Of course, that assumed they survived until the ambush. Tuomas had been told it was at least a day away, which meant spending nights in the middle of the Myrewood. Nights waiting in dank caves while night closed in around them. Nights fighting whatever terrors skittered from the darkness. Nights spent sitting next to …
Tuomas shook his head and resumed polishing his blade with renewed vigor.
“Problem, kid?” Hogar asked him. The senior thug was a wiry man whose face boasted more scars than teeth.
“I just don’t know why we had to do the ambush in the Myrewood.”
“Same reason we do everything,” laughed Hogar. “To avoid paperwork.”
The death of any hero, even a rank-one fighter, prompted an automatic guild investigation to determine who was responsible. This was usually less a matter of blame than fiscal responsibility, but when thugs were involved, the Heroes’ Guild went to extra lengths to investigate the killing of its members. The law left a gray area around thugs and heroes fighting or slaying each other, but every thug knew that some jobs were of a darker shade. In those cases, it was best to head off any inquiry by outside authorities.
The trick was that the degree of proof that guild coroners and medical investigators required was inversely proportional to the degree of risk in the investigation. When a hero was found dead in the street, a full forensic autopsy was usually needed to satisfy the guild’s council, but proving that a party of heroes entered a Flame Drake lair and didn’t exit again was usually enough to end any inquiry. Such a practice made deadly locales like the Myrewood, the Black Gorge, and the Ash Wastes the best places for thugs to handle any business they’d rather keep quiet; listing “the Myrewood” as the cause of a hero’s death would settle any investigation.
The benefits of conducting the ambush in the middle of a deadly swamp had been explained to Tuomas several times over, and he understood the theory. Yet, sitting among the black trees, Tuomas was certain he’d have rather dealt with a mountain of paperwork than spend another hour in the swamp.
“Keep your eyes forward, Tuomas,” barked Damrod.
“Aye, sir,” said Tuomas, standing.
Damrod the Eye was called as much for the single leering eye that stared from his knobby, scarred face. The old mercenary stood in the entry to the cave, flanked by the other four veteran thugs, rain dripping from his crimson cloak. “And stop looking back at the stiffs.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tuomas, joining the others at the mouth of the cave. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, guarding against a chill from the enchanted bricks of ice sitting in the cave behind him. They stood and watched the darkness brood outside the torchlight.
“How come yous didn’t bring the Mask along with yous?” said Big Blenny, who followed the ancient Thugs’ Union tradition of adding an ‘s’ to the end of every pronoun.
“He’s on other business,” said Damrod.
Something in the distant darkness roared, and then shrieked as it was eaten by something larger and more deadly. Tuomas was a little embarrassed to discover that he was subconsciously polishing his shield again.
“Hey, where’s Davitt?” said Big Blenny.
Tuomas looked all around. Classy Davitt had been at the end of the line, sitting on a large stone that was now occupied by his ominously discarded top hat.
“Eyes forward, lads,” Damrod said. He drew his sword, and the rest of the thugs readied their weapons.
Tuomas thought he heard something behind him—a wet slap, or a low shuffle. It was hard to tell, because things were definitely moving outside the cave as well.
“Eyes forward, thrice curse you Tuomas!” roared Damrod.
Tuomas startled to attention. “Sorry, sir. I thought I heard something back by the—”
“Never you mind the cave! You keep your thrice-cursed eyes on the woods! Don’t you worry about those bloody corpses. They’ve been dead for weeks—”
Damrod was cut off by a shriek. Dead green arms grabbed Vondo Tar-Mouth by the head and pulled him, screaming, back into the cave.
“That is not as much of an impediment as one might think,” said a cold, hollow voice from the darkness.
“Weapons up,” roared Damrod. “Ready yourselves, lads! Stay—aaarg!” Something seized the screaming mercenary and hauled him into the dark woods.
Tuomas readied his sword. He saw Hogar dragged into the shadows outside the cave, and Big Blenny fleeing into the woods. All around him, he heard shrieks and wails and inhuman growls.
“Stay back!” he shouted. “Stay back! I warn you!”
