Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  Like the precipitous crash of thunder from a midnight storm, the sound of wolf howls broke anew. It was the sound of wolves on the hunt. Kal knew this from Nua Cearta, and they were upon them from every direction. In that moment, even the hounds faltered in their baying, then redoubled their cries. The wolves' howling turned suddenly in pitch and tone and fell to angry growls and snarls. Amid the din of the ravening wolves rose the cries and yelps of both men and dogs, and, below that, sickening wet noises. It was unmistakable. Kal swallowed hard against the knot in his throat, staring into the pitch darkness before him, to his left, and to his right. From all around came the fell sounds of slaughter, barely veiled by the night. The air hung heavy with the acrid smell of fear and blood. And still the wolves snarled.

  As quickly as it had begun, the confusion of noises ended. A dead silence fell over the two men. Kal's ears were ringing in the stillness, his breath catching in fits and starts. Against his back, Gwyn's own back trembled. Blackness enveloped them. Kal felt the blood draining from his fingers as he gripped Rhodangalas in a white-knuckled clutch . . .

  And waited.

  Fourteen

  Seconds passed into minutes, and minutes stretched into an eternity as the two men stood peering into the veiling blackness of the Woods. Kal could perceive nothing—no noise, no movement, nothing other than the tense quiver of his own muscles and those of the young Holdsman standing at his back.

  The sounds of carnage had crashed over them with the suddenness and violence of an unseen breaker, then ebbed as quickly, leaving only the undertow of sheer and utter terror. Kal imagined from the noises that both the pursuers and their dogs had been overwhelmed and destroyed. And there was little doubt in Kal's mind as to who—or, rather, what—had been the agent of that destruction. The blade of Rhodangalas shivered in Kal's quaking sword hand. With his left, he reached to clasp the comforting shape of the pios at his neck.

  How long had it been? How long had they stood there, still and silent in the void of night, watching and being watched? At his back, Kal felt Gwyn ease his tension on the bowstring. Even in the shock of the moment, when a body discovers untapped sources of strength, the constant strain of the weight of a highland bow at full bend would be exhausting. And how long had Gwyn held it drawn taut? Kal felt Gwyn ease his pull further. The young Holdsman shook uncontrollably. Panic and fear were yielding to raw exhaustion and with it the numbing allure of resignation, surrender, and ultimately the cold cradle of death. They could not hold out much longer. Twice was it? Or three times that, in the span of one midnight to the next, they had been on the brink of obliteration, only to escape by the very skin of their teeth—until now.

  The waldscathes encircled, a silent menace. Against the black curtain that surrounded him, Kal could envision every miscreation and monster of his childhood imagination. Every image he had ever conceived of Hircomet and the fell host of dreosan or their misbegotten progeny now danced before his night-blinded eyes. These were the faces the waldscathes wore, and these were the faces that would soon, very soon, rush howling out of the still darkness to tear him and Gwyn to pieces.

  "Hail, Tobar"—Kal barely breathed the words—"Mighty One, be at our side . . . Scourge of Evil"—the words of a different night, a different woods, under a different moon—"Destroyer of Darkness, King"—the words of a child at play, now words of childlike petition—"of Freedom, Wuldor's pride . . ."

  In the darkness of the Woods, just to the right, Kal heard a scuffling, a scratching. Something moved there. The sound grew steadily louder, then ceased. An instant later three harsh, rasping strikes sounded, each met with a small explosion of sparks close to the ground that showered and scattered on the forest floor not ten paces away. Gwyn spun around. A small fire sprang to life, and from it a larger licking flame was ignited and borne aloft. A torch, held high, its yellow-orange tongues casting wavering shadows among the tree trunks. Pine pitch sputtered and crackled as a second and third torch were kindled in the air from the first, on either side of it. Then, like a grassfire skipping before the wind, balls of flame burst to life as more torches were lit in an encircling chain of fire, ringing them in blazing arms that ran in both directions and met behind them.

  Light flooded the Woods within the circle of torches. There must have been more than fifty of them, and among the weaving shadows beneath the upheld torches stood a line of wolves—each standing stooped upright and the size of a man, each snarl-mouthed with fangs bared, each staring with leaden and lifeless eyes.

