17878265

by David

  As Marblin’s oration finally reached its overdue conclusion, Loric grasped his moment to speak, saying, “Marblin, you are a dear friend to me, so I will confess that I am not lacking in reservations about taking this route. However, I must do this. Furthermore, Warnyck and Barag have chosen to go with me.” Loric maintained his momentum with an upraised finger against further rebuttals as he went on, “You do not have to go with us. You can stay here and wait for our return. We will know where to find you when we conclude our business with Nimshar.”

  Loric intentionally paused before adding, “Unfortunately, the specter has been here before, so it too will know where to find you.”

  Marblin worked his jaw in a fit of nervousness, before he gained control over it to counter,

  “You can’t scare me into going.”

  “Come on, Marblin!” Kelvion chirped.

  Loric, Warnyck and Barag strapped on weapons and hoisted packs, while the obstinate

  Moonwatcher muttered, as much to himself as to them, “I-I’ll w-wait r-right here, until you come back. That’s right! I’ll wait.” Loric patted him on the shoulder, bade him farewell and turned away. “You can find me right here,” came Marblin’s wavering good-bye. When Barag set his sword to vines to lead the party away, the old guardsman forced a thin laugh and feebly asked them, “Are you fellows sure you want to go?”

  Warnyck wheeled menacingly and replied in a low, hushed voice, “What could we do to

  help you against that man from otherworld anyway?”

  Loric bit back a chuckle and encouraged haste from Barag, who attacked bitter tendrils of the forest with brutish force. “Oh, Great Donigan!” was all that the young knight needed to hear to know that his obstinate friend was tossing his belongings into his bag, so as not to be left behind. Marblin called after them, “W-Wait for me! I-I’ll only be a moment.”

  Kelvion giggled, causing the men to snicker.

  In his eagerness to rejoin his companions, Marblin raced up the path without noticing that Warnyck had knelt to prepare himself for a prank. The scout smeared mud on his face, poked leafy twigs into his braids and tucked a stick without bark between his nose and his upper lip.

  The unwitting Moonwatcher fell on his behind and tossed nearly every item from his loosely secured pack when the scout turned on him, with his twisted mouth exploding, “Boo!”

  “Oh, very funny!” growled Marblin, whose companions burst into laughter around him.

  With a growl, he pushed himself to his feet and collected everything he had lost from his pack.

  Loric caught his friend muttering hours after the incident. In fact, he distinctly remembered Marblin saying, “Turnabout for you, jester scout.”

  On that less-than solemn, less-than quest-like note, the group headed deep into Dimwood Forest. Barag led the way, hewing a path through sticky tendrils, with Loric following close behind him to watch for signs of the apparition. Kelvion marched directly behind Loric, deliberately keeping his body in the knight’s shadow at all times, and so, literally adhering to instructions his guardian had given him. Marblin was next in line and ever-alert Warnyck guarded the party from the rear. They proceeded further into the silent wood, with the steady whack of Barag’s blade against hard vines and the steady movements of their feet swishing through leaves the only noises to disrupt the sanctity of Dimwood’s utter quiet.

  The companions had scarcely been underway for half-sands before uneasiness settled over them. Perhaps the irrational contrast of the forest’s nighttime and daytime voices brought on their sense of dread, for the place sang songs of torment through dark hours, while slanting rays of morning sun severed its vocal chords come dawn. In any case, they could not help but feel ominous dread of eyes upon them.

  Loric checked on Marblin, who had been least willing to follow the specter’s trail. The Moonwatcher Guard had his left wrist pressed to his lips, which were fast moving. His wild eyes and fervent manner suggested he was mouthing a quiet prayer. Loric shuddered, somewhat unnerved by the reaction of his superstitious friend.

  Loric looked to the scout’s calm, confident and self-assured face for support. That did not help him. Uncertainty had even eroded Warnyck’s cockiness. Loric could not escape the eerie sensation that had come upon him, like icy cold fingers tickling at his neck.

