by P B Hughes
“Horse and carriage and an armed guard! Nothing like these miserable conditions. Why, I even have to set up my own tent.” He nodded to the gaudy, lavender tent he’d been cursing over for the past hour.
Marcus chuckled as he tossed another log onto the fire. He flopped down on the other side of Ari, picked up a stick and began to whittle with a knife. “Not much of an outdoorsman, are you, Ambassador?”
The man looked despondent. “The wilderness is only fit for beasts and scoundrels. Of which I am neither.”
“If spending your nights outdoors is enough to slip into the bottom rung of society,” Marcus replied, “then you’ll be there by the end of this trip. Isn’t that right, Jude?”
Jude lay stretched out on a blanket near the fire. Being addressed by Marcus in such a friendly tone did not faze him. His eyes remained locked on the book between his hands. “If Sweeny were to slip any lower than he is he’d fall into the bowels of the netherworld.”
Sweeny harrumphed. “I’ll have you know that the family Sweeny comes from a long line of noblemen. Papa Sweeny was mayor of Riverton and Grandpapa Sweeny was an archduke.”
“It only takes one drop of spit to ruin the barrel,” Jude replied, turning a page.
Ambassador Sweeny’s face flushed red. He turned his heel and made for his tent, disappearing behind the draped entrance.
Ari looked after him and let out a sigh. “You two should really be kinder to him. After all, we’re all on the same side.”
“I refuse to be kind to the likes of him,” said Jude. “Should the hen be kind to the weasel?”
“You’re hardly a hen, Jude,” Ari responded. “You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself. If he’s a weasel, then you’re a wolf.”
“We were only toying with him, Ari,” said Marcus, digging his knife into the stick and sliding a shaving upward. He glanced over to Sweeny’s tent and lowered his voice. “Jude’s right—Sweeny’s no good. Why they keep him around I’ll never know. He was an advisor to Greavus himself.”
“They must keep him around because they need him,” said Ari. “Clearly he didn’t go off and join Greavus, so he’s no traitor.”
“He’s a coward,” said Jude, not changing the volume of his voice. “He didn’t join Greavus because he was too afraid.”
Ari glared at Jude. “You don’t know that.”
“The fact is,” interjected Daniel, “Ari’s right. We are stuck working with him, and he’s the only one who knows the way to Saragosa. Let’s hope he’s not a traitor because this mission will fail without him. So I suggest we at least be civil.”
To this point none of them could argue. Marcus tossed his stick into the fire, sending up crackling sparks and black smoke. He picked himself up and shuffled to his own tent. Jude returned his attention to his book, but shortly thereafter tucked it away and lay his head down to sleep. Daniel and Ari, however, stayed seated, peering into the whirling flames that shrank with each passing moment, hour after hour drifting by into the depths of the night. Finally, Daniel rose from his spot with a stretch, readying himself for sleep.
“Thank you, Daniel,” Ari whispered.
Daniel turned with surprise.
“For agreeing with me, I mean. It’s not easy arguing against those two alone.”
“Of course,” Daniel replied, a half-smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “It’s best not to scorn the man leading you.”
Her gaze dropped. Daniel followed it to a white flower resting by her side, a tiny star amidst the dark green grass. Ari’s hand fell from beneath her blanket, cradling the petals between her index and middle finger. Ever so lightly, she lifted it, revealing a broken stem, absentmindedly trampled as they were setting up camp. A look of pain flit across her face.
“Daniel,” she murmured. “Are…are you afraid?”
Her question caught him off guard. He suddenly realized how black the night had become, the fire now nothing more than a bed of smoldering coals. “Why would I be afraid?” he asked.
Ari smiled at his response, as if recalling a fond memory from long ago. “We’re like this flower, you know. Beautiful. Proud. Free.” There was a soft click as she snapped the stem and raised it to her eyes. Her smile vanished. “But it’s not free, really. It’s at the mercy of whoever blunders by. It might be crushed; it might be picked. It doesn’t matter.”
