shook her head, looking slightly alarmed. “I don’t know, and even if I did, we wouldn’t burn any.” July, embarrassed, lowered her hatchet. “The majority of this forest is one living organism, a network of underground hyphae with countless connections. Compared to it, we’re insects––germs, even.”
“They’re just mushrooms,” July pointed out. “It’s not like they’ll swoop down and grab us or something.”
“Tell me, July,” Mel said. “What do you do when you have a stomach flu?”
“Sweat. Ache. Throw up a little?” July offered.
Mel nodded sagely. “Your body has natural defenses against outsiders.”
“So you’re telling me the Chitinwood will vomit on us?”
Mel nodded once more. “In a sense, yes.”
July shuddered at the idea, then replaced the hatchet on her back. She patted one of the chitin trees, apologizing internally. “How are we going to cook our food, then?”
“I suppose we’ll be eating bread tonight,” Mel pondered. “I do know a couple herbal pastes that taste sort of like a spit-roast.”
July groaned. “Bread in the dark. Wonderful.” She moved to wipe the moss clumps off her hand, but paused when she caught a better look at them. “Uh, hey. Mel?”
“Yes?” Mel called, inspecting the clearing in which they’d stopped.
“My fingers are glowing.”
Mel, with an expression of confused amusement, inspected July’s hand and found that it was indeed glowing a phosphorescent blue. In the span of a few seconds, amusement turned to concern, and then a smugness that declared an idea was forming. She turned back to the tree, and deftly plucked something from its bark, presenting it to July. It was a blue mushroom, glowing with the same soft hue as her hand.
“You must’ve leaned on one of these,” Mel explained. “And if you don’t want to be eating bread in the dark, you should find a few more.”
July, seeing her train of thought, nodded, glad for an excuse to explore the Chitinwood a little more. She turned on the spot, searching in the dwindling light until she happened a large fungus cap, discarded on the forest floor. She pulled a carving knife from her knapsack and peeled the gills from the cap’s underside, leaving only the cap’s thick hide, hardened with age––the perfect mushroom-collecting basket.
That in hand, she pulled her jacket close and set off deeper into the Chitinwood.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Blue mushrooms. Blue mushrooms. She repeated the thought over and over, willing herself not to be distracted by the fantastical scenery. For every minute of walking, she’d come across a single glowing mushroom on the edge of the path––not exactly encouraging. July lamented the possibility of spending all night picking mushrooms, and decided the only way to increase her bounty was to deviate from the path.
Immediately, the heel of her boot sunk into the thick moss that entrenched the sides of the path, pooling murky water around her feet. She made her footsteps light as she practically skipped between the chitin trees, plucking mushrooms from their trunks––stalks? She was unsure which term applied to a chitin tree.
It was while considering this that her foot slipped and she fell, face first into the soupy wet earth.
July mumbled a curse under her breath. At the very least, her landing was soft, cushioned by the carpet of lichen and moss. Getting to her feet, she looked back to see what her foot caught on, and wretched compulsively when she found it––a slug, at least the size of a raccoon, with the tread of her boot still imprinted on its back. The slug nibbled on the cap of the same phosphorescent fungus she was collecting.
She wiped the sole of her boot on a rock, clearing it of the slug’s mucous, and then turned back to the matter at hand, resolving to finish the task quickly and avoid any more contact with giant slugs.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mel dropped the end of the uprooted chitin trunk with a hefty thump, exhaling a short breath of relief. The clearing was, to her satisfaction, prepared for the night––a small pit dug out for the mushrooms, close to the trunk, which would serve as a backrest. Around the clearing was a shallow trench, which Mel dusted with sea salt, to ward off insects and slugs.
Setting her weary self down on the soft ground and resting against the trunk, Mel opened her knapsack and began rooting for herbs––water borage, spice of cinder, knife lily, she d
ecided. Pulling her hand away with an assortment of jars, she began adding the spices to her mortar, where she ground them into a fine dust. She dove back into her knapsack for some animal fat, which she added to the mix and whipped the concoction into a paste.
She was so intently focused in this work that the sound of heavy feet in the forest didn’t stir her. It wasn’t until the footsteps were almost upon her that she looked up, finding herself face to face with a huge antlered beast, its skin flaky with lichen and the occasional tiny fungi that planted themselves there. It huffed a husky breath, as if in greeting.