  Barag hacked away in front of Loric. The big man’s motions were slow and methodical, as he blindly toiled forward, unaware of and unwatchful for, anything but vengeful vines barring his way. Barag was a rock, like the mountain stone from which giants of the Highlands were born in tales almost forgotten. That unshakable warrior served as the foundation upon which Loric built his personal fortress against the terror that was assailing him from every cubic inch of Dimwood.

  Drawing upon Barag’s dutiful approach to the task before him, Loric mastered his anxiety and drew his sword with a challenging ring. That inspired the men behind him, because two more blades sang in echo to his own. Loric was reassured that Warnyck and Marblin had regained some of their old confidence as result of his action. He decided to let his shield slip from his shoulder to his forearm as well, while he mentally thanked Barag for his steady approach to this wicked forest out of time and legend.

  The wood began whispering. The new voice of the forest made Loric’s hairs stand attention.

  He closed his ears to that unnerving sound and continued forward behind his never-flinching townsman. Loric was unable to shut the noise out for long. It came to a crescendo of maddening hisses. The knight could not ignore it. Hushed voices assailed him from all sides. They were worse to listen to than whispers townsfolk of Taeglin had ever been. Temptation arose within Loric to run down the path to escape the sound, but he mastered his fear by the strength of his will.

  The companions felt unseen eyes settle upon them as they progressed nearer the heart of Dimwood. Quiet verbalizations from the thick growth surrounding the party, along with the cold, dead stare of the wood itself, caused Loric a sudden chill. He saw movement to his left. He turned his head to track it. He saw nothing more. Nevertheless, the hand of Fear touched his shoulder.

  Loric eyed each member of his party to discern who else might have seen the flitting

  shadow. Barag was absorbed in the monotony off his task, rhythmically cleaving barb-bearing cords asunder. Marblin’s eyes were wild and unsettled, but that had been true throughout this leg of the journey. When Loric met Warnyck’s wary stare, the scout nodded affirmation of the fact that he too had seen something.

  That did little to comfort Loric. A rush of adrenalin worked to heighten his sensory

  perception, until he was certain there were humanoid figures skirting from shrub-to-tree and vice versa all along the flanks of the sword-hewn path. Loric nervously worked his hand about the hilt of his weapon in anticipation of impending attack, knowing that he and his friends were outnumbered more than twenty-to-one.

  The son of Palendar did not like his party’s odds against those stealthy forest dwellers who were stalking them. Their terror tactics had Marblin cowed, so that Loric doubted the old guardsman would be useful in the coming fight. He and Warnyck were still suffering from wounds inflicted upon them by Floating Shadows, and Kelvion was a child. Barag was the only member of the group who was healthy and itching to fight, and he had already taxed the cleaving power of his thick right arm in his battle with cumbersome vines strewn across his path. Loric’s thin hope for victory by might of battle prowess all but left him.

  Loric thought of Beledon free from war. He envisioned bright sunshine on grassy hilltops overlooking Moon River. In his mind, the greenest mound became the site of a picnic with Avalana. Thoughts like that calmed his fears, but then he became mired in the truth that he was unlikely to turn his daydream into reality. In times like this, when countless miles and innumerable foes separated Loric from the Princess of Regalsturn, despair was his most determined foe. Thankfully, a touch of his ladylove’s bracelet against his skin chased his dark thoughts away.

/>   Loric awoke from his daydream when he bumped into Barag, who had come to a sudden

  stop before him. The collision sent Barag tumbling. Loric landed on his face. The Sword of Logant flew from his grasp. The knight scrabbled after his weapon on all fours and wrapped his fingers about its hilt. When he made to rise, he heard his friends gasp as a collective. Loric felt ice upon his shoulder. He staggered back from the painful chill, ready to strike. He stopped himself before he could start his deadly steel in motion. An aged man stood before him.

  The old fellow was small and thin. His bent posture further added to his undersized

  appearance. He was clothed in a shabby brown robe that reminded Loric of those dead trees all around him, and the crooked, gnarled staff upon which he leaned seemed little different from branches above him. His gray eyes were bright and aware, but the sagging skin beneath them looked tired with age. A buzzard-like beak was fixed directly between those gray circles. Thin wisps of straight, white hair covered the crown of the old man’s head, but sparsely. Those snow-colored threads were denser around the sides of his head than up top, but he kept them trimmed shorter around his ears. The apparition that had appeared to Loric in the night had come to him in the flesh. Yet, the man’s touch was as cold as a corpse from a graveyard.