Daniel looked into Ari’s eyes, blue orbs cast in the glow of red embers. The orbs rose, steady and unmoving, glazed with misty sorrow.
“I’m afraid, Daniel. We’re being hunted. And what are we to everyone else? Nothing but weapons. Weapons used to keep the enemies of the Empire at bay. You know it’s only a matter of time before we have to fight. Before we have to kill.” She dropped the flower. “I have never wanted to kill anything in my life. But when I saw Nahash nights ago, I felt an anger so intense that I…I…”
Daniel knelt beside her. He reached out and took her hand. “I know,” he replied, his voice nothing more than a hush. “I know. I don’t want to kill, either. But when the time comes we’ll do what we have to.” He squeezed her hand. “And Ari?”
“Yes?”
“When that time comes, I’ll be right there.”
She pulled Daniel next to her. He obliged, and she rested her head upon on his shoulder. Warmth spread through Daniel’s body. Somewhere in the night, the mournful whoops of an owl rolled through air. Wind pressed against the tops of the trees, their rustling leaves shushing like the gentle crash of ocean waves. Ari fell to dreaming. Ever so carefully, Daniel shared his blanket, tucking it around her.
Daniel lifted the broken flower from the ground, raising it the sky next to where a bright star glistened. “I’ll be right there,” he breathed. And then he drifted off to sleep.
◆◆◆
There was a snap in the darkness, and Daniel’s eyelids slid open. He strained his hearing. A crunch, a crackle of branches and brush. He raised his head, peering over the log into the darkness. His movement woke Ari.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
Daniel placed a finger on his lips. He rose to his knees, taking hold of his staff that lay close by. Ari looked at him with questioning indignation, but then she heard it. Untamed footsteps, blundering without stealth in the woods. She imitated Daniel and took her staff. The two of them crouched like scouts behind the safety of their wall. Then a low, hollow sound of moaning. There was a figure lurking in the shadows.
It was heading toward them.
Daniel pointed his staff, waiting to see what would come. Then, out from the trees, a man in a tattered cloak stumbled into their midst, swaying in the moonlight. A horrid groan emanated from beneath his hood. He raised a grasping hand, staggered forward and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground.
“Jude, Marcus, Ambassador Sweeny—wake up!” cried Daniel. He leaped over the log and rushed to the man’s side.
Ari followed, holding forth her staff. The orb shone with light, bathing the area in violet.
Daniel slid to his knees and rolled the man over onto his back, then recoiled in shock. Running up from the end of the man’s left arm, up across his cheek and over his eye were the most hideous of burns, twisting through his flesh, making it appear like a blood-soaked hunk of raw meat.
By the look of him, he was barely older than twenty, gaunt and pale. He gaped up at Daniel with his one good eye, utterly dazed. “Bla-ck!” he croaked, spittle and blood flying up from his mouth.
“Hold still.” Daniel raised his staff and emitted a cool mist over the man’s wounds.
“What’s all this?” said the shrill voice of Ambassador Sweeny as he scurried up behind them. “Who is this fellow?”
The man began to writhe in pain, his voice rising to a scream. “Bla-ck…Black!”
Daniel looked down at the man’s wounds, expecting to see a steady improvement. But what he saw sent a jolt of panic through him. The man’s wounds would not heal. In fact, they were spreading slowly across his face. He reached up an
d took hold of Daniel’s lapel, pulling his face close.
“It burns! It burns!”
“What happened to you?” shouted Jude. “Who did this?”
“V-village,” he wheezed, “h-him…Black.”
“Who?” demanded Jude.
“H-help me!” he screamed. The burns suddenly billowed like blood-dipped bandages across his nose and cheeks, engulfing the entirety of his head. His body shriveled into a charred husk, his eyes sinking into two smoking caverns. A choking stench filled the air so foul it left Daniel gagging and blind.
Chapter 10
Gregory sprinted through the woods, the morning sun sparkling through the red and yellow treetops like stars. A whisper had woken him—the gentle hush of a voice by his ear.
“Gregoryyy,” it had said.