A bolt of fear struck her heart, and she flinched before survival instinct gave way to rational thought. She vaguely remembered the beast from some book or another she had read years before––a sporous elk. Thankfully, it was as gentle as its forest cousins, its diet mostly subsisting of fungus and crustaceans, which it cracked open with its hooves. Her eyes glanced down to the elk’s hooves, confirming that they were in fact large enough to crack whatever the elk fancied cracking.
Mel’s eyes landed on her herbal mix. The smell of something so different had doubtless attracted the elk, and it was looking for a taste. Plucking a spotted fungus from the trunk that served as her chair, she smeared some of the paste on its cap and held it up to the elk’s snout.
The elk, its dark and beady eyes impossible to read, bowed its head slightly, sniffing the mushroom. Deeming it edible, its lips curled gently around the shroom, lifting it from the doctor’s fingers. She could hear the elk’s massive teeth grinding away at the shroom, its long thin tongue darting in and out from between its lips. The elk made an impressively loud gulp, and seemed to inspect Amelia with the same care it took to retrieve its new, delicious food.
Mel seized the opportunity. She lifted her hand slowly, placing it very obviously in the elk’s line of sight before bringing it near the beast’s face. When it didn’t react much––which, in Mel’s opinion, was the best reaction she could want––she slowly inched towards the elk’s nose. Eventually her fingers grazed its patchy skin, and it retreated slightly, before allowing Mel to close the distance with finality. She slowly stroked the elk’s nose and snout, which was surprisingly soft.
She smiled, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. All in all, her new friend made her feel much safer in a new, unforgiving environment. She wondered if July was faring just as well.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
July’s eyes darted back and forth, keeping track of all the slugs in her view. There were a hundred at least; it was hard to tell, as they blended in with the forest floor. She held the basket full of glowing mushrooms like a torch in one hand, the pommel of her blade, still in its sheath, gripped in the other, willing her constitution not to betray her. She would feel silly wielding her sword against a horde of slugs, but it was not strictly beneath her.
“If you make me lose my lunch, I’m chopping you all to bits,” She warned the slugs. They reacted by closing in tighter, apparently drawn to the noise. She stepped back until she was pressed against a tree, which squelched against her weight.
…Squelched?
July gulped. Turning her head slowly, she caught sight of the tree. It was engulfed in slugs, which hung off the spiny bark by the suction of their mouths, writhing and pulsating. July peeled away quickly, the sensation of the slugs’ mucous on her back making her stomach turn.
Feeling panic begin to well up in her chest, she made a mad break for freedom. She leaned forward at a dangerous angle, only the ball and toe of her feet striking the ground, like a desperate messenger of war on a fatal errant. She felt one foot strike a slug, probably killing it, but she had no mercy or pity for something that disgusted her so acutely.
Suddenly the path was in sight, a patch of dusty brown in a sea of green. She made a leap, clearing the last stretch of the slug army with a warrior’s finesse. Her feet planted on solid earth again, July felt her gross panic beginning to dissipate, replaced by relief. This, however, lasted only a matter of seconds.
A rumble, like the roar of a snoring giant, shook the ground beneath her feet. It came from deeper in the wood, where the path narrowed and the chitin trees grew wilder, and July, struck by a darker fear than slugs, was reminded of something Amelia had said––this entire forest is one living organism.
She hastened in the opposite direction of the noise, hoping she was in fact heading towards the clearing. Otherwise…
Well, I’d rather not think about that.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Finally, she found the clearing. Throwing her knapsack down, she began to berate Mel for not warning her about the hordes of slugs that haunted this forest, but stopped when she noticed what the doctor was leaning against.
“You killed an elk?” She questioned. “What happened to the pacifist shit?”
Mel smiled, then patted the elk’s muscular chest. The elk lifted its resting head and took in the new visitor, evidently not dead after all. “He’s friendly, don’t worry. He likes my cooking.” With this, she held up a mushroom, covered in some sort of green paste that smelled remarkably meaty, even from a distance. The elk’s tongue curled around the mushroom and retreated back into the beast’s mouth.