  Gwyn had pulled his bowstring taut again, training his arrow in a slow swing on the creatures surrounding them. Kal gripped Rhodangalas, tracing the empty air with its point, looking to the right and left, awaiting the onslaught. In the light and in the face of an enemy unveiled of shadow, Kal felt fear resolve into courage. He and Gwyn would die, he knew that, but they would die side by side, and they would die fighting.

  "Woa-ho! What have we here, brothers?" A huge voice broke the stillness, followed by a ringing peal of deep laughter that erupted in the forest to Kal's left. Kal and Gwyn turned to face the voice.

  "What have we here? Two rabbits running from the hounds, only to be caught by the wolves, eh? Should have stayed in your burrow!"

  Again, the trees shook from the thunderous laughter that rose and fell in the darkness outside of the circle of firelight. The ring of torches and their bearers parted, and through the gap stepped an enormous figure, a giant of a man clothed in wolf skin, the long twin braids of his red beard falling over a grey fur–clad and barrelled chest. Atop the thick thatch of red hair on his head perched the stiffened face of a silver wolf, its sleek pelt hanging over the man's shoulders and down his back. The creature's hind paws and tail touched the ground—it must have been a massive wolf.

  The man carried in his hand a dagger, a crude-looking blade, which he wiped on an already blood-sodden sleeve. The man's ruddy face bore a broad grin and eyes that flashed and danced.

  "Did we scare you, then, little brothers?"

  Kal blinked in confusion and disbelief.

  "Come, lads, show your true selves!"

  Around them, the ring of men began to straighten, raising their heads, each one lifting and letting fall to his back the wolf's-head visor he wore. There were men of all ages among them, some older and some no more than boys, younger even than Gwyn. All of them, however, had a look of savage earnestness in their eyes, a look not belied by the grins that many showed at their leader's jest, and a look that made it clear that, while these were men of mirth, they were also men not to be meddled with or taken lightly.

  "Have you had your fill of fear? Enough then! Call me 'friend,' for I am Gelanor, bravest, truest, proudest, and—"

  "And loudest!" one of the men standing in the ring yelled. This was met with a shuffling banter of amusement among the others. The big man smiled even more broadly, twirled the knife in his hand and, in a single fluid movement, slipped it into a leather sheath at his waist.

  "And first"—Gelanor continued unperturbed—"first of these, the Wood Maid's men, who are all, to a man, at your service." He placed a hand on his hip, held the other before him, and bowed grandly.

  This quick turn of fortune left Kal weak, and he fell to one knee, leaning heavily on his sword. He vomited and remained bent over, heaving for breath.

  "What? You are not pleased to see us?" Gelanor said, straightening, his laughter joining that of several of his men. "Come, Feylon! Water for my lord Bard. And some for his nervous friend. Here, Bowllyn—step lively, now!"

  Kal nodded to the man who handed him a water skin. He filled his mouth, spat, and then drank greedily of the water. His burning thirst slaked, he paused and returned the skin to its owner. Wiping his chin on the back of his hand, Kal rose shakily to his feet. He slid Rhodangalas into its scabbard and turned to look at his companion. Gwyn remained fixed in place, ignoring the outstretched water skin, bow still bent and arrow point quavering, his face blanched. Kal rested a hand on Gwyn's arm, and the you
ng Holdsman slowly lowered his weapon, his eyes blinking back tears.

  Kal faced the big man and stooped his head. "My apologies . . . And my thanks to you, Gelanor, and to your men."

  "Bah! Think nothing of it! It was no more than was asked of us. And no more than ought one bard do for another, eh?" Gelanor said and winked as he pointed to the pios pinning Kal's cloak, then lifted his woolly chin to point to a glinting pios buried deep in the grey fur at his own throat. "Nay, no more than ought one bard do for another, little brother!"

  The big man stepped forward and clapped an enormous hand on Kal's shoulder.

  "Come," he said, "come, be at peace. In Wuldor's pity and by Ruah's guidance, you are safe. But, now, pardon me for but a moment."

