by Lana Nielsen
Arithel shot another dog; the arrow stuck in its back but had little effect. She supposed it hadn’t sunk deep enough. It was difficult aiming straight down, past leaves and branches. The bow had nearly slipped from her grasp. She decided to wait—the pack would lose interest eventually.
Darren had already proven a fool and a coward. He had unthinkingly assisted some mad girl, he hadn’t noticed the dogs edging towards him, and as soon as he caught sight of the beasts, he had run. Arithel sighed and swung her leg across another branch to settle into a more comfortable position.
The glow of a torch moved towards the glade. It was Fallon and he was on horseback. Arithel shouted from the treetop, trying to prevent him from getting too close to the hounds—the dogs would slice clumsy Madroste apart. Fallon did not hear her over the din of howling and barking.
Fallon dismounted and handed the reins to Darren, who had suddenly reappeared, although without the baby.
Fallon approached the dogs, waving around his torch in hopes of scaring them off. He yelled at them, but Arithel couldn’t hear what he was saying. She did hear Darren absurdly ask her to throw her bow down to him.
The dogs ignored Fallon at first, but when he walked closer, the glow of his torch became brighter. As he swung it around, the flames licked out at their hides and they retreated. They stared at Fallon and backpedaled towards the disc in the middle of the glade, their eyes like rubies in the light. Arithel was amazed—they were not at all normal dogs, and they definitely weren’t rabid. There was something intelligent about their gaze, about the careful tilt of their heads.
Arithel eased down to a lower branch, watching the hounds skulk away.
She heard a whistle. It came from the other side of the trees, where some sort of creature stood, tall and robed in black. It had moss for hair and its face consisted of an antlered deer skull. It had no hands, at least none that she could see, beyond the tattered folds of its dark mantle.
It whistled again, a sweet and arching melody, something like a lullaby, calling the dogs.
Arithel was glad she was in the tree. She swore the creature gazed straight at her. It had no eyes, just shadows within the hollows of the skull.
“Tifalla!” Darren cried out. He was overcome by a frenzy, chanting prayers and pulling at his hair like a lunatic. He tried to wrest the torch from Fallon but Fallon pushed him aside.
“Hush!” Arithel hissed from the tree.
The dogs gathered round the creature; it stroked the whimpering hound Arithel had shot. The thing turned and walked away with a stiff, hobbling gait, out of the glade and into the pasture, vanishing into the night.
Arithel jumped from the tree, her knees aching as she hit the earth.
The travelers walked quickly back to the road. Arithel noted that the girl was gone. She questioned Darren as to why, and he replied “once I returned the babe, she fled without another word.”
No one said anything else until they crossed the fence, and their feet were back on the roadstones.
***
Fallon was the first to speak. His eyes were narrowed and his face was flushed with anger.
“Your heroics—” He pointed at Darren, nearly poking him in the chest. “Almost got you and Arithel killed. If you want to stay with us, I suggest you think before you act!”
“I’m sorry,” Darren mumbled, looking rather embarrassed.
“I don’t need an apology, I need a thanks,” Arithel said. “For saving you.”
“Thanks, you’re a good shot...” Darren answered.
He hadn’t wanted to thank her at first; he felt humiliated for having run like a scared chicken. And the maiden had not thanked him for saving her brother. She had only giggled and run. She had been a little mad, really. Perhaps Arithel had been right… there had been something strange about the situation. He should have let the girl be.
“Did you see the deer-man?” Arithel said in a low voice to Fallon.
Fallon shrugged. “The weather has brought all the eccentrics out of the woodwork. A curious costume, wasn’t it?”
“You don’t think there was anything unnatural about his dogs?” she muttered, glancing back at Darren. He acted as if he wasn’t paying attention to their conversation. He slowed his pace, began whistling low, and fiddled with the buttons on his coat.
“Oh, Arithel,” Fallon let out a smug laugh, and leaned in close to whisper: “You’ll only ever see what you’re already looking for.”
She huffed and stepped away when he tried to drape his arm across her shoulders.