It was faint, yet jarring enough to pull him from his sleep. Everyone still slept when he opened his eyes; everyone, save Jelani. The boy’s bed-roll was gone. Nothing remained but a flattened pile of leaves where he had spent the night. A mighty crash sounded in the woods, just up the hill. Gregory gave a shout to the others and bolted up, grabbed his staff, and tore off in the direction of the sound.
Over a fallen log he hurdled, weaving between trees, all the while the nagging thought that Jelani was in peril filled his mind with dread. There was something about these woods he didn’t like—a faint stench wafting through the trees. And the only animal he’d seen since they had entered was a mottled, one-legged crow tottering on a stump.
There should be other animals, he thought. A fox, a sparrow—something.
Again a crash sounded, something breaking and rolling across the forest floor. A boulder tumbled down the hill ahead of him, ricocheting off of tree trunks and crushing the underbrush. He ducked to his right and let the boulder pass by.
“He’s fighting,” Gregory said, running forward again. “I’m coming, Jelani!”
And then he saw him—he stood shirtless at the top of a steep incline, his dark skin glistening with sweat. The large boy hunkered down and ripped a boulder from the ground with his bare hands.
Gregory pulled up short, panting, cold air billowing from his mouth. “You,” he said gasping. “You’re all right.”
Jelani looked down at Gregory and smiled. “Unless I am missing something, I am well. Why would I not be?”
“I just thought…Never mind. What on earth are you doing?”
Jelani heaved the boulder over his head. “In every person there are three parts,” he said, “spirit, mind—” he launched the boulder into the air “—and body.”
The boulder crashed through the trees. Gregory watched after it, embarrassed and annoyed at having been so worried.
Jelani continued. “Right now I am working on my body. Do you care to join?”
“You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you were being attacked or something. I didn’t see your bedding and you were gone and then the forest sounded like it was exploding. I assumed the worst.”
“My apologies, Gregory. I did not mean to worry you. I packed my bedding before first light.” He reached down and wrenched up another boulder. “Next time I will throw them in the opposite direction.” He hurled the stone the other way.
They listened as it rolled through the woods. As it came to a stop there was a peculiar noise: like the cracking and shattering of pottery, yet duller.
“What was that?” Gregory asked.
Jelani cocked his head. “A strange sound,” he said. He took his white cotton tunic from a tree branch. “Let us investigate.”
The two of them walked down the hill, Gregory shaking his head. He should have known. It’s not like anyone could kidnap someone as huge as Jelani. The idea seemed absurd now that he was fully awake.
“I guess I’m on edge,” said Gregory as they stepped around a massive fallen tree. “This forest gives me the creeps. I’m seeing Cythes and goblins behind every stump. It might sound crazy, but I could have sworn I heard one whispering in my ear when I woke up.”
“The way you are feeling is understandable,” said Jelani. “But you must not let your anxiety rule you, Gregory. We are still far from goblin territory, and if there were Cythes nearby, they would have ambushed us already.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Gregory. “Still, that doesn’t change the fact that there’s something off about these woods.”
Gregory’s breath caught in his throat. A horrifying sight bloomed before them at the bottom of the hill. The landscape turned the color of ash, and there, strewn about in a broad circle, lay a pile of bones—white and picked clean.
“What,” said Gregory, unable to find the words as he stared at the remnants of death. “How did this...Who would…” He looked closer. They didn’t look like human bones—not all of them. By his feet lay the long skull of a horse, and nearby another that looked like a goat.
“We must leave,” said Jelani sharply. “We must leave now.”
Gregory slowly followed Jelani’s gaze upward. Upon the tree trunks were symbols: dripping eyes painted in blood, sharp stakes running down their center. A rustle in the treetops caught his attention. Above them, the branches stirred, covered in shimmering black. Hundreds of crows leered down at them with mad, starving red eyes.
“Run!” cried Jelani.
In an instant, cawing crows swarmed into the air, filling the sky with the sounds of a terrible storm. The two boys tore up the hill, the birds teeming around their heads, jabbing and clawing with beaks and talons. Pain shot through Gregory’s left ear, and he knew they had drawn blood. He shoved Jelani to the ground.