The shadows were unswayed by the mercenary’s commands. Unnatural figures stalked toward him from the darkness.
“Please! Stay back!”
Classy Davitt stepped into the torchlight, his eyes dull and lifeless, his head hanging sideways from his thick, broken neck. The corpse jerked and lurched like a marionette at the mercy of a drunken puppeteer as he approached Tuomas.
“Davitt! Davitt, it’s me! Tuomas!”
Davitt stopped.
“Yes! It’s me! Remember? Remember how we talked about finding nice girls back home? You don’t have to … to …”
Davitt’s body bent down, picked up his fallen top hat, and placed it carefully atop the upturned side of his face.
“Oh, never mind the bloody hat,” said the voice in the darkness. “Be quick about it.”
Classy Davitt groaned something in response and staggered forward once more. The last thing Tuomas saw was the overdressed corpse staggering toward him with outstretched arms.
Chapter 11
“Do you see it?” said Heraldin.
“It’s a weasel,” said Laruna.
“And I’m a bejewled basilisk. It’s a ravenous death machine,” said Heraldin.
The heroes huddled in a line behind a fallen log, their eyes barely peeking over the mossy bark. Beyond the fallen log, a tiny ball of fur sat in the middle of the road, giving itself a vigorous tongue bath.
“Should we go around it?” said Niln.
“Ye think we should leave the road?” said Gorm.
The heroes looked. The Myrewood seethed around them. Its black, gnarled trees seemed to block out the sunlight just to spite whatever lived below them. The ground was thick with thorns and creeping nettles, but it still allowed for glimpses of rope-thick centipedes and hand-sized arachnids stalking each other through the undergrowth. Weird, bulbous fungus poked up through the leaf litter, occasionally rattling as some unknown creature slithered or skittered beneath them. Mysterious pools of muck periodically erupted with thick, greasy bubbles filled with noxious gasses.
“Good point,” said Niln.
“We could have ridden past it, if we still had the horses,” said Heraldin.
“Right into the jaws of something bigger ’n’ nastier,” said Gorm. “The smell of horseflesh brings trouble.”
“Somebody just go over there and kill it,” said Laruna.
“Sorry, I like my jugular,” said Heraldin.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Have you noticed where we are?” whispered the bard harshly. “Everything here is man-eating or acid-spitting or spike-shooting!”
“It’s smaller than a cat,” said Jynn.
“So was that explosive firebeetle you sent me after.”
“And you’re fine.”
“I barely got behind cover in time. Gaist here thought I was as good as dead.”
Gaist nodded.
“Send the Goblin,” said Heraldin.
“Nub nub,” said Gleebek, shaking his head.
“We ain’t sendin’ anyone. The bard’s right,” said Gorm. “If we don’t know what it is, we assume it wants to kill us.”
“Gods, do we have to stop and hold a high council for every minor distraction we encounter?” said Laruna. “This quest is going to take forever.”
“I prefer slow going to a sudden stop, if ye catch me drift.”
“I could hit it with a subtle spell—” Jynn
suggested.
“Oh no,” said Heraldin. “Remember last time we tried magic.”
“I didn’t mean to attract those bloodsnakes!” said Laruna defensively.
“Well, I’m sure the two of ye won’t mean to call over whatever your next spell attracts either,” said Gorm. “No spellcastin’ unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Shh! Shush! It’s coming this way!” said Niln.
The heroes watched breathlessly as the creature ambled toward their log. It wiggled its ratty nose at them, forgot about whatever had brought it in their general direction, and resumed licking itself.
“Anybody have their copy of the Heroes’ Guild Handbook?” said Gorm.
“I do,” said Niln. He pulled the thick volume from his rucksack.
“Look it up,” said Gorm.
Niln nodded and started flipping through the tome.
“Look,” said Jynn. “One throwing dagger to the back of that thing’s head and we’re done. It’s simple.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Heraldin. “It’s always ‘protect the mages.’ ‘Defend the mages.’ I’ve been bitten and stabbed today more times than I care to remember just so you two can ‘concentrate.’”