***
As the travelers searched for a tavern in Rothburgh, a small group of Nureenian soldiers approached them. The men were clad in plate armour that clinked with each step they took. Two bore heavy spears and the third had a crossbow in hand. It was difficult to discern whether they were on a routine patrol or eyeing the travelers suspiciously. The soldiers’ hostile demeanor quickly suggested it was the latter.
Darren whispered to Arithel as the Nureenians drew near: “What do you think they’re going to say to us? I don’t get it. What did we do?”
All three soldiers were black-haired with certain distinguishing heavy facial features: close-set dark eyes, hawkish noses, and narrow, downturned mouths.
“It’s probably nothing,” she reassured Darren.
His eyes widened as one Nureenian drew his sword.
“Let me handle this. You two stay here,” Fallon ordered. Arithel sighed. She wasn’t sure what was worse—Fallon’s arrogance or Darren’s foolishness.
Fallon marched up to the men, hand resting upon the delicate silver hilt of his sword. He greeted them with a theatrical sweep of his arm. Darren looked at Arithel.
“He lived in the Empire for a time. He knows their ways,” Arithel explained. Darren nodded. Fallon conversed with the Nureenians in their language. The sound of it was discordant to her ears, with its lisps and acidic vowels.
As far as she could glean from her limited understanding of Nureenian, Fallon had told the soldiers that they were on a pilgrimage to a saint’s shrine in the far south of Elinmoor. The guards glanced at each other dubiously and pointed at the great pack on Madroste. The men spoke in low voices among themselves, then apologized to Fallon. They mentioned ‘unrest’ in Neldor and said they had to question all Neldorin travelers as a precaution.
“We should fight off the Nureenians next time they bother us,” Darren remarked to Arithel.
She laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Arithel grinned. “How are you going to handle Nureenians when you can’t handle a few dogs?”
Darren frowned. “That’s different,” he said. “Besides, I know you saw what I saw, devil-red eyes and poisoned breath, bleeding from the—”
“They were a little mangy, overfed perhaps,” she quickly interrupted him.
“New plan. We camp on the road tonight,” Fallon announced when he was done with the Nureenians.
They stayed in an abandoned barn on the edge of town.
***
Darren and Fallon fell asleep fast, exhausted by the day’s trek. Overcome by curiosity about the situation in Neldor, Arithel returned alone to Rothburgh for news. It was quite late; only a scruffy assortment of glassy-eyed men were out.
She approached a middle-aged fellow selling pamphlets and bottles of brandy.
“What?” he barked in an irritated tone, though his features softened a bit once he realized she was a young woman.
She tried to mimic the way Elinmoorians talked. “I’ve a question ta ask ye.”
“Aye?”
“I’ve heard talk of some skirmishin’ in Neldor. I’ma wonderin’ if ye heard how far it had spread and who is in power now. Or if there were any, ya know, major battles.”
“What do ya want to know that fer? Young folk these days—not only do even the girls prowl the streets at night, but they badger ye with questions of no meanin’ to their daily life.” He shook his hea
d and took a sip of his drink.
“Well?” Arithel prodded him. “Do ye know or not? I’ve cousins to the north.”
“All I’ve heard from the town crier is that Commander Arderon has taken the throne, and his forces took over most Neldor easy last week. I hear t’was rather quick in most towns, and once Arderon’s men made camp outside the capital, King Cyril just up and surrendered.”
“King Arderon,” Arithel whispered. She knew it had been inevitable, but it was still surreal, especially since Ronan was so close with the man.
“Well, I wouldn’t say he’s king yet. He supposedly—from what I’ve heard, mind you, my nephew is a messenger for the Nureenians and tells me these things…” the old man rambled.
“Aye, aye, go on, supposedly what?”
“Supposedly Arderon wants to set up a new model of government, one rather like Nureen’s—just a general in charge, who’ll answer to both appointed and elected delegates from each region. Of course, he’ll probably have to bargain a bit to get it all straight.”
