by B. V. Larson
Rather than tentacles of wet flesh, they were clad in smooth carapaces, like shellfish or gigantic insects. Their shells reflected back the light of Ambros as he lifted the Axe on high, and it seemed to him they were greenish in color with an iridescent sheen to their bodies.
The one on the left reared up, extending claws that were cruelly serrated and lined with spines that were as sharp as a hair of steel at the tips. The second scuttled in low, going for his legs. Its curved mandibles, each as long as a dagger, dripped with venom or spit—Brand knew not which it was.
Nor did he care, because the light of battle overtook his mind. He let Ambros make free with him, and it was a good sensation. It had been too long since an enemy had openly stood before the twin blades of his Axe and done battle with him. For years, he’d seen nothing but cowards who dodged, tried to talk sense into him, or who had fled in terror.
Not these two abominations. No, they either had no concept of what they faced, or they did not care. The thought that they might know exactly who he was and what he could do and still felt confident of victory never entered Brand’s mind. For now he was the Axeman, and he was supremely assured of his power.
He broke out into song as they closed with him, singing words he’d never heard before in a tongue long dead. He could not recall these ancient words later, but it didn’t matter. The words brought pride, fury and righteous certainty to his mind. He knew exactly what to do—it was as natural to him now as floating upon the river on a summer’s eve.
First, he swept away the claws that came for his legs. He could not afford to be dragged down. The lower beast was clipped and a fount of gore erupted from its outstretched stumps. Still carried forward by momentum, the monster bore in, crashing into Brand’s shins. The mouthparts worked at his legs, which were fortunately covered in mail and padded underneath. He felt the crushing pressure of its bite, but the mail held. The armor had been forged for him by Kindred smiths, and there wasn’t a single link among the thousands that was not tight with all its brothers.
After swinging low, the Axe arced back up to take the second—but it was too late. The two had come together, and now the second one was atop the first, scrambling over it in its feral haste to get at the prey it could see with black, jewel-like eyes.
Unable to get a stroke in, Brand let himself fall backward. He pulled the Axe in close to his chest, and put it between himself and the monster.
Eagerly, the creature climbed over him, pressing him down with its weight. Brand could feel and smell it now—but still he didn’t fear. The stink of it was overwhelming, like the stink of a slaughtered animal when it is opened and bloody on the butcher’s block.
He sang on, even when the monster loomed over him and sought to sink its fangs into his face and closed its claws around his shoulders with a lover’s embrace—but then, at the last, the beast shivered.
Gore spilled over Brand’s gauntlets in a foul gush. He’d experienced such things before, and always the contents of other beings had been warm. Not this time. The creature was not like anything from Earth or Twilight. Its innards were as cold as a clear-running stream in early winter. Numbingly cold, almost freezing, the ichor ran over Brand’s chest and sopped into the padding beneath his mail.
The feeling was distinctly unpleasant, but Brand did not care, because he knew that his enemy had died.
He stopped singing and instead laughed like a mad-thing. He knew great joy. The monster had run itself over the blade of his Axe, which he’d held above his body. As he’d been unable to swing freely, it had been the only way to kill it.
Now that one was dead, Brand struggled to push its weight away and get to the second, the one with stumps for foreclaws. But he found the weight of the first and its crushing grip was still upon him, dead or not. He could feel the one that worried at his shins was getting through the links, chewing. Soon, it would take his leg or inject him with venom.
Brand roared, and summoned strength from Ambros. Sated with a fresh kill, the Axe gave power willingly. Brand was able to work his right arm free and tilt the head of it in the direction of the thing that chewed upon his leg. He urged it to flash in a narrow, directed beam.
A ray brighter than any the Sun has yet to cast down to Earth shot from the Eye of Ambros and burned away the jewel-like orbs of the monster. It screeched and reared.
Having had enough, it rushed away blindly into the mists. Brand looked after it and chuckled. At the last, as it was about to vanish from sight, he saw something snake out and lift the monster into the air.
Brand nodded, appreciating the joke. His tormentor had been caught and even now was being devoured by the tentacled monster, which had apparently lain in wait nearby.
It all seemed to be a grand jest to Brand. But now, the joke had worn thin. He heaved the dead-thing from his chest, sliding it to one side and slipping out from underneath its weight.
He stood stiffly and looked around for the path—but he did not see it. Not even a glimmer.
For the first time since he’d stepped into the cavern full of mindless Dead he felt a pang of concern. Despite the pleasure of the sated Axe and his own exultation at his victories at arms, he knew disquiet. If there was no path to follow, how was he to find his way home?
Slowly, he turned around, completing a circle. He’d never been off the path for so long in the past. He knew the stories of those lost and doomed to wander for ages upon trackless unknown ground. Was this then to be his fate?
“No!” he boomed. He stayed where he was, and he gazed every which-way for a clue.
It seemed to him that he should walk the way he’d been going before the attack. If he simply used the dead-thing as a guide, he could follow the angle of its body. Since it had fallen upon him from behind and forced him to turn to face it, the direction it had been going should be the direction required to locate the path again.