“The right spell can mean the difference between victory and defeat,” said Jynn. “Protecting the spellcasters is a sound tactical decision.”
“I don’t see why Kaitha can’t shoot the bloody thing with an arrow,” said Laruna.
“Myrewood … Mire with a ‘y.’ Ah, all right. Fauna …” muttered Niln.
“Look under ‘weasel,’” said Gorm. “And where is Kaitha anyway?”
“Protecting casters is well and good, but I prefer tactics that don’t designate me as the meat shield,” Heraldin told the mages.
“Why? You’re quite suited for it,” Jynn said.
“Kaitha?” whispered Gorm.
“She said she’d be right back,” Niln said absently, flipping through his Handbook.
Heraldin shot Jynn a glare. “Look, wizard, you may think—”
Gaist interrupted the bard by seizing his collar and hauling the man up to look over the log.
“You … may … I …” Heraldin’s voice fell away as he looked up.
“Bloody bones,” swore Gorm. “She split the party?”
“Oh, here it is!” said Niln, examining an article next to a picture of the little creature. “It says here that … oh.”
Jynn looked over the priest’s shoulder at the entry. “Perhaps you were right, Heraldin.”
“Perhaps,” said the bard, craning his neck back.
“Of all the thrice-cursed stupid times to run off and split the bloody party!” Gorm snorted. “Who knows what trouble she’s in?”
“Maybe she thought we could handle a little weasel,” said Laruna.
“Burn what she thought!” barked Gorm. “We don’t know what we’re up against!”
“We do, unfortunately.” Niln read from an entry in the Handbook. “It says here that the Northern Ragnaril, Tyrannus incresco, when enraged, will actually—”
“Grow to enormous size?” said Heraldin, looking higher.
“Why, yes. How … did … you—oh.”
They stood just as the towering ragnaril roared.
Heraldin drew his rapier grimly. “Gods, I hate this place.”
Kaitha crept through the malignant undergrowth of the Myrewood. Her hair had wound itself into an intricate web of knots and was cemented in place by some unidentifiable muck that one swamp denizen or another had spat on her in the heat of battle. Sweat and swamp grime were having a turf-war all over her body. Whichever won, her nose lost.
All she needed was a private space, Kaitha told herself. She just needed one potion to take the edge off, to make this nightmare of a quest a little more bearable. Getting a hit of elixir would take no more than five minutes; the others would hardly notice she was gone before she’d be back.
Something roared behind her, back where she’d left the other heroes. For a moment, she thought of turning back, but her wrists itched at the thought of not taking a potion. A fast one. She’d be back with the other heroes soon. No more than ten minutes.
She slipped around an ancient and gnarled oak, climbed over a stone wall overgrown with thick vines, and scurried down a gully choked with heavy brambles. There was a sheltered spot in the belly of the gulch, and Kaitha settled into it quickly. Her hands trembled as she pulled the healing potion and her hunting knife from her rucksack. Quickly, she removed her bracer and rolled up her sleeve.
The knife was almost to her wrist when the light caught her eye. It was just a faint glow under the brambles, as though the light wanted to look inconspicuous lest the huge shadows around it take notice and decide to snuff it out. But it was sunlight, and it carried with it the sweet scent of air unsullied by the Myrewood’s foulness.
Something else carried on the fresh air as well—a sensation Kaitha couldn’t identify but couldn’t resist either. She slipped her rucksack back over her shoulder and put her knife to work cutting back the thick brambles. It took several minutes for her to thin the undergrowth enough to push through the briar. Kaitha stepped through the thorns.
The knife fell from her hands. Her breath caught in her throat.
Exquisite arrangements of wildflowers and emerald grasses spread before her. A few yards away, she found a stone path grown over with sugarmoss and mint-green lichens. Kaitha followed the path up a gentle slope, meandering under white trees that had been coaxed into natural arches. A cool stream of fresh, pure water bubbled alongside her. The branches overhead were sculpted such that brilliant sunlight cascaded into the glade and cast scintillating patterns over everything.
