by Marie Brown
Chapter 8: Descent
Coming out of the mountains was a distinct letdown. After the soaring heights, the dramatic scenery, even the fear of death on narrow trails that would make a goat blanch, flatlands were… boring. Not to mention, for the last week they'd been watching the plains and castles of Larantyne from above, seeing the view birds enjoyed all of the time.
Five castles spread in a defensive arc at the far end of the plains, supplemented by heavily fortified outposts and joined by a curving arch of magical roadway. Farmlands huddled in secret pockets of the gently rolling terrain, deep into the harvest. And beyond. . .
They could see into a land which many folk south of the Barrier Range believed pure myth, through a wide gap in an even higher range of mountains known as the Worldcrest. The Land of Evil hung like a threat over the castles. A seething black and green cloud roiled above its heart, covering the peak of Storm King, the mountain fortress raised by the first Darklord in a single night of terror.
"Part of me can't believe it's all real," Kirel said, as they set out across the gently rolling grasslands. The air was colder here than on the other side, and dry, sucking moisture from their lungs and leaving a faint burning sensation behind. "I mean, over there, on the other side, it's easy to believe this is all a minstrel's tale."
"It does seem rather improbable, doesn't it?" Sylvan agreed. "If you look at the bones of the stories, you see all the elements of a minstrel's tale: profligate use of magic, an all-powerful evil force that nonetheless does something profoundly stupid once in a while, heroism against overwhelming odds, and extreme dedication to duty. Normal people don't live like that. Normal people don't have to deal with demons, and Darklords, and natural forces gone wrong."
Kirel smiled to himself. He loved it when Sylvan went off into analytical lecture mode.
"If you look at the stories' meat, however, their substance deals with grim reality. They are not reported as a tale of Hero A on a Quest to win the hand of Maiden B. Instead, they tell the story of, say, Outpost One besieged by demons possessed of fearsome powers, screaming devilishly all night until even the hardened warriors inside couldn't sleep for fear of their own nightmares. And then one brave rider will win free of the demons, and race on to the next outpost, and return with help. But nobody wants to believe the stories are real, because that means there's an enormous threat looming over the whole of the Southlands, held back only by the grim determination of a few people. And yet, here we are, looking at the reality, and it's every bit as grim as what we didn't want to believe on the other side of the Barrier."
"Yes," Kirel agreed. There wasn't much else to say. Except. . . "Now I'm even more curious, if that's possible, about why I'm carrying around the royal crest of Larantyne on my head. What can all this," he swept his arm in front of him, indicating the whole countryside, "have to do with me?"
"That's what we're here to find out," Sylvan smiled.
"Indeed. Let's get on with it, then."