  Gelanor turned away from Kal and Gwyn. In a fog, Kal listened as the big man dispatched various groups of his men to deal with the corpses of both dog and man. Kal realized that the surrounding ground must be strewn with gore and the bodies of those that had pursued them into the Woods of Tircoil. He was thankful that what he did not wish to see was hidden yet in darkness beyond the reach of the torchlight, and he refused to follow with his eyes the torches that were plucked up and carried into the Woods in all directions as men hastened to do Gelanor's bidding.

  Kal became aware of how badly his head throbbed. His knee ached and burned as well. Beside him, Gwyn had collapsed to the ground, sitting as though his legs had buckled under him. Someone had pressed a water skin into the young man's hands, but this he held, unnoticed, as he stared vacantly into the dark Woods.

  Kal lifted a trembling hand to the side of his head, gently fingering across his brow. He felt a long gash and withdrew a hand crimsoned in blood. He instinctively backed away from the dripping fingers held before his eyes.

  "Ho, little brother! It's a mighty blow that's cracked your egg. Let me look to the shell." Gelanor stood in front of Kal and placed a hand on his back, stopping his retreat. The big man must have been observing him for a while, for he held a wet cloth, which he lifted to Kal's head, and wiped away the blood from his face. Turning the rag, he blotted along the wound. He had a surprisingly delicate touch, but still Kal winced. Gelanor pulled back his hand.

  "Come, come, little brother," he clucked. "There's more leak than break. Not all that bad. Nothing a patch of green pitch can't mend." The big bard now pressed a thick paste onto Kal's head none too gently with his thumb as Kal winced again. "There, that'll hold. Though, by the look of it, the egg's yet a bit scrambled!" The big man chuckled. "A good thing the hen still scratches, eh?"

  "Thank you." Kal lifted his eyes to Gelanor's face. "Thank you."

  His knee still pained him, but, by a surreptitious glance, Kal determined that his leg was not cut, bleeding, or broken, marked only with a bruise he could suffer for the time being and tend to himself when time permitted.

  Gelanor had moved on to Gwyn and taken a quick survey of the other Holdsman to ensure he was in one piece and sound, and, satisfied that he was, stood again and faced the two men.

  "Well, now, if you're both fit and able, we've a walk ahead of us to get to Mousehold afore—"

  "Mousehold?" Kal said.

  "Aye, Mousehold."

  "Where the old woman lives?"

  "Aye, the Wood Maid. And, if I were you, I'd not be calling her 'old woman,' leastwise not to her face."

  "But who is she, the Wood Maid?" Kal asked, looking at the big man. "And who are you?"

  "Well, now, that's two questions, little brother, and no doubt those two will spawn many more, whole families, I'd wager, before they're through, as is the way of things." Gelanor winked, and his braided beard shook with his laughter. "Aye, as is the way of things! But come, let us be on our way now. We'll talk as we walk."

  Kal turned to retrieve the gear he had lost during the attack only to find the pelt-covered form of one of Gelanor's men standing near him, already holding the codynnos, bow, and quiver. The man stepped forward and handed these to Kal, as if in anticipation of the Holdsman's desire, and Kal slung them over his shoulders. Beside him, Gwyn had been likewise re-outfitted with his belongings and stood dazed but ready to depart. Kal was aware of a weight missing from his belt.

  On the ground before him lay the rent skin. Beads of water near it were still held cupped in what few upturned brown leaves had escaped being trampled in the passage of so many feet. Kal crouched down slowly and lifted a leaf, its quivering burden golden in the torchlight. He tipped the leaf and rolled the heavy drop onto his open palm, where it broke apart and dispersed between his fingers. He wiped his hand on his tunic and stood.

  "Aye, little brother, I noticed that in the scare you broke water."

  Kal frowned at the quip, at Gelanor's grinning face, and at the chortles that sprang up among the men who overheard.

  "But the water is the reason we came here!" Kal said hotly.

  "Aye. It's the reason most come here. Or so did in ages past."

  Kal rounded on the big man. "Well, it's the reason I made this hateful journey, and I need it."

  "A hateful journey, is it?"

  "Yes, detestable! So, while we're here anyway, could we not go back to the Well and get more water? As I said, I need it."

  "Aye, could do, could do . . . but won't," the big bard stated flatly.