  The aged man motioned Loric to rise with two upraised palms. Loric struggled to his feet.

  Then the old man turned to walk away, leaving the back of his hand resting on his shoulder, from whence his index finger curled to coax the group on. Loric made to follow him, but Warnyck grabbed his arm in a painful grip.

  “Wait a minute,” the scout protested.

  The old man kept walking. Loric batted Warnyck’s hand away, saying, “I will follow this man, even unto my ending, friend scout. Follow if you will or stay here and look after Marblin.

  That is your choice to make.” Without awaiting a reply, Loric brushed past Warnyck.

  Barag followed hard after him.

  Warnyck was silent. Marblin was thrashing in the leaves, blubbering and spluttering. The scout clapped his hand to the old Moonwatcher and said, “Come along, Marblin. We are all in this together. I sure hope this old fellow proves useful,” he muttered.

  Loric’s focus was on the aged man before him. The silent elder said nothing to name

  himself, but Loric felt assured that he had found the hermit he was looking for. That could only be Nimshar the Old gliding along the path before him.

  The aged one crested a hilltop and disappeared in full light of the morning sun. Loric rubbed his eyes and blinked, amazed by what he had seen--or rather, by what he could no longer see. He raced to the place where the old man had last walked, afraid that he had lost him. He was gone.

  Loric scanned the area below him, anxious to see the least glimpse of his guide. His eyes shifted steadily back and forth, taking in the twisted ugliness of Dimwood, but there was no old man in sight. Loric spotted him. He was waving a bony arm from a shadowy hollow more than three hundred yards distant.

  “That’s impossible,” Barag grumbled uneasily from his place beside Loric. “How could he just vanish and reappear like that? It’s....”

  The big fellow simply could not bring himself to say the thing that Loric was also feeling.

  Uncanny was the first word to describe it, but that was altogether inadequate. Odd or unusual was neither one in the same realm as this thing. Loric shuddered and let the sensation in his spine finish for Barag, as he said, “Chilling.”

  A face with bulldog features nodded in silent reply.

  “Come along, friend,” Loric encouraged Barag. “He beckons.”

  “Yes,” Barag agreed. “It is waiting for us.”

  Warnyck dragged Marblin up behind them. “What is amiss?” he questioned.

  Loric walked on. Barag turned dull eyes on the scout and shrugged. Then he too marched on. Warnyck sighed and tagged along with Marblin in tow. Down the hillside they went. As the companions hurried to follow the mysterious old man, he led them on. Troublesome vines parted before the elderly fellow, who shuffled along at a surprisingly quick pace. The companions found it difficult to catch up with him.

  The travelers finally stepped in line behind the aged wanderer, who raised his arms from his sides and turned his palms outward. No sooner had he done so than a host of vines rose up from either side of the party to shield them from a hail of red-feathered darts that came from the left and right of them. The old man moved on as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Loric stared at Warnyck, hoping the scout had identified points of origin for those tiny missiles. Warnyck shrugged, held up his hands helplessly and sighed. Loric repeated his friend’s resigned expression, but little tension left him with that breath.

  “Wow!” shouted Kelvion. “Did you see that?”

  “Who are you?” Loric quietly demanded, ignoring Kelvion’s exclamations. “By what power do you do these things?”

  The old man did not check his pace. Neither did he turn, or even glance sidelong at Loric.

  He simply waved off his questions with a frail hand.

  That answer was not good enough for Loric, who reached out to grab the aged fellow by his shoulder. The knight was dismayed to feel his arm go limp and numb with icy pain as he spun the man about. He forgot his questions in his agony. If the wrenching anguish he felt in his arm had not been enough to make him drop the matter, the terror he felt as he truly saw his guide for the first time was enough to convince him of his folly. Loric had gazed upon a face enveloped in flames, with flesh falling away to reveal bones and teeth.

