by Scott Zamek
Fear urged Filby on in the thick storm. What were those things he wanted to shout, but voices were lost in the flight and the wind. A wide plateau appeared, and the forest gave back from the road. Thick tussocks covered the top, and a view of the surrounding land opened to the west. Trader pulled back on his reins and wheeled around, scanning the western road where it broke from the forest. A dozen shapes were gathering there in the gloom and the drizzling rain.
Filby came up on Trader and stopped. “They are troggs,” said Trader, struggling to catch his breath. “They come from an ancient and dark place. They roamed the land when our kind was hunched over in caves wearing animal furs to keep warm.” His horse rose up and Trader steadied the reins. “That was the time of the darkness.” He spurred his horse and galloped to the east, Filby a stride off the pace.
Mud sprang into the air as the brown horse and the bay sped on into a rising storm, and Filby could feel some cold and malign presence fading behind them; he sensed that he and Trader were outpacing whatever followed in the waning light. Trader slowed to a trot; somewhere beyond the western clouds the sun was setting, and the already dim sky grew a thin and dusky gray. The rain abated as night fell, leaving a muddy landscape glancing reflections from a wide and yellow moon. Lingering black clouds touched the sky like bony fingers, diffusing moonlight into long shadows. The forest returned, and the road drove straight through a grove of oak trees to a stone bridge that arched over a broad and swift river. Trader reined in his horse within sight of the bridge .
Filby sidled up alongside Trader, studying the grim expression on his companion’s face.
“That bridge is guarded,” said Trader, noticing Filby’s gaze.
“Will they let us pass?” Filby sharpened his eyes toward his companion, noticing Trader’s hard stare, then was suddenly taken with the same shiver he felt when the front door of his cabin had been broken down. “Who guards the bridge?” he said, weakly, and with some hesitation.
“What,” said Trader. “What guards the bridge.”
Filby looked at Trader meekly.
“It is a troll.”
“A . . .” Filby tightened his grip on the reins and caught himself frowning. “There is no such thing as trolls.”
“There are many things in forest and dale outside the limited realm of Meadowkeep my young Filby. Not all the land is surrounded by fences and hedgerows. A few hours ago, you would have said there is no such thing as troggs.” Trader dismounted and took the reins in one hand. Filby did likewise. “He used to dwell in the mountains, but as the days have grown dim, he has steadily migrated to the Quiet Lands. He is the last of his kind.”
“Then we go around—we go to the next bridge.” Filby was still unsure, but he could not deny what his own eyes had revealed over the last several days.
“If we go around, we get cut off. I cannot fight ten troggs, and by the sound of our pursuers, there are at least ten. No, our only way is across.”
“Can you fight a troll?” asked Filby, quietly, eager to avoid the slightest possible danger.
“We cannot defeat a troll, but there may be another way across. I have come this way before.” Trader walked his horse forward onto a cobblestone stretch leading up to the river. Hooves echoed in a slow clip-clop to the edge of the bridge. There Trader stopped in the moonlight, and waited.
Slowly, a massive gray hand reached from beneath and straddled the archway. Thick, bald fingers, like stubby and rounded tree trunks, curled around the edge of the bridge. The troll followed. Twelve feet tall, he raised himself up on huge bare feet, toes the size of beer casks. White hair straggled from the sides of his bald, gray head.
Trader inched forward, and the troll raised his thick arm. “Has dinner come,” the troll boomed, looking down upon the horses.
“Hold, master troll,” said Trader. “We are but a trifle.”
“I am no master—you can save your flattery, merchant. I have seen you cross my bridge before, and I let you cross, because you were one puny thing too skinny to eat. But now you are two on horseback, and that one looks to have some meat on him.”
“Are not troggs more tasty than humans, troll?”
“That may be so, but humans will do for dinner today.” The troll stepped forward.
Trader stepped forward. “We are being pursued by a band of troggs. If you kill us, the troggs will not cross your bridge, and you will not be able to eat the troggs.” Trader’s horse nudged back, and Trader calmed his steed with a tight grip on the reins. “If you make us go around, the troggs will pursue us, and will not cross your bridge, and you will still not be able to eat the troggs.”
