by Scott Zamek
“Ten days,” Aerol called behind him. “Ten days to cross the forest and reach the Ancient Lands, providing an open road and no delays along the way.” Filby rode second in line, and he heard the Far Rider well, but there was something in Aerol’s voice that unnerved him. Filby could not quite place the sound, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it go. And then he realized—it was the steady voice, but a forced steadiness, of someone who was unnerved himself. Filby could see it now, the way Aerol constantly swiveled his head back and forth, as if expecting something to come at them from the trees at any moment. “Ten days of this?” thought Filby. One day on the trail and he already felt as if he had been traveling for ten.
An area of open pines temporarily dispelled Filby’s fears; the toothpick-straight trees seemed less claustrophobic, the underbrush disappearing to leave only a bare blanket of brown pine needles which deadened the sound of hooves along the path. The sky showed in gray glimpses, but it was late afternoon and the sun already began to fade as if twilight had arrived. The forest trees became one solid barrier, blurred together in the failing light.
“The darkness grows,” said Andreg, as he reached in his pocket and took out a white crystal. He held it before him in his open palm and spoke a few odd words. Filby could barely hear, “lunidae cortestra de kafres rislev,” and the crystal rose above the group, hovered there, and illuminated the path ahead a dull yellow. Back at the trapper’s cabin, Filby had seen the same white crystal burn bright and white like the day, and he wondered why it was now so dim. “Because the power of the darkness holds sway here,” Andreg told him.
They heard the sound of rushing water where the path butted up against a deep ravine. Below, a torrent of whitewater tumbled over boulders and fallen trees. The sky revealed itself above, gray and shallow and without sun, but any sky was a welcome sight after a day devoid of light. Aerol led the way along the edge of the ravine, the rutted path looking down upon a wild river far below, until the forest opened into a wide clearing. Aerol looked around at the hard-packed dirt, the thin shadows of the white pines reaching from the edge of the clearing all the way down into the deep ravine. “The sun still holds some breath,” he said, looking up above the trees, “but we would be hard-pressed to find better.”
Ethreal dismounted and peered over the edge of the ravine. “It is the best prospect for a campsite we have yet seen in this domain of twisted branches.”
Daylight was fast lowering into the west, below the trees. Trader swung off his horse and rooted in his saddle bags for his flint, then began a fire from the many dead branches scattered about. He chose the center of the clearing, where any light cast off by the flames would give at least a small glimpse into the forest. Filby joined Ethreal as they began unpacking the saddle bags, but Aerol disappeared into the twilit trees—and there he stood on the edge of light, unmoving, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What’s wrong with Aerol?” Filby asked Ethreal, as they tossed their bedrolls next to the fire. “The forest seems to be cheering up, but he’s making me nervous again.”
“He knows more than he tells,” said Ethreal. “Something awaits in the forest . . . something to worry a Far Rider.” Filby looked around at their campsite in the dwindling twilight, and he had to remind himself there was still possible danger about. The clearing seemed perfectly safe, backed by the ravine with the swift river adding a calming sound of tumbling water to the air. Pines circled the remainder of the clearing, but Trader’s roaring fire made the space seem open and bright. Beyond the light of the fire, though, darkness had already descended, and Filby could not see past the first ring of pine trees.
“The night comes early,” said Andreg. He sat by the fire reading an old book bound by a stained leather cover. Aerol returned from the edge of the clearing, gazing over his shoulder into the darkness. Ethreal sat, sharpening her sword.
“Stay alert,” said Aerol, turning to the fire. “There is more hidden in these trees than wild animals of the forest.”
“We should rotate a watch,” offered Ethreal, working her whetstone slowly along.
Filby looked up from the fire and raised his eyebrows; he felt a bit useless. Reading a few runes on a map did not seem to be any great contribution, though he knew the others would probably disagree. “I’ll stand watch,” he volunteered. “I feel like I should do something.”