  Then Loric was on the ground, clutching his offending limb and writhing in pain. Three swords moved to intercept the man who had done this to him, with each respective wielder intending to punish the old man, but Loric commanded them, “Stop! I have affronted our guide, and I have received my just reward for my trespass. I should show respect and hold my questions until the appropriate time.” He buried his pain behind a stoical mask, and gave his arm a rigorous shake. “Besides,” he lied, “my arm is already beginning to feel better.”

  The old man turned and offered a slight bow in response to those words. Then he was off again, without awaiting further discussion.

  Barag reluctantly re-sheathed his blade.

  Warnyck fiercely stood his ground between Loric and the old man.

  Marblin was somewhat behind the scout, quavering with fright.

  Their guide stopped and regarded them with a cold grin that may have been an expression of patience.

  Loric clambered to his feet and put a firm palm to Warnyck’s shoulder, saying, “Friend, Warnyck, we have no quarrel with this man.”

  “How can you say that after-?” Warnyck started.

  “Again, I remind you that he has done no lasting harm to me,” Loric explained. “I simply overstepped my right place and received a due lesson in humility. It would be best for all of us to respect this man,” he warned. “Maybe he will help us find Nimshar. Perhaps he is the sorcerer we seek.”

  Loric felt tension melt from his friend’s muscles, so he released him. To the silent elder he offered, “A thousand apologies, worthy guide. Show us what you wish to show us.”

  Loric had many questions for the old man, but he had to be patient. Whatever his guide was, it was clearly not something to trifle with. Loric would only receive such information as his guide wished to give him, and only in the time of his choosing. It had been a terrible mistake to press him, especially to lay hands on him. Loric came away from that experience troubled to know that the aged wanderer could take his life on a whim, but likewise encouraged, knowing that he had not chosen to do so. Questions would have to wait.

  Waiting was not in Kelvion’s nature. “Are you the King of Dimwood?” he asked. Taking the old fellow’s silence for an affirmative reply, he asked, “Then why do you live in such a scary place?”

  The old man ignored the boy and waddled on.

  Loric said, “Be silent, Ke
lvion. We should only speak to our elders when spoken to.”

  The old man continued moving at a breathtaking rate, with brambles, shrubs and trees

  parting before him. The companions hustled to prevent being left behind, with Kelvion sometimes riding one of the grown men piggyback fashion. Their guide took them up a winding path, which climbed steadily and only took an occasional downward turn. Loric peered over his shoulder to see trees and tendrils closing like infinite doors behind Warnyck, who had posted himself rearguard. To Loric’s relief, there was no sign of pursuit.

  The party ascended a steep hill of loose shale. The way was difficult to traverse, until the ground finally leveled near its crest. The journey was easier for a time, as a seemingly never-ending descent followed. After what felt like an eternity of angling downward, the path took another upward shoot. The sudden climb lasted for close on an hour before they at last came to a large clearing.

  In the midst of the wretched, lifeless forest, which haunted the land for countless miles in every direction, was the grandest tree Loric and his companions had yet seen. It was perhaps the largest tree in all of Beledon. It was in full bloom, with its countless green leaves laying a heavy burden on its many branches. Loric finally understood why the entire floor of Dimwood was thick with brown carpet. A tree of such immensity could easily shed enough foliage to compensate for that which other dead growth in Dimwood lacked.

  “The Father of the Forest,” Loric whispered, awe-stricken.

  The others stood stupefied by the truth. They had come to the most visible of all trees in the forest, which they had never seen. Yet, they knew it for what it was, for what Loric had named it.

  Moreover, they had come to it on the heels of a mysterious guide: the apparition.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Keeper Speaks

  Aside from the great size and apparent good health of the tree, there was something else unusual about it. Set in the center of its great bole, upon three stout hinges, there hung a door, which looked to have been carven from the trunk itself. Higher up, to each side of the entryway, there was a window looking down on the newcomers and their mysterious guide. The Father of the Forest was a strange tree indeed.