Trader inched forward ever so slightly. “Let us cross safely, troll. Then the troggs will pursue us, and cross your bridge, and you will have a band of troggs to eat for dinner.”
The troll raised his arms and let loose a long, low grumble. “They say you are a clever one, merchant. I will not be fooled by your tongue.”
“It does not take cleverness to add up numbers, troll. You choose: we two, or the ten who follow.”
The troll pounded his leg and shook the bridge, then stood, glaring down on the horses for many minutes. “Rghmmm,” the troll grumbled again. “You will have your passage merchant, but remember what guards this bridge next time you pass.”
Trader motioned to Filby, trying to hide a sense of urgency. The two slowly moved across the bridge under the watchful eyes of the troll, then trotted into the neighboring wood and out of site. The road fell into a dark valley bordered by thick pines, moonlight filtering into slivers on the forest floor. Trader stopped and wheeled around, peering into the dim night behind. “We will make a few more miles tonight, then set camp if nothing follows.” He looked at Filby and shook his head. “And thank the Ancients for a clear and moon-filled night.”
Trader selected a hollow in the trees as a campsite, and soon a crackling fire illuminated their bedrolls. Filby broke out some of the supplies Cruizat had packed, and the two ate a dinner of chicken warmed on a spit. A cold breeze moved in from the west, casting leaves onto the campfire. Trader turned the spit, sending chicken fat to sizzle in glowing embers, while Filby watched flitting shadows play off the inner circle of pines surrounding their hollow. The short, shrill bark of a fox echoed through trees, the campfire floating sparks into a black sky.
“Do you think the troggs will follow?” asked Filby, the fire-glow warm on his face.
“They either met their fate, or went to the next river crossing, some fifty miles to the north. We will know soon enough.” Trader tossed a bone into the fire. “I have never seen one this far west. And these stir before night falls—they are getting bold.”
Filby was exhausted. Troggs and trolls and riding and running had taken a toll. He fluffed up his bedroll and lay down, watching the fire spit and crackle against the night. Soon he was asleep, his last memory a glimpse of Trader, awake and alert, tossing logs onto the fire.
MORNING brought a chill dampness to the air. Trader was wide awake, busy dousing the fire with a swipe of his boot. Filby arched his back and tried to work out the cold and damp and stiffness, then noticed Trader’s bedroll had not been used. “We should move,” urged Trader, stuffing his saddle bags with camping gear. “We do not yet know if we are being tracked. Troggs do not sleep.”
The sun hid behind a gray haze, while fog clinging to the low hollows made the morning seem cold and bleak. A clinging rain hung in the air as the road stretched east through a glen of young maples and hemlock trees. Thick clouds rolled over distant hills and spilled into the valley until the day was muted by mud and turbulent skies. Trader nudged his horse to a trot as they entered a set of wooded hills then rose up to a high ledge, where a distant valley showed itself as a mix of woodland and open fields below. Trader stopped and scanned the road stretching out before them. He turned his head and listened to the wind. “Look,” he said, pointing to the north. Filby strained his eyes against the rain, and at first could see nothing but fog a
nd drizzle and shrouded forest. Then, slowly, he made out some tiny figures bounding swiftly along the forest edge.
“They move across country to cut us off,” said Trader. “We must ride!” He wheeled around and spurred his horse to a full gallop, his cloak flowing in the wind behind. Filby struggled to keep up. He could see where the road made a long loop around the ridge and dipped south into the valley. That was the point the troggs were making for, but it seemed to Filby they would beat their pursuers around the bend by a wide margin, and he urged more speed from his steed to make it so. Trader had widened a large gap, and it was widening by the second. Mud kicked up by the bay in front lingered with a steady rain to pelt Filby in the face as he sped on. The road began to dip into the valley—the beginning of the bend south—where Filby could see the troggs more clearly. They seemed more grotesque than his earlier glimpses had revealed, and they ran like a single-minded tide across the land. A few seemed to carry swords, and others looked like they held bows in their hands.