  "But I need it!"

  "Well, then, let's to Mousehold and see what the Wood Maid says about that." Gelanor set his jaw and thrust his chin forward, his braided beard jutting out sharply.

  "You do not know who I—"

  "Nay, I can't say that I rightly do know who you are. What I do know is that we saved you from a spot of trouble and that now—right now—we are heading back to Mousehold to see Katie Woodencloak. So, will you walk, or do I have to carry you?"

  Kal saw the hard glint in the man's eye and knew it was futile, even dangerous, to press the point any further.

  The bard spun around, the silver wolf's tail and legs swinging behind him. With a sharp sweep of his hand and a barked command, he ordered his men to begin walking. Kal fell in beside the big bard, and Gwyn shambled in behind. Kal shot a glance up at the bard. Though he still scowled, the cast of Gelanor's countenance soon softened. His was like a clear summer sky on a breezy day in which any aberrant puff of cloud is soon swept away.

  As they walked deeper into the Woods, the torchlight pooled around them on the forest floor, breaking against the blackness beyond. Kal saw no sign of bodies, but here and there blood stained the disturbed leaves and broken twigs and brush. There was no doubt that butchery had taken place here.

  Soon, however, they were pacing through clear forest, a column of torches snaking through the Woods before and behind them. In the soft light, Kal saw that once again great-limbed and huge-boled trees spread over the spacious forest floor, as when they had first entered the Woods and also along Hoël's Dyke. After little more than a minute's silent trudging, Kal ventured to make conversation again with the man.

  "To see Katie Woodencloak . . . ? Who is she?"

  "Katie Woodencloak? Aye, to be sure, she's the Wood Maid. A spirit younger than any of us, and a wisdom more ancient. Beyond that, you'll have to ask her yourself, little brother."

  "We're going to see her?"

  "Aye, to Mousehold, to see the Wood Maid, as I told you . . . ." The big man eyed Kal sideways. "So, your egg did get scrambled. Or perhaps a wee bit baked?"

  "And she's the one that we met? The woman who gave us the oatcakes?"

  "Aye, so I'd imagine, so I'd imagine. Especially if they were the finest oatcakes you've ever eaten in your life! She's a cook! She's a cook—the finest!" He looked over his shoulder to the man walking behind him. "Mind you echo that not to my Ellyn, else no meat I'll meet at my table for a long while!"

  "No, Gelanor, for sure, I'd say naught of the kind," the fellow said, shaking his head, then broke out laughing. "Might say something of the like, though!" His mates joined in the banter at the big bard's expense.

  "Ach, go on, the lot of you! Enou
gh that I've got to chief you, but to put up with your giggling jibes the while. Why, it's enough to—"

  "To make you weep, Gelanor?" another man taunted. "Eh, big man?"

  The banter thickened among the men behind Gelanor, the men ahead turning to look back and smile.

  "Bah!" Gelanor growled, feigning irritation. Then turning to Kal, he said with a wink, "Pay them no mind, no mind, else they'll drive you out of it."

  "What of the waldscathes? The terror of the Woods? Are they real?"

  "Waldscathes? Aye, little brother, they are real," Gelanor said soberly. "To be sure, they are. And a terror besides, leastwise to those that don't know them. Once you do, why, they're really quite friendly beasts. Once you get to know them."

  "You know them?"

  "Aye, met them more than once."

  "And you live in the Woods?"

  "Aye, me and hundreds besides. There are villages scattered around the Black Cape in the Woods—villages of families—men, women, children. We are the Tircoilian people. I am bard," Gelanor said, nodding, "but it's the Wood Maid who's our heart."

  "But I thought no one lived in the Woods—"

  "A common mistake."

  "And that the Woods are dangerous?"

  "Aye, dangerous enough if you don't know what you're about. Or if you've got a pack of Black Scorpions on your back."

  Kal chuckled. "To be sure, Gelanor, again, my thanks to you and your men for—"

  "Bah, think nothing of it, nothing of it."

  "And for my peevishness, my apologies."

  "Aye, it's a hard day you've endured. But we'll have you rest soon enough."

  "No, Gelanor, I have no time for rest. You see, my father—"