But he stood still, uncertain. Something slithered and rattled out of sight nearby. He looked that way—then he heard the crunching sounds that were unmistakable. It must have been the huge tentacled beast, devouring the thing he’d blinded. It was still there, waiting. He knew that if it got the chance, if he weakened, it would crunch on his bones next.
Still, he was not certain of his path. He did not wish to walk into the unknown. This world was not like his, nor was it like that of the Fae. It was in-between and alien to both. The rules here ran by their own unknown rhythms. Perhaps distance, direction and time were not linear. Perhaps they twisted and curved. It was possible that what was logical back home would not apply to navigation here.
At last, he’d had enough. The Axe was through with his foolish dithering. He felt it urge him to take a step, then another. Any direction was better than standing here like a befuddled oldster in the village square!
Brand turned and began to take a step along his best guess of direction, but then he got an idea. It was the sort of idea the Axe liked to give him at such moments: an idea that led into harm’s way.
What if he headed in the one direction he could be certain of? Why not walk over to the tentacled beast, the thing that had dared to escape its just ending and now lurked, devouring Brand’s table scraps? It was not fit to live, and it was a danger to all who passed here. It needed to die! It would only be proper and fitting that he remove every one of its foul, writhing limbs and then chop its grotesque central bulb into quivering pulp!
The idea gripped Brand, and it was not without appeal. He turned in the direction of the slapping sounds. He heard an occasional crunch as it finished with the blind thing Brand had crippled for it.
Brand took a fateful step toward the monster, and wrapped the fingers of both hands around the Axe, which he held upraised like a torch.
* * *
When Trev and the dragon reached the Twilight lands, they hastened away from the mound. Circling it in every direction were massive trees.
“A forest?” asked the dragon.
“Not just any forest, if I judge righ
tly,” Trev said. “This is the greatest forest in the known worlds. It is the Great Erm. You’re sure to find something here you can hunt. Everything here grows to tremendous size.”
The dragon looked from side to side in surprise, then she turned her flaming eyes back to Trev.
“I had not thought this possible,” she said. “All along, I suspected a ruse, a trap, a pathetic attempt on your part to delay the inevitable.”
Trev indicated the forest with a grand sweep of his hand. “As you can see, I’ve delivered on my part of the bargain. Now, let us be off before Brand catches us here.”
At the mention of the Axeman, the dragon turned and gazed back the way they’d come. “He’s taking a long time. Do you think he’s turned back?”
“As far as I know, that’s not possible once a foot has been placed upon the path around a mound. But if he’s been delayed, I’m sure he’ll come out in a worse mood than ever.”
The dragon nodded thoughtfully. “I think I will go off and hunt now,” she said. “What do you plan to do?”
Trev was surprised the dragon cared at all. From his knowledge of such beasts, he’d expected her to try to go back on her word, or to engage him in some other form of dangerous trickery.
“I’m going to run into those trees and find my way to the elves,” he said. “There are two more wise people I would like to speak to about the Dark Jewels, and I believe they’re both here.”
“The elves—you mean Oberon?”
“Yes, and one other, the wizard known as Myrrdin.”
“I’ve heard of him, but I had no idea he was out here in this place.”
Trev eyed the mound behind them worriedly. He squinted at it, trying to get a good view. Was that the shimmer of a man-shape humping around the bend? Maybe.
“I think it’s time to be going.”
The dragon cleared her throat. A puff of smoke escaped her mouth as she did so. “Say,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Would you like to make better speed?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can fly, and the trip would be much faster for you.”
Trev looked up in shock. “A ride? On your back?”
“I would permit it.”
“What boon must I give?” Trev asked suspiciously.
“Just that of companionship. I have to admit, I’ve spoken to very few creatures of intellect in my lifetime. Almost everything in the Everdark is brutish and ignorant. It’s been stimulating to engage the mind of a thinking being.”
Trev nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered that motivation on the part of the dragon. He could well imagine that slithering about in the Everdark, slumbering away the years and hunting from time to time could get boring. Perhaps this dragon was different since she had been separated from her kind at such an early age. Like a bird that learns to eat from a man’s hand—she was not like the rest of her kind.
Trev smiled. “That would be very kind of you.”
“There’s no need for insults.”
“Oh—sorry. I mean that it would be a reasonable exchange.”
“Just so. Climb upon my back, for I think I see something on the path behind us now.”
Trev turned to look, and was startled to see the dragon was right. There were ghostly shapes circling the mound. Without further hesitation, he clambered up onto the heaving, spiny back. He was forced to cast his pack over the beast and to sit upon it, otherwise the heat and spines would be too uncomfortable. Really, the dragon needed a saddle, but he wasn’t silly enough to suggest such a thing.
“Fafna? Could I trouble you on one more point before we take off?”
“What is it?”
“Can I wrap a rope around your chest? I need something to hold onto.”
“What’s this? I should eat you now for the insult! I’m no riding horse. There will never be a bit in my mouth to champ upon, nor a bridle around my snout!”
“Of course not,” Trev said hurriedly. “I’m not suggesting anything so offensive. Rather, I’m asking you to tie me to your back the way a man might tie on a package or a rucksack.”