“Ah. The Nureenians should be flattered another country is copying them,” Arithel laughed, and the man shot her a wary look. Perhaps she was too loud.
“Aye, well just because they’re flattered doesn’t mean they ain’t worried. The Nureenians had hoped that weak Cyril would stay on the throne and that Neldor’d be ripe for the takin’ in a year or so. You know, takin’ Neldor woulda been a much greater victory than just takin’ us.” He chuckled.
“Thank you for the answers,” Arithel told him, though he didn’t reveal anything she hadn’t already suspected.
***
The next morning the travelers continued their course towards Altinsayah. The rolling heath soon descended into a thick spread of forest, full of gloomy cedars and ferns. It was an old patch of woods—the snaking branches of the trees formed a claustrophobia-inducing canopy over the road, a tunnel dripping with tangles of vines and moss. The air was humid and still under the grey boughs and many shallow ponds dotted the glades. Mist rose from the soggy earth and frogs and crickets hummed.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Darren remarked.
“It does have a strange air about it. I never expected to sweat so much in October, especially with the dimming sun. It’s as if this forest draws all the heat from the surrounding areas,” Arithel observed.
“It’s called Wilderwood,” Fallon informed them.
“You’ve been through here before?” Darren asked.
Fallon nodded.
“Did it always have this smell?” Darren said.
“Most boggy places are rather pungent, aye,” Fallon answered.
“How long does it take to pass through?” Arithel asked.
“Unfortunately, a day or two. The road meanders around the edge of the wood,” Fallon told them.
“You’ve never mentioned this detour,” Arithel said.
“What is there to say? It’s a wet patch of woods. And it’s directly in our path, it’s not a detour.”
“You know I wasn’t speaking literally...”
Fallon nodded, and pulled out a compass. Arithel figured they had become more expensive lately—the constant cloud cover made reading the sun and stars impossible.
“We could take a shortcut,” Fallon said, motioning for Arithel. He pointed out the boundary of Wilderwood on his map, and showed how veering off the road and cutting through the middle of the forest could save hours of walking.
“Fine by me,” Arithel said.
“But what if there’s a reason the road doesn’t follow the more direct route in the first place?” Darren asked in a worried tone. He didn’t want to encounter more of Tifalla’s fiends. He wanted to fight, sure—just not supernatural beings that even priests would tremble at.
“The road is old. That’s the only reason it’s inefficient. Used to be hunting grounds for Elinmoorian nobles. The land’ll be easy enough to traverse. It’s low-lying and free of predators. We shouldn’t run into too many people either. Even raiders find these woods disagreeable,” said Fallon.
“It’s not raiders I’m worried about. It’s just off in here, it’s a sense you get in the gut, you know? I can practically hear the fates chanting over their cauldron,” Darren muttered.
“Don’t be superstitious,” Arithel told him, placing her hand over his arm in a friendly gesture. “After all, you have Agron to guide you.”
***
They ventured off the path exactly where the map showed it was most advantageous. However once dusk arrived, they were still walking.
The ground became wetter, the air smelled fouler, and the undergrowth of the forest became thicker, threatening to swallow them whole. Arithel kept asking Fallon when they would reach the end. Fallon responded to her demands by walking much faster than her and muttering about how it was impossible for the map to be incorrect. He handed the map off to her in frustration as nightfall arrived. Arithel studied it and could not figure out where they had gone wrong. She surmised that perhaps they had simply underestimated how difficult the terrain was; it was quite the chore slogging through swamp and bramble.
Darren didn’t complain even as his face sank with exhaustion.
“I say we stop on that hill for the night,” Arithel suggested as she stepped through ankle-deep muck. “We’ll get through the forest by tomorrow afternoon, surely.”
“Aye, let’s make camp. I swear the scale must be off on my map.” Fallon offered yet another excuse.
“I thought you said you were familiar with the area. Did it take this long before?” Darren asked.
“It might have, I don’t really remember… I stayed on the road.”
He seemed ashamed to admit it.
“We’re aimlessly stumbling about the bush,” Arithel muttered to herself as she led Madroste up the hill.