Ethreal did not look up, and the others said nothing. Filby knew what that meant. Still, he could not understand all the fuss; the fire was steady, there were no sounds in the forest, the clearing was bright. He sprawled out on his blanket and gazed into the black beyond the trees and watched the night slowly grow thick. One by one, the others rolled over in their cloaks against the nighttime chill. Ethreal was the last. She had agreed to stand watch, and was still wide awake working the whetstone. Filby watched, unable to sleep, and wondered at her sword—the grip worn by years of sweat, the blade weathered and nicked. It had seen some hard use, there was no doubt about that.
“How many times have you used your sword in battle,” asked Filby, lying on his bedroll, eyes fighting against sleep. He did not know why he asked. He felt it to be an innocent question—simply making conversation. But deep down in the recesses of his mind, he thought it might irritate Ethreal a little, and he thought he owed her one or two by the way she continued to mock his last name.
“Farmers should not ask such questions,” replied Ethreal, without looking up from her work.
“I’m a Redmont—you said so yourself.”
“If you were a Redmont, you would not ask.”
“I should have known better,” thought Filby. “Crossing words with her is worse than crossing swords.” He rolled over and covered up with his cloak and closed his eyes.
Ethreal was soon left alone, watching the trees, the sky, where a sharp moon managed to break through the murky clouds and cast shadows in hidden spaces between the pines. She rose to her feet and covered her blade and walked around the edge of the clearing. One of the horses grumbled in the darkness, but the forest was quiet save for water splashing through the ravine far below.
Away in the night, slowly rising above the sound of tumbling water, the lone call of a wolf—haunting, distant, barely breaking the treetops. But there was something else. If Ethreal strained to hear, if she turned her head just right when the wind shifted to the north . . . something else. Then closer, a shrill, rising moan cut through the trees. Aerol stood, listening. Ethreal unsheathed her sword. The same chill cry rose again . . . loud . . . close . . . at the edge of the trees. Instantly, a writhing shadow sprang into the clearing like a gathering blur.
“Nightwraith!” shouted Aerol, and rushed to meet the advance. Filby jumped up and retreated toward the cliff. The nightwraith followed, trapping him at the edge. Ethreal leapt in front of Filby and brandished her sword; a swift thrust and the wraith howled with pain, then it swept its powerful arm toward Ethreal. The blow struck, sending Filby and Ethreal headlong over the cliff. They were no more.
Andreg moved for his sword then was hurled against a tree. Aerol and Trader swept in; the wraith swung around and advanced. Trader hit the ground with a numbing pain. Aerol raised his sword and struck a blow. The wraith let loose a searing cry and came down upon the Far Rider. Aerol spun, arching his sword through the night, and hit his mark. The dark hulk shrieked and darted off into the blackened forest like a shadow melting in the sun.
Cold breath pulsed into the night as Aerol stood, lungs pumping, holding his bloodied sword. Trader stood up clutching his ribs, then stumbled over to Andreg. He rolled the mage over and Andreg opened his eyes. “I am a fool,” muttered Andreg. “I am a fool. The light is the key.”
Aerol called to Trader, “Ethreal? Filby?”
Trader winced and rose. “They went over the cliff.” He made his way to the edge and stared into the black abyss. Aerol strained his eyes to see the rushing whitewater below, barely reflecting light from the crescent moon. “Could they be alive?” gasped Trader, clutching
his ribs.
“The hope is slim.” Aerol lowered his head in disbelief. The night wind hummed through pine branches, a few old limbs creaking in the darkness. The lonely howl of a wolf echoed over rushing water.
“I will summon the light,” said Andreg, quickly fumbling through his pockets. The mage levitated a glowing crystal above his palm then slowly descended it into the ravine, but nothing could be seen save for the violent river and sheer canyon walls.
“There is no way down.” Trader’s voice faltered with despair.
“We will follow the path east and search for a way into the ravine,” said Aerol, sheathing his sword. “Even if it means searching in the dark.”
