by Scott Zamek
“They have never been seen in these lands before,” answered Ethreal. “And we best pray we do not meet another, Redmont—while we are unable to defend ourselves.”
The fire burned down and sleep came in waves. Filby was cold, and the pebble riverbank kept digging into his back no matter how he shifted.
Two more days passed much like the first. They made slow progress and a limp continued to bother Ethreal’s left leg. At times, she was forced to lean on Filby when the riverbank angled upward too steeply or a large tree trunk blocked the way. They ate the last of the hardtack, and Filby rarely slept due to the cold nights and lack of firewood. The canyon turned south, but still the ravine allowed no escape.
On the third day, the river widened into a broad flow of brown water laden with silt. The current slackened, and the canyon walls began to shallow. The forest made itself known again, creeping down the ravine here and there where the angled walls allowed a foothold for a few saplings and withered elms clawing toward the light. A sweeping bend offered a way out, and at last they climbed a hill dotted with white pines up and onto the forest floor.
“Stay wary, Redmont—our progress is a mixed fate.” Ethreal moved her sword to the opposite hip where she could reach it quickly with her uninjured arm. “The riverbed held many failings, but no enemy could track or find us there. The forest is a different matter.”
She looked around and listened to the forest. A few birds flittered in the branches, their guttural calls echoing through the treetops. The foliage pressed in thickly, and the sun showed in rare and single beams through the canopy. No path was apparent, not even a deer track, so she began east along the river where the trees were not quite as dense and the sun still glinted sporadically through the leaves.
“Use your sword.” Ethreal turned her head toward Filby who was struggling along behind. Thick underbrush rose up from the forest, reaching for the river and flopping over the cliff in dense patches toward the swift and muddy water below. They cut and hacked along the edge of the ravine until late afternoon, until the canyon finally softened into gently sloping hills replete with barrel-wide aspen and the lingering scent of pine. A cold sun filtered through the leaves, and Filby found that constant movement was the only way to stay warm. The hills helped—he felt warm when the ground tilted up under his feet—but along the flat sections Filby had to constantly move his arms, or cross them around his chest, or pound his feet against the ground. The coming night was not a welcome thought.
Shafts of light filtered through the leaves at a steep angle, the forest dimming with the receding sun. The underbrush disappeared, the land flattened, and the river became wide and clear. They now walked directly along the bank, and Filby marveled at the sluggish current where raging whitewater once held sway. A small blue lake appeared, nestled within a ring of arrow-straight pines aimed at a darkening sky. The small clearing meant they could once again see above. “We stop here,” said Ethreal. “While daylight still glimmers.” She tossed the black flint onto the ground. “Make a fire Redmont,” and then she quickly and quietly disappeared into the trees.
Wood was readily available for the first time in days, so Filby built a proper fire. He felt his stiff limbs slowly warm with the nourishing flame, still too tired, though, to contemplate where his companion had gone or what she was doing in the woods alone. “Collecting firewood no doubt,” but Filby’s foggy mind could grasp no more. And he did not have to dwell on it for long. Darkness crept into the clearing just as Ethreal returned, a small deer draped over one shoulder and the sword in her left hand bloodied from the hunt. Filby was a bit put off by the sight, but hunger dismissed any argument. He watched as Ethreal used the small pocket knife to skin the deer, cut off two hunks of meat, and skewer them over the fire. “Stay alert,” said Ethreal, looking up from her work. “We do not know what evil this fire will draw.”
She fashioned a second spit, and Filby watched in curiosity as Ethreal sliced thin strips of meat and dangled them near the fire where they were bathed in smoke. He became even more confused when Ethreal cleared away some embers and put a cupped-out log in the middle of the fire. She cut strips of fat from the carcass and placed them in the log until the fat melted, then she removed the log from the fire and waited for the fat to harden. Just before the fat solidified, Ethreal peppered in cooked pieces of meat along with a pocketful of nuts and berries she had collected from the forest. Once dried, she formed the fat into balls and wrapped them in leaves. “It is called pummakin,” she explained softly, noticing Filby’s stare. “The ancient people who inhabited my land used it to preserve food for long journeys.”