Fallon helped Arithel tie the horse to a tree. Darren scoured the ground for kindling.
“I wouldn’t bother, Darren. I doubt anything around here is dry enough for a decent fire,” Arithel told him.
He ignored her. To her surprise, he was able to utilize some of the thorny underbrush. He pulled a piece of flint from his pocket and repeatedly struck it against his knife. After five or six tries, the sparks ignited the scrub. It was a small, slow-burning fire until Fallon stoked it with medicinal alcohol from one of the many glass vials he kept in his pack.
As usual, they supped on smoked fish with pieces of coarse rye bread. It was not an especially palatable meal but it filled their stomachs nicely. Arithel removed her shoes and stockings to dry her water-logged feet. Her boots were caked with mud, which she meticulously scraped off with her knife. Darren looked uncomfortable when he took notice of her bare legs. Arithel smirked to herself and pulled her skirts above her knee to see how he’d react. Predictably, he averted his eyes.
Arithel wrapped herself with two wool blankets, wadding up the fabric of her cloak into a makeshift pillow. She predicted a crick in her neck come morning. Darren hummed some annoying ditty as he prepared his bedding a few feet away, and Arithel unsuccessfully wracked her brain to identify the tune. The last thing she saw before falling asleep was Fallon, leaning against a tree trunk as he scribbled into a tiny leather-bound notebook.
***
Arithel was awakened by a finger tapping her shoulder. She was so weary that she continued to lay there like an old log.
“What?” she groaned, seeing Fallon standing over her.
He whispered, “I need to show you something,”
“Now?”
“Yes,” Fallon said, and offered his hand to her. Arithel nodded reluctantly and accepted it. He led her away from the campsite.
They walked for several minutes, stooping beneath drooping webs of vine.
“Where are we going? This is a long way and I’m not even wearing shoes,” Arithel said. Cool mud and broken fragments of wet leaves squished between her toes.
“Just a little further. I don’t want to awaken Darren and have him see anyt
hing,” Fallon answered.
Arithel arched an eyebrow. “Wait a minute, you’re not suggesting…” She was unsure whether she minded at all, even though he had insulted her in Lindelwood.
“No,” scoffed Fallon. “By Agron, Arithel, is your mind always on that track? I’m flattered, but no.”
“Oh, shut up,” Arithel rolled her eyes. “That isn’t what I meant.”
Fallon shot her a dubious look, and stopped walking once they reached a break in the trees. He removed something from the satchel that he kept slung at his back—a cylindrical object with a dark cloth wrapped tightly about it.
“This is why I brought you out here.” He nodded towards the object, and began to unravel its binds. He slipped off the cloth to reveal a peculiar metal device that Arithel had never seen before. The main component was a hollow tube, about the length of a dagger and the girth of her wrist. Its metallic surface was duller than silver yet brighter than steel—an alloy, perhaps? Its downwardly projecting handle looked like it was crafted from enamel and it had grooves carved for fingers. There were patterns of interlocking triangles engraved into the metal.
“It must be a musket,” Arithel reasoned immediately. “Looks different than what I imagined, though, more like a miniaturized cannon.”
Fallon’s eyes brightened as he looked at her. “It’s far more rare and valuable than that.”
“Where did you get it? Certainly not from Neldor.” She laughed.
“Morden gave it to me. It’s an artifact, recovered from an ancient city beneath the Dalgarang Mountains. They found this and two other weapons like it in a chest among the ruins, perfectly preserved. Morden says it is over ten thousand years old. As you can see, finer smiths existed in the past.”
“Are you so certain it’s an ancient weapon? How does Morden know? They’re inventing some remarkable things in the Empire. I doubt something like this could have lasted all those years. It would have rusted, at the least...”
“I was there when the Padenite slaves brought the chest to Morden. I saw him crack open the lid himself with an axe. The account I told you is as real as the ground you’re standing upon. And it’s not iron or steel. It’s a type of metal that comes from the stars themselves. It’s indestructible,” he informed her, his eyes unblinking.