Aerol, Trader, and Andreg hastily packed their gear by the scant light of a thin moon. One of the wild-bred horses had been struck by the wraith and was dead. Andreg rode Ethreal’s stallion, the old swayback trailing behind them loaded down with saddle bags and supplies. Morning broke with a rare blue sky above the open ravine, and they could see for the first time what chances they truly had to find their companions alive or dead. The river was a mad torrent, pounding massive boulders with its power as it drove east down the canyon. Walls were almost perfectly vertical, allowing for no escape or ledges or footholds. There was no way to climb out, and there was no way down.
They searched for days; they scanned the river, backtracked along the trail, floated crystals to the bottom. They called and shouted. All to no avail. Even Trader’s supreme eyesight and hearing and tracking ability revealed nothing. Finally, Aerol called a halt.
“We must abandon the search,” he said softly, almost too softly for the others to hear, as if arriving at a slow and painful realization. “The ultimate mission is too important. We can delay no longer.”
“What now?” asked Trader.
Aerol said nothing. He nudged his mount east, and the others followed, until the path slowly veered away from the ravine into the deep forest. As they rode toward the Ancient Lands, Andreg sent a crystal above their heads to act as a beacon, a flare if Ethreal and Filby were ever to search for them or try to follow.
FILBY WAS faintly aware of the sound of rushing water. He opened his eyes; something was tugging at his legs. He was lying face down in the mud, and he slowly, painfully lifted his head. His legs were being battered by the relentless current, but his torso clung to a small bank of the wild river, a thin ribbon of land between water and ravine. Filby rolled over and it seemed every corner of his body was bruised and aching, but still he managed to struggle to his feet while water ran off his clothes in streams. He was cold. It looked like early morning, but he couldn’t remember the passage of time. He remembered falling; he remembered the awful creature; he remembered . . . Ethreal. Where was Ethreal?
Filby scanned his surroundings. The river sprayed whitewater and mist into the air with a rising din that made it almost hard to think. He stood on a thin bank made of mixed stones and sand, a bank that paralleled the river as far as the eye could see. Within arm’s reach, the sheer wall of the canyon rose straight to the sky. A few fallen trees spanned the river where they had become wedged across the ravine and died. Massive boulders rose from the current, and where they rose, whitewater sprayed to the sky like violent geysers.
Filby wasn’t sure what to do. He moved his arms, his legs—nothing seemed to be broken. He had a vague idea which way was east, and if Ethreal was alive, she would surely be east; she would surely be downriver. He made up his mind and began slogging along the bank, his clothes stretched and draining water behind him as he walked. A shape appeared on the sand ahead, brown, stationary; at first Filby thought it was a boulder, but as he approached . . .
“Ethreal!” He ran to her side. She was face down, unconscious, and Filby gently rolled her onto her back. “Ethreal?”
Her eyes opened to slits, and a dim recognition took hold. “Where am I?”
“Don’t move.” Cuts and gashes sliced into her clothes, where blood seeped through in puddles. Filby took off his cloak and ripped it into strips, then began tying bandages around the worst of the wounds. He lifted Ethreal’s right arm and she gave a sharp cry.
“It is broken,” she said weakly, propping herself up to a sitting position. “Help me up.”
“Wait . . . you shouldn’t move!” Filby was breathless, dizzy, feeling as if he had walked into a dream.
“Damn it Redmont, help me up.” She struggled to her feet, right arm cocked against her side, and took in her surroundings just as Filby had done. Slowly, she raised her eyes along the vertical rock face. “No way out?”
Filby looked grim; he shrugged and shook his head. The noise from the tumbling water made gestures easier than shouting, and he was feeling weak himself.
“We still have our swords, that is one good thing.” Ethreal unslung her bow from behind her back as she carefully moved over to a fallen tree that was propped against the canyon wall. “Do you have any skill with a bow?”
“None,” admitted Filby.
“Then unstring my bow,” and Ethreal held her arm straight out, weapon in hand. Filby reluctantly began to unstring the bow, and looked on, feeling helpless, while Ethreal snapped two branches off the fallen tree then slowly braced the back of her injured arm against the trunk. Feeling for the broken bone, she forced the arm against the tree, setting the arm straight. She dropped to her knees with a cry. “Give me the bowstring.”