Turning to the deer’s hide, Ethreal used the head of an arrow to begin scraping the skin down to bare leather. Filby was a bit unsure and slightly confused, but at Ethreal’s behest he assisted with the scraping, a process that took much of the night. They periodically washed the skin in the lake, then dried it by the fire, then scraped again—repeating the process until a clean deerskin emerged with fur on one side and smooth leather on the other. A few well-placed cuts with the knife, and Ethreal presented Filby with a new cloak.
The sun rose late upon a frosty morning, but clear blue skies promised a dry day. Ethreal gathered up their smoked strips of dried meat and their pummakin and packed them in her quiver. Only four arrows remained; the rest had been taken by the river. Before they set out, she chopped a thick, rigid vine from the trees. Hollow inside, she filled it with water from the lake and plugged the ends with a mixture of leaves and wooden corks she fashioned using the pocket knife. Filby strapped the makeshift canteen to his back with strips of left-over leather from the deerskin.
They skirted the north end of the lake and rejoined the river on the eastern shore. A path appeared along the riverbank, what they thought to be a deer path, and they followed it onward over rolling hills. Fallen trees blocked their way at points, and the hills became rugged, causing Ethreal and Filby to stop often and rest their still-bruised limbs. The river entered another lake, and they walked along the northern edge where a steep hill pressed the path against the shore. Ethreal bent down on one knee. “Troggs,” she said, pointing to a set of tracks. “On foot.” Filby scanned the hill that rose to the north. A tree rustled in the wind. “We cannot fight,” warned Ethreal. “We must move softly and with stealth . . . no more fires.”
Filby stared at the hill; another tree rustled. “Look!”
Ethreal swung around. A band of Troggs was making their way down the hillside. “We must move, Redmont—we must flee!” They spun to the path. Filby loped through the trees as fast as he could, then glanced back to see Ethreal limping down the hillside. Filby stopped, went back, put his arm around Ethreal’s waist, her arm around his neck, and he pulled with all his might. He could see the troggs advancing not fifty feet up the hill. Rugged ground almost stopped Filby in his tracks; Ethreal’s limp seemed magnified in their desperation. Aieeeee, a trogg called in pursuit. Filby stumbled over a fallen tree. He looked up. The path ahead was as rough and tangled as any terrain the forest could offer.
ETHREAL’S WHITE stallion trotted gently along the forest road. The footpath had turned wide and densely packed, all three riders making good time on the flat terrain. Andreg’s swaybacked horse trailed behind, lightly loaded with saddle bags and bedrolls and other gear, while Aerol led the way on his stately black Frasian. Up above, a thin ribbon of sky followed along with the road in glimpses of cotton clouds and blue, and down below, a few crisp leaves blustered along the trail. “I am confident they are alive,” said Aerol, continuing a discussion that had been ongoing since early morning.
“I’m with you,” agreed Trader. “I just don’t know how you can be so sure.” He watched as the straight pines and crooked oaks lining the road moved slowly by. They had made good time since the canyon—four days without incident. Not a nightwraith or a trogg or a halfwraith ever appeared from the forest. They were about; Trader had found the tracks. But none issued forth and none gave challenge.<
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“We searched ten miles down the canyon, and we did not see them,” said Aerol. “If we did not see them, they must have moved—which means they are alive. I would not have broken off the search if I thought otherwise.”
“But if they were injured,” said the Watcher. “To make it through the forest . . .”
“If Ethreal still draws breath, she will find a way. She hails from the line of Effindril, the ancient warriors of the north, and they do not give their last breath easily. The see-er will be protected.”
Andreg raised his eyes as he rode high on Ethreal’s white stallion; the sky beat down chill and blue, a cool yellow sun tilting toward late morning. Ahead, the road lifted upward and began a sweeping bend. The horses were reduced to a slow walk before they entered a clear-cut area, recently logged, of denuded stumps and fallen dead trees and brush piled up into mounds. A wagon track entered the forest on the far side of the clearing, where Trader spotted mixed tracks: men, wagons, many troggs.