The dragon finally assented with ill-grace. As quickly as he could, Trev threw a rope around the sinuous body and tied his pack to it. The spines held it in place nicely, and he nodded to himself as he perched upon it. Really, it would serve well enough as a saddle, no matter what he’d told Fafna.
At last, the dragon was ready. She surged into the air and Trev was nearly tossed off into space.
It took all his strength and balance to stay on when the flight began. He heard a shrieking in his ears and realized it was his own voice that screeched. But then, after a dozen more powerful pumps of the dragon’s wings, his cries turned to laughter.
Trev, for the first time in his life, and for one of the first times in known history, was riding a dragon into the purple skies of the Twilight lands.
* * *
Brand stalked the thing in the fog which had so recently stalked him. But before he’d taken more than a few steps, something unexpected happened. The shape that loomed tall in the mist spoke.
The words were hard to make out, as they were not true words, but rather like the burblings of gas being released from swampy ground—but he could make them out, nonetheless.
“Why, Axeman?” asked the monster.
Brand halted. His jaw sagged open. He’d assumed these strange apparitions were mindless beings. Monsters of cold blood and vicious nature. But he could not discount the words, whether they were heard in his mind or through his ears.
“You speak to me? Who dares challenge the Axeman?”
“We do not challenge—we embrace. We offer only solace to the lost.”
“Solace?” Brand roared in return, producing a gust of laughter. The Axe still inhabited his mind and made him inviolate to natural responses such as fear and disgust. “What kind of solace? The peace of the violently slain? The repose of beings lying in your digestive sacs?”
“Yes,” the thing responded, looming slightly nearer. “Just such relief shall be yours to claim. For without us, there would be nothing here and no one to relieve your suffering. This is eternity, and it is a lonely place.”
Brand nodded, gazing from side to side suspiciously. He wondered if this were some kind of ruse, some kind of effort to distract the victim and approach it from either side. But he saw nothing new sidling nearer his flanks. Only mist, shadows, and curls of twisting vapor met his gaze.
“I’m not lost,” Brand told the being. “I’m seeking my way out, and I’m very close to the path. I can feel it.”
“That which is unattainable ever seems near to the lost, Axeman. Home will forever remain a pace too far.”
“How do you know my title? How do you, a thing of shadow, know who I am?”
“We know you, just as you know us. We are your nightmares, and you are our creator.”
Brand blinked, then frowned. He did not like the implications. His Axe lowered somewhat, but then he regripped the haft and raised it higher again.
“You’re phantoms, then? Things of the mind? Unreal apparitions?”
“We have form and substance in this place. We are your worst thoughts made whole.”
Brand nodded. It did seem to be true. He could recall having seen such monsters in his sleep as a child, long ago. Nights that had been spent awakening with cries of fear and grief. Could it be that these monstrosities were plucked from his own mind? It would seem so.
“What is your purpose then, phantom? Who do you serve?”
“We serve you. Our purpose is to guide you to your destiny—the only one that is possible now. We shall ease your suffering by ending your wanderings. None here can escape, Axeman. None can die naturally—so we do what must be done.”
Brand snorted. “A charming service you provide, I’m sure. But let me assure you of something else: I’m not a child shivering under bed sheets. I’m the slayer of all things that can be slain. I will take you, when you come, and I will guide you to your f
inal resting place. Consider this service one I will grant thee free of charge!”
“You fill me with sadness, Master. For I am only your servant, and I grief for your continued suffering. When you are ready, I will come, and I will make your ending as swift as possible.”
“Servant, eh? Extend a limb then. I wish to have some fun with it!”
The beast writhed, but no limb came snaking forward out of the mists. “I cannot. Now is not the time. Your thoughts are not your own.”
“Ha!” shouted Brand. “It is as I suspected. You speak with guile, and probably your nonsense works on lesser beings. But it will not affect me, creature. Have a care and seek easier game elsewhere.”
The beast in the mist fell quiet then, and Brand returned to scanning his environment carefully for a route to home and hearth. He saw nothing of use. This, over time, made him angry. Where another might quake in fear and despair, the Axeman was driven to a single reaction: rage.
It almost overtook him. The beast lingered nearby, waiting. Perhaps it wanted him to make a false move.
As his mind worried at the problem Brand became increasingly convinced that the beast itself was hiding the path. What if it had squatted upon the route home, using its own vast, dark bulk to hide from him the only way to leave this hellish world? As he considered the idea, it made more and more sense to him, and then the Axe urged him, as always, to take swift and violent action.
He raised the twin blades and caused a ray of bright light to sear into the mist, lancing toward the beast’s shadow. But the mist was not like normal vapor, arisen from clean water. It was thick, and unnatural. It caught his beam, diffused it, and refused to part before its power and allow him to burn his target.
He raged, he howled, he burned holes into the mist until sweat ran from his brow, stinging his eyes—but he could not pierce it.
At last, he lowered the Axe, but he was not calm. If anything, he was filled with a trembling anger. He lifted it again, and he made as if to charge.