July, utterly winded at this display, closed her hanging jaw and dumped the glowing shrooms into the pit Mel had dug earlier, casting a cold blue light over the open space. “Glad you were making friends with the woodland creatures while I was stepping on giant slugs.”
Mel held out a piece of bread with the green paste, looking both amused and apologetic. July took it, sitting down with a huff and biting into her prize. It was good––not worth the hundreds of slugs, but good.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHRIBE. LIFE IN THE CHITIN. A YOUNG MENTOR.
In the Chitinwood, the passage of time was a vague thing. With the presence of sunlight being so scarce, the pair of travelers didn’t wake with the rising sun. Instead, they were roused by the severe tones of an unfamiliar accent, and a mild amount of shoving.
“Wake, putna, before I douse you in swamp water.”
Mel opened her eyes, alarmed by the new presence, and took in her surroundings––a band of dark figures, between their camp and the path. July was already sitting perfectly upright, inching towards the hilt of her sword. Mel put a hand on her elbow.
There were five figures in total, three on foot and two on the back of massive sporous elk, not unlike the one she had befriended the night before. Of the ones on foot, two wielded short curved swords with wide flat blades, and one held a longer, thinner sword with long ribbons trailing from its pommel. This person spearheaded the expedition, and so Mel anointed them the captain of the company. The figures on elk-back held pikes with similarly curved and toothy blades. In the dimness of the wood, Mel could make out leather armor with some scattered plates of a material she didn’t recognize. It was bumpy and shimmered in the scarce light, giving the troupe an almost mystic appearance.
“Not many travelers walk these paths,” The captain said. She was a tall woman with tawny hair and muscles that made July look scrawny. Mel recognized her as the voice that threatened a swamp-water bath. “There are wider, flatter roads to Aja.”
“But not shorter ones,” Mel replied, getting to her feet. July stood as well, carefully keeping her stance wide and strong. “We are travelling to Aja, as you say. I am Amelia.” She offered her hand to the captain. The infantries on her sides held up their swords; she lowered her hand again.
The captain observed this, then stepped forward to meet her, making no move to disarm her guards. “Banta, Amelia. You should turn around, before you get much farther into the Chitinwood. The path is not kind, especially to travelers. They make her nervous; times are strange.”
“The Chitinwood is a female,” July mused quietly.
“We mean no harm. We have not damaged the wood in any way,” Mel countered. “This log was felled when we arrived, and we burned nothing.�
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The captain’s eyes, warm and gold, narrowed from behind her tousled grey hair. “We walk many paths in the morning, and in some we see pits like yours, only full of ash and charcoal.”
“We only arrived yesterday, and travelled no path but this one,” Mel said.
The captain was silent for a moment, and only the sound of the elk pawing the earth and breathing labored sighs filled the clearing. Finally, just as the infantries seemed to grow restless, she spoke again. “I recognize you.”
Paralytic dread stung her heart like acid, as it always did when she was recognized by groups of people––particularly ones with blades. “Amelia Saul,” She said. “I am a doctor.”
The captain’s recognition spread through the company. The infantries relaxed instantly, their swords dipping, and the pike-wielding riders muttered to each other in an unfamiliar tongue from the back of the formation. The captain addressed Mel. “I am Mercury, captain of the guard. We come from the town of Shribe.”
“A town in the Chitinwood,” Mel marveled. “I had no idea.”
July, quiet throughout this encounter, now stepped forward. “Your armor. It’s made of mushroom cap?”
Mercury nodded. “The tortoise shroom bears a tough hide, like steel. It is soft when young; we mold it into shape, and when matured, carve it into plate armor.” July looked mystified by this, and lapsed back into silence, admiring the craft of the company’s armor and weapons.
“We would ask a favor of you, Amelia Saul,” Mercury continued. “The man who ran our apothecary recently passed away. He was a prickly old man, but he knew his medicines.” Mel began to speak, but she held up a hand, halting the doctor. “He took no apprentices. We only need you to teach a handful of students the basics, and the rest we can learn with careful study.”
Mel nodded, the last of her dread falling away. “I would be happy to help.”
Mercury nodded, allowing a very slight smile to invade her serious face. “Yalor, Amelia Saul. Thank you.”
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