They crossed the glade and followed the wagon track into the trees, where a mingled forest of pines and hardwoods spanned east; the underbrush disappeared, leaving a floor of brown pine needles and crisp leaves. The trickling water of a clear stream followed along to the south, while the shoulders of the path broadened into well-cleared lanes of short grass and chicory. Before long they broke into a wide opening of many acres, where Aerol called a halt, surprised at what he saw spread out before him. In the center of the clearing stood a wooden palisade, a makeshift fort, rising thirty feet tall against the surrounding trees. Thick logs had been driven into the ground to form walls, and two wooden watchtowers straddled a planked gate. A clear-cut perimeter of fallen trees and piles of brush surrounded the fort, creating a buffer against the forest.
“Is it occupied?” Aerol stood up in his stirrups and called to Trader in the rear.
“I see no signs,” Trader said softly, edging forward, sidling alongside the Far Rider. “But it looks well maintained, and some of these trees are freshly cut.”
The three rode forward and stopped near the gate, then Aerol moved slightly ahead. A watchman suddenly stood up and revealed himself atop the ramparts, his arm raised high to signal a halt.
“We are travelers from Bridgehaven,” shouted Aerol, looking straight up along the wall. “We seek food and shelter.”
“I have no doubt,” called the watchman, “If you have traveled through the forest without convoy. What is your business here?”
Aerol’s black steed grumbled and twisted a step. “I am Far Rider of Bridgehaven, and this is Watcher Hawkins of the west. We make for the Far Mountains beyond the lands of old.”
“A Watcher and a Far Rider in our corner of the forest?” said the guard, glaring down on the weary-looking group. “These are strange times indeed. Wait while I check with the captain—you just hold right there.” He disappeared behind the stockade, and moments later the sound of chains, and the gate cranked slowly open.
Aerol led his company through the gate, where the three swung off their horses in a central square. Small living quarters, stables, a blacksmith’s forge, and various other shops lined the inner palisade. A stableman took the reins of their horses, and the original guard motioned to the far wall. “The cap’ says give you some quarters,” he announced. “Follow me—Hancock’s the name.” He led the way to a far corner of the fort, down a short row of wooden buildings, then waved a hand toward three open doors. “Plenty of empty rooms nowadays,” said the watchman. “There’s a well in the central square. We have dinner in about an hour—join us if you like.” He turned with a nod and left to attend his duties.
The rooms were like small cabins, walls made of hand-hewn logs, each with a small bunk and an oak table. Trader walked inside and noticed a wooden torch propped against the wall, and an empty pitcher and basin sitting in the middle of the table. It seemed like all the comforts of home after sleeping on the forest floor for many days.
The sun barely showed its pink edges behind the south watchtower by the time Aerol and the others had unpacked their saddle bags, filled their basins from the well, and splashed a few handfuls of water on their stubbled faces. Hancock returned and led them to a modest dining hall, where a long oak table was surrounded by a few smaller ones seating, in all, about thirty men and a handful of women. Aerol caught eyes with a weary-looking soldier sitting at the head, his beard streaked with the gray of stress rather than age, for he seemed to Aerol no older than forty. Three empty chairs were at his shoulder.
A young woman began lighting torches along the wall as Aerol, Trader, and Andreg slowly moved to the empty chairs at the front of the table. “I’m sorry for the torches,” said the head man. “We have not seen oil for our lanterns in many months.” He poured himself a glass of wine from a dusty bottle. “And this is the last of the wine as well.” He handed the bottle down the table. “I’m Captain Santee—sort of the unofficial mayor here. We’re not really a town—or a military unit for that matter. Call us an outpost.”
“And a sad one if I don’t say, with what we’re eatin’ tonight.” Hancock was seated at Santee’s opposite shoulder, and he eyed his food with a sour look.
“Forgive the food gentlemen,” said Santee. “Our last supply wagon was weeks ago and it was a meager one at that. We send out hunting parties but as rarely as possible. They get attacked and we always lose men. Besides, the land around the fort is hunted out, and to feed everyone . . .”