“Cover your head!” he shouted as he thrust his staff into the sky. Flames swirled around his body, scorching through the forest, setting dry wood alight with tongues of fire.
Several crows fell dead about them. The rest scattered, crying angrily as they retreated. Gregory exhaled; the small fires were extinguished.
Jelani scrambled up from the ground. “We must return to the camp. The others may be in danger.”
Thoughts of Martha and the others burst in Gregory’s mind as he and Jelani ran through the woods. Whatever left the bones wasn’t there—so where was it? What sort of monster could have done such a thing? He went over the list of horrible creatures he had seen. It couldn’t have been a wyvern. They eat their victims, bones and all. A cobariss wouldn’t live in these woods. No, they live in the deep jungles, far to the south.
Goblins, thought Gregory. They wouldn’t eat bones. Adrenaline pumped through him and he ran harder.
Their campsite lay ahead, but at a distance he could tell something was amiss. Where were the horses? They ran into the clearing. No evidence of the campsite remained except for the smoldering embers from the fire they made the night before.
The two boys exchanged looks, and for the first time since Gregory had known him, Jelani looked panicked.
“This is where we made camp,” said Gregory. “I’m sure of it. They were here when I left!”
“Look,” said Jelani, pointing to a tree. A rope dangled where they had tied their horses.
“Martha!” Gregory called out. “Nera, Sir Weston!”
Jelani grabbed Gregory by the arm. “Be silent! We must not give away our position. Whoever did this will come for us; I say we find them first.”
Gregory nodded, lowering his voice. “But what do we do? What if they’re dead?”
“Do not worry about that. For now, we look for a trail.”
It wasn’t long before Gregory found the remnants of what looked like a skirmish. Snapped branches, scattered debris, hoof prints—all leading down a fresh trail. He caught sight of a massive, humanlike footprint smeared in the mud, and his courage faltered. The print was so large Gregory could sit inside it cross-legged and still not fill the space.
Jelani placed the palm of his hand in the indentation the footprint left. “Come, now we know the way.”
The land sloped downward as the trail wound its way through the woods. Whatever to
ok them seemed to be careless, Gregory decided, for they made no effort to hide their trail.
Gregory’s heart pounded in his chest until it hurt. He tried to block out thoughts of the worst, but worry still gnawed at him along the way. Images of Martha—afraid, desperate, injured, or dead turned over in his head. She had never seen combat.
She’s fine, he thought to himself. She has Nera and Sir Weston. If anyone is hurt, she’ll heal them.
He continued on in a daze, memories of the quiet little girl, his only friend when he first arrived at Littleton, spinning through his head. Gregory had never known a kinder soul. She would listen to him ramble on for hours on end, never once complaining or interrupting. No one else understood what he had gone through—the loss of a parent, the feelings of abandonment, that somehow he was responsible for his mother’s death.
A piece of white cloth clung to a tree branch above Gregory’s head like a tattered flag, pulling him from his thoughts. He reached up and took hold of it. The cloth tore as he pulled it down.
“It belongs to her,” he said to Jelani. “Martha.”
Jelani held up his hand. “Up ahead,” he said, taking a knee. “Look.”
Gregory stuck the cloth in his pocket and followed suit. He peered through the trees. Across a creek bed, dug into the side of a cliff, a cave gaped like a mouth threatening to swallow them whole. The air, despite being autumn, felt warm and thick, and smelled of foul, rotting flesh. The creek was nothing more than a trickle of brown sludge with swarms of flies buzzing about. Several landed on Gregory’s skin, yet he was too afraid to flick them away. In the middle of a tree by the bank the same dripping eye leered down at them as if watching their every move.
“What is this place?” Gregory asked, his body now covered in sweat.
“This,” Jelani said, gripping his staff, “is an ogre’s den.”
Gregory had never seen an ogre, but he had read about them. Horrid creatures, incapable of good. And hungry, always hungry for anything that moved.
“We need a plan,” said Gregory.