Questions flooded her mind as she crossed the garden, treading lightly on brilliant mosses. Where was she? How could such a garden, beautiful enough to rival the greatest of House Tyrieth’s palatial grounds, be growing in the heart of the Myrewood? Who could conceive of a place like this, let alone grow and maintain it? Was it the work of a man, or a god? And if it was a man, was he single?
A song she didn’t remember sprang to mind, and she couldn’t hold it back. It had been decades since she’d lifted her voice, and her first notes wavered uneasily. She found the music soon enough, however, and filled the garden with her song.
There is a law to the universe, and among its many precepts is the certainty that when an Elven princess sings, small animals will be drawn to the song. Even if the princess was technically disowned centuries ago, and had since become a washed-up hero of somewhat ill-repute, and even if the only animals nearby were hardened and battle-scarred from a lifetime of fighting for survival in a death swamp, the law still held true. Ragged chipmunks and venomous snakes alike followed in Kaitha’s footsteps, swaying with the melody of her song. She gently patted the nose of a savage-looking deer, the kind of grizzled doe that a soft puma from the foothills wouldn’t stand a chance against.
For a time, she walked along the winding path, singing to the animals that flitted and skittered around her. In the inner parts of the garden, a song answered hers—a piping melody she hadn’t heard for decades. An aithanalasi was perched high in the branches, sending its enchanting melody throughout the garden. Kaitha’s smile widened as the tiny bird’s music began to harmonize with her own, and soon she was in a duet with the most sacred of songbirds.
She began to dance, gracefully twirling through the trees with an imaginary partner. They danced beneath arches of lilacs, past fruit trees grown into exquisitely flowing shapes. She commented on the flowers as she passed, telling her nonexistent companion which blooms caught her fancy, or asking what his favorites were.
As Kaitha danced and spoke with her imagined partner, she felt a growing sensation he was actually there. Not in her arms, certainly, but just beyond the edge of her vision, like a spirit of the garden, moving along with her. It was like dancing with the memory of a lover, only one that she’d never known. She told him as much, but he remained si
lent.
Before she knew it, she was at the end of the path. Ivy and brilliant blooms spilled over the rocks like a lush, living river. Vibrant bushes and patches of wildflowers sprang from carefully arranged stones. Squarely in front of her, an ancient maple sat like a holy man atop a cluster of moss-covered boulders. The largest, clearest stream of sunlight poured down and bathed the maple and its stone circle in sacred light.
Kaitha stepped from the path and into the inner sanctum.
The garden’s winding stream burbled from a spring beneath the stones. As Kaitha stole a sip of the cool spring water, she noticed a spot worn free of moss near the base of a large rock. Someone had moved the stone—recently, and often.
It took a surprising amount of effort to move the stone. Kaitha had to brace her back against it and use her legs to rock it from its place. It finally toppled with an explosion of vibrant color. Lavender beads, painted thrones pieces, mussel shells, scraps of velvet, violet figurines and decorations, grape quartz and amethysts; a spectrum of purple trinkets bled from a cleft in the stone. Kaitha watched the violet mass spill over the mossy ground, and knew whose garden this was.
“Hello?” she said. “Are you the King in the Wood?”
The garden was silent.
“Are you there?”
As she recalled the innkeeper’s tale of the Myrewood’s mysterious monarch, it dawned on Kaitha that the King in the Wood was known primarily for protecting people from the perils of the swamp she was currently wandering through. It also occurred to her that, while the tales depicted the king as some sort of benevolent force, he may react differently to Elves who entered his sanctuary and vandalized his stash of brightly colored trinkets.
“I’m … I’m sorry about this … I … I really didn’t mean to,” said Kaitha. She drew the violet star-beads she had purchased from the innkeeper and placed them atop the pile of spilled trinkets in a feeble gesture.
And now the full weight of her folly was bearing down on her. She didn’t know who the King in the Wood was, or what he was. The presence in the forest could have been a benevolent protector, but it could just as easily have been some loathsome denizen of the Myrewood luring her to a horrible doom, like some sort of botanical siren. The shadows were already starting to lengthen, and if she couldn’t find the other heroes again before sunset, she’d be spending the night alone in the Myrewood.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 20