Still Filby urged his horse onward. The land below rose up to the road at a shallow incline, and Filby could see the troggs rushing through tall grass to cut him off. The bend appeared, where hills to the north squeezed the road against the rising valley. Trader and Filby sped by the curve at a full gallop, leaving the troggs in their dust.
They put three miles behind them before Trader eased off his reins, slowing to a quick trot. Filby did likewise as the road climbed away from the valley into a thicket of trees and some rolling hills. But Filby became confused; his horse slowed, began to walk, and he nudged his steed ahead but to no avail. His horse suddenly stumbled—front legs buckled. Filby tumbled over the mane onto the ground. Rolling over, he could see an arrow through his horse’s neck. Seven troggs ran from the thicket at a dead sprint. Filby was surrounded.
Trader wheeled his horse around and charged at a full gallop. He unsheathed his sword and broke through the circle of troggs, slicing one across the chest as he came. The troggs bore down on Trader. His horse reared up in fright and tossed Trader to the ground. A blade sliced through his shoulder as he staggered back in pain. “Behind me!” he called to Filby and the two retreated, backs against the hillside.
Filby drew his sword. The six troggs attacked. Suddenly, a soft sound was carried by the wind. Phfft, phfft, phfft. Three troggs dropped to the ground with arrows through their chests. Trader lunged forward and ran his closest enemy through. Two troggs turned and knocked Trader to the ground, swords flailing. Trader grabbed his bleeding shoulder in pain. A whirring figure leapt from the hilltop, sword drawn and golden hair flowing like a banner in the wind. A slice, a spin, a stab, and the last two troggs fell limply to the ground.
Filby was frozen to the hillside in fear. It happened so fast he barely had time to move. He watched the archer who had saved them as she approached Trader and stood over him.
“Ethreal,” said Trader, wincing in pain.
“You are outmatched Watcher,” said Ethreal. “You should stick to skulking in the shadows.” She slung the bow behind her back and sheathed her sword.
“What the hell brings you this far west.” Trader rolled onto an elbow to take pressure off his shoulder. He was shaken, a little angry at his own shortcomings.
“It is the darkness. The council sends for you.”
“Have you become a messenger, Ethreal?” Trader struggled to his feet. Filby walked slowly down the road to rein in their remaining horse. The other lay dead on the path.
“The council thought it best if you had an escort,” answered Ethreal. “Troggs have been seen crossing the northern border, heading west along the Meltwater. The land grows dark, and all of the Far Riders have been killed or gone missing over the Far Mountains. Only one now remains.”
Trader tried to comprehend the new information. The times seemed bleak indeed. “We may have something new for the council to consider.” He tightened his scabbard around his waist. “I have found the Map of Dunhelm.”
“So it is true,” said Ethreal, just as Filby returned with the horse. “This is the one who carries it?”
“His grandfather was Redmont—the Far Rider.”
“The Redmont who traveled beyond the Far Mountains?” Ethreal seemed impressed for a moment, almost awed.
“He was attacked and slaughtered three months ago, in Meadowkeep—this is his grandson.” Trader took the reins from Filby and began organizing the saddle bags.
“That is a Redmont?” Ethreal waved her hand toward Filby in disbelief. Filby suddenly felt small, and wanted to shrink away into the hillside. He wanted to be by his hearth with a cup of tea and a plate of mulberry tarts.
“He is a see-er,” said Trader.
“You can read runescript?” asked Ethreal, turning to Filby.
“Um . . . I’m a farmer. I grow cabbage and squash and–”
“He can see it,” Trader interrupted, “but he cannot translate.”
“There are few who can,” said Ethreal. “I knew your grandfather. No normal attackers took him in battle. An evil has entered this land.”
Filby felt a little uneasy, a little afraid, and somewhat confused. “Uh . . .” he hesitated to speak. “Why do you call him Watcher?”
“He doesn’t know?” Ethreal turned to Trader and held him in a hard stare.
Trader shook his head.