Filby felt a sudden wave of nausea, and handed the bowstring over while looking away toward the river. He could not bear to look, but he knew he had to look, to at least check if his companion needed help—and when he finally collected ample nerve to turn his head, he noticed Ethreal was struggling. She was still crumpled weakly on her knees, hands shaking, fumbling with the two branches and the bowstring. Gradually, Filby gathered himself enough to help secure the splint using the bowstring and strips of cloth from his cloak.
Ethreal turned and slumped against the trunk, exhausted and in pain. “It is an ancient bow,” she said weakly. “We must keep the wood safe.” They stored the wood limbs of the bow in Ethreal’s quiver and secured it with strips of cloth, then Filby fashioned a sling for Ethreal’s arm from the remainder of his cloak. They sat, Filby unsure what to do, and his companion too stunned to move. Ethreal stiffened her back against the tree and studied the raging river. Swimming was out of the question. Climbing the canyon walls was impossible.
“We have enough water at least,” she said at length. “Empty your pockets.”
“Empty my . . .” Filby was a bit confused, but he turned out his pockets nonetheless and so did she: one small pocket knife, a black flint for striking fire, and three wafers of hardtack meant for Filby’s horse, still intact despite exposure to water.
“Food will be a problem.” Ethreal picked up one of the biscuits, turning it over in her hand. “And clothes . . . you have used your cloak for bandages and mine was taken by the river. The coming nights will do us no favors.”
They lingered by the dead tree for a long while, looking at the canyon walls and hoping for a way out—a path, a handhold, anything that would allow an escape. In the end, they decided to walk east along the riverbank. Ethreal felt strong enough and their thinking was much like Aerol’s had been: head east, hope for a way out of the canyon, and hope to reunite with the others somewhere down the road. Ethreal rose and leaned on Filby at first, but was soon making way on her own. The sun rose to midday and dried their clothes a little as they walked, even though the constant spray from the river still caused a perpetual state of dampness. They were both very sore and Ethreal bore a slight limp, making progress slow and tedious.
A small recess in the cliff wall served as camp. They stopped well before sunset to build a small fire with sticks and driftwood scattered along the riverbank, and though the wood was damp and hard to ignite, it served to dry out their clothes from the river’s constant mist. Ethreal unwrapped her bandages, washed them in the river, then set them out to dry by the fire. Filby started to feel b
etter by the light of the camp, although slowly and by small degrees. The throbbing from his bumps and bruises began to abate, and he was relieved, even a bit surprised, to have suffered no major injuries from the fall. Ethreal too seemed on the mend, for her wounds were not as severe as they first appeared once they were properly washed and cleaned. She replaced the flame-dried bandages on only one gash across her leg.
Their small fire kept the cool night at bay when the sun settled below the canyon walls. They snapped one of the hardtack biscuits in half and that served as dinner; the remaining two biscuits would be their meager rations for the journey ahead. Filby sat close to the little fire; the scarcity of firewood made a proper fire impossible, and lacking a cloak caused him to shiver in the night air. “What was that thing that attacked us?” he asked, arms crossed against the cold. He had never imagined such a horrible creature existed in all the land. Nor would he have, in his soft home of Meadowkeep, ever before been able to comprehend such a thing.
“It is a Nightwraith. Given wholly over to darkness, they must live in the night.” Ethreal gazed into the embers and listened to tumbling water echo off darkened canyon walls. “They are very rare, but they are also very strong, for they wield the power of pure evil.”
Filby shuddered and poked the fire.
“We were fortunate . . . the one we faced was unarmed. They are said to carry swords, forged in evil furnaces beyond the Far Mountains, that do not bend nor do they break. They only cut, through flesh and through normal steel forged by men. Armed thus, they cannot be defeated by any one man. Not Far Rider, not warrior of Effindril, not soldier of Bridgehaven.”
“Do you think there are more of them in the forest?” Filby tossed a piece of wood onto the fire from their small stack of driftwood and a shiver ran up his legs.