“You have done well to survive out here in these dark times,” said Aerol.
“But for how long?” returned the captain grimly. “We grow weaker every day, and we rarely see travelers such as yourselves anymore. Every now and then a wagon train comes through, and they have been decimated by troggs. But we have not seen a wagon for more than a week now. Soon we will be unable to defend this place, and we will be driven from the forest like all others who once lived in this land.”
The evening light filtering through the windows began to fade, giving way to the flicker of burning torches. “These are strange days,” said Andreg. “Fate cannot be trifled with, nor can it be changed. Our fate has brought us here, and we cannot challenge it.”
“What do you know of the road east?” asked Trader. He took a sip of his wine and ate a fork-full of wild mutton, wondering what Hancock was complaining about.
“There was a time you could get through the forest in five days,” replied Santee. “Now, I don’t know. The road is blocked in places and bands of troggs roam the land. Just yesterday we received word that twenty soldiers marching to the north were slaughtered to the man, and a Watcher of the Border Lands among them.”
“Bressard,” said Aerol, and he dropped his fork onto the plate. Trader set down his glass of wine and lowered his head.
“The Watcher from the forest is gone as well,” said Santee. “Dead some two months now. And the one from the Ancient Lands too, we hear. I know not of the Far Lands, for we have received no word from that region in many weeks.”
Andreg was silent and somber, but now he spoke. “The evil has been distracted. But now I fear the eyes of the enemy have turned again to the south and we must make haste. They are drawn to the Map of Dunhelm and their mission is to destroy it. I fear they are drawn to the see-er as well.”
“With the same mission?” asked Aerol.
“To destroy the see-er,” said Andreg.
Captain Santee cleared his throat and rose from the table. “You must excuse us, gentlemen. It is getting late and we must tend to the walls.”
Trader and his companions had not seen decent food in weeks, and they ate heartily. But there was something odd about the inaction, about the social setting, about idle conversation and polite manners. Something almost uncomfortable. Andreg, Trader, and Aerol finished eating in silence, then decided to join Captain Santee on the ramparts.
Night had long since taken hold; the walls were lit by a line of torches sending yellow embers above the darkness. The two watchtowers were manned
by archers intent on the cleared strip of land leading up to the trees. Swordsmen paced the walls, and Santee paced with them, ever vigilant of the darkened forest. Andreg stepped forward and suppressed an initial grin, then raised a crystal to the sky. It floated over the buffer zone and shined yellow like a legion of torches. The guards on the wall gazed on in wonderment.
Captain Santee could not withhold a smile, but he remained a bit suspicious of Andreg. The mage didn’t even carry a sword of any note; it was so short and thin that it appeared more like a dagger. And the scabbard was so rusted that Santee could only imagine the condition of the sword itself. But he had to admit, the extra light was helpful. “I must speak to the watchman about these torches,” he complained. “We are running out of pitch to light them.”
“It won’t last long,” said Andreg. “That much light requires great effort. I just thought these people deserved a moment of peace.” The buffer zone was illuminated, but not bright like the day; instead, it looked as if the late evening sun was shedding its final rays on the land. Soldiers atop the watchtower could see the forest floor through the first few rings of trees, but beyond that, shadows once again held sway. Two sentries on horseback decided to make use of the light and ride the perimeter. They circled the fort following the tree line, shining torches into the dark recesses of the forest.
The crystal began to flicker and Andreg leaned against the battlements. “Let the light fade,” said Aerol, placing his hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Torches will suffice.”
“One moment more . . . let the horsemen return to the fort.” Andreg straightened and looked out over the treetops. The sky was a blank canvas of clouds showing no moon or stars. “You are worried about the see-er.”
“I know they are alive,” said Aerol. “But if we will meet again . . .”
“Two people seeking the same destination are destined to meet along the path, are they not?” The crystal light sputtered; shadows lengthened and swayed with the breeze. “Or ultimately they will meet at the final breath of a journey, time and chance given the proper turn.”