“There will be time enough for explanations as we ride,” said Ethreal. “We must cross the Oystershell by nightfall if we are to make the meeting of the council. Come with me, ‘Redmont,’ my horse awaits on the hilltop.”
Filby noticed the sarcastic jab in her voice, the mocking emphasis on his last name, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be a Far Rider, whatever that was; he didn’t want to be a see-er. He just wanted to be back in Meadowkeep, brewing a kettle of tea, barring the doors against strangers.
Trader wrestled the saddlebags from Filby’s dead horse and flung them over his shoulder. Filby doubled with Ethreal, atop a strong white stallion, and the three swung around to the east. A wide red sun touched the trees at their backs, shadows cast by the surrounding hills becoming long and thin. Trader stuffed a rag under his shirt as they rode, then tied the bandage with twine by cinching it with his teeth. The wound was not deep, and the blood had already stopped flowing.
Rolling hills gave way to flatter ground, where alder and white pine clustered together in groves upon open meadow. Hemlock and thick, green grass grew in tussocks throughout the glen, and a creek meandered to the south, crossed the road, then disappeared in a clump of pines on the northern horizon. A long line of blue hills appeared ahead, where the road crooked left and right then seemed to heave up and get lost in a distant haze. They crested a rise. A rather long valley stretched out to the east, where a thin ribbon bordered by trees marked the Oystershell River. “Watcher,” Ethreal called from the lead, and Trader sidled up alongside. “What do you see?”
Trader scanned the valley below. One or two clusters of trees offered some cover, but the rest was wide-open space: gently sloping pastures, scattered underbrush, a few brambles of thornberry and nettles. “All is as it should be,” he said finally, and Ethreal spurred her horse down the declining road. Trader galloped ahead a short distance, head turning from side to side, ever alert to anything unusual.
Filby clung to the back of the white steed, Ethreal’s tanned deerskins reminding him of what Trapper Tavit wore when hunting back in Meadowkeep. Her clothes were all made of animal hide, and two leather straps crossed at the middle of her back, one holding a scabbard and the other a quiver of arrows. “He is a good Watcher,” said Ethreal, turning her head slightly toward Filby. “One of the best I’ve seen for the Quiet Lands.”
“He seems to know his way around,” offered Filby meekly, trying to be polite but not quite sure how to respond.
“He knows the land, and he is prudent. He knows when to stand and when to avoid danger, but he has some minor skill with a sword as well. Previous Watchers from this district possessed no f
ighting skills whatsoever. They were merely diplomats, bureaucrats. And I have rarely ventured this far west, so it is good we have him.”
“You said you would tell me what that means . . . why do you call him Watcher?” Filby felt lost, as if he was the only one in the land who did not know the true nature of things.
“It is an ancient race. They have been assigned since the dawn of man to monitor the land for the rising of the darkness. They are adapted to observe. Keen vision . . . hearing . . . sense of their surroundings.” The sun inched below the horizon at their backs as they made their way through the breadth of the valley. A rising line of trees ahead hid the Oystershell River from view, the coming dusk dipping the valley in gray, a few red and orange wildflowers reflecting the last of the sun’s rays. Filby looked ahead to where Trader was scouting a thicket of trees. “How many Watchers are there?” he wondered aloud, as he clung to the back of Ethreal’s worn leather saddle.
“You ask many questions for a farmer, Redmont.” Ethreal was impatient, anxious to ford the river before the night became too black.
“Stop calling me that,” complained Filby, tired of the condescending tone.
“It is your name.”
“Filby is my name.”
“Five,” said Ethreal. “Five Watchers to observe the Five Kingdoms of these known lands. You in Meadowkeep do not know of such things. Before the last age, this realm was ruled by kings, long forgotten, but the names have remained on the land. Meadowkeep lies within the Quiet Lands, the farthest kingdom west, and the last to be touched by the darkness.” A full moon rose over the Oystershell, illuminating the band of trees in a dark green hue. Trader eased back on his reins and fell in with the others.
“There’s a clearing for camp on the opposite bank,” he said. “And a place to ford where the trees give way to a path—there.” He pointed to a small gap piercing the trees.