Shadows of the Great Forest (Realm of Arkon, Book 4)

by G. Akella

  The house was half-concealed by the foliage of adjacent trees. There wasn't anything special about it—a standard cultivated structure the likes of which Max had seen plenty of times in this world. If anything, what surprised him was the lack of a garden and similar decorations. According to Phylatrim, the owner was if not the official chief shaman of their High House, no other living shaman could rival him in terms of sheer experience.

  The young woman tending to the hedge framing the estate explained that the mentor was currently in the gazebo by the local forest creek, and guided Max toward the path that would lead him there.

  Redcliff sat on a hewn wooden bench, gazing contemplatively at the sun's resplendence off the water's surface. He looked to be no older than fifty. Though oozing with vivacity, his age was made evident by the streaks of gray in his pitch-black hair and the wrinkles on an otherwise ferocious face with a determined chin. Something about this shifter reminded Max of Master Yoda from the George Lucas' classic saga from the twentieth century. Though he looked nothing like the cute big-eared munchkin, just being around him somehow made you want to stand perfectly still and with your head bowed in reverence. The master mentor wore a green and brown robe of a bizarre cut, tied at the waist with an army sash and a severed bird claw hanging off it. Judging by the size of the claw, the bird must have been no smaller than an ostrich.

  "Good morning, master," Max uttered a greeting as he drew within ten yards of the bench upon which Redcliff was sitting.

  The shaman turned his head slowly, giving the warrior an appraising look.

  "You're late, Gray One. I've been waiting for the past hour and was starting to think you got lost," he said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, nodding at the bench standing transversely to his own. "Have a seat."

  "You were expecting me, master?" the warrior asked as he sat down. "But how?"

  "Let's dispense with the formalities," the shaman sniffed. "Urkhunt finally answered my call last night. We spoke, and he told me about a peculiar gray kitten."

  "What did he say?"

  "What do you know about the Ancients?" Redcliff inquired, ignoring the warrior's question.

  "They're dark gods: Valeph, Vaepar and Halephos," Max replied with a shrug. "They arrived from Lemuria three thousand years ago, and attacked the Great Forest five centuries later. The battle took place in the Siruat Heath," he recited, raising thanks to the game for his virtually flawless memory. "Their army withdrew inexplicably after victory was essentially theirs. This happened before the War of the Great Rift."

  "Goherym told you this?"

  "Yes," Max said. "Do I have my facts wrong?"

  "The Mallorn trees," Redcliff cast his gaze at the trees surrounding the gazebo. "They could have temporarily boosted the power of the elven army by an order of magnitude. They could have even boosted the power of the gods..."

  "But?"

  "Dire times are coming, Gray One. And all we can do is hope for the gods to put aside their squabbles and rise in defense of the Great Forest!" the shaman said, suddenly looking weary.

  "The Great Forest endured their onslaught once. Why not again?"

  "Goherym was a centurion in that battle. He didn't see what I saw," Redcliff shook his head. "Nor would I have seen it if I hadn't been left for dead, buried under a pile of corpses ripped apart by blades of Darkness. A sorcerer's mental abilities are greatly amplified when on death's doorstep, allowing him to gaze into the Astral and confuse it for our reality." The shaman reached for a knife at his belt and proceeded to study the pattern running the length of its blade. "Vaepar was about a quarter mile from me at the time. I saw a winged steel shadow fall on him from above, easily breaching his defenses and dealing a heavy wound. It looked like a winged giant woven of molten tin. I thought it was Setara at first, but the winged goddess was with Kirana and Myrt at the time, holding the right flank against Halephos and his minions. The Ancients are like a single organism—the death of one would have had a devastating effect on the others. That was why Valeph and Halephos instantly shifted their focus, pumping all of their life force into Vaepar, and attacked the new threat together. It was a nightmare, Gray One... There was a rift in the Astral, out of which burst forth oceans of power, inundating the Siruat Heath. And my mind went out like a candle before a storm."

  "What happened then? You're still alive, after all..." Max asked hungrily, admitting to himself that he was relishing hearing about the legends of this world from an eyewitness.

  "I am indeed," the shaman chuckled. "I was brought back to life by one of Loaetia's priestesses who happened to be nearby. The Ancients had already retreated, and our forces were mopping up what was left of the invaders."

  "What of the winged giant that intervened? From your story it appears that he was stronger than the Ancients themselves."

  "I know not where he came from, nor where he went, nor his true identity," the shaman said distantly. "I had suffered a major wound, after all, and it all could have been nothing more than delirium."

  "Then why are you telling me about it now?"

  "Urkhunt," Redcliff gave a subtle shrug. "He bid me to tell you what I know of that battle that you didn't already hear from Goherym."

  "Does he know about the winged giant? Have you told him?"

  "No. First of all, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't just hallucinations of a dead man's mind. Second of all, if it was real, it must have been one of the gods of this world. And finally," Redcliff turned his gaze to Max, "who am I to say anything to a god without him asking first?"

  "I understand," Max nodded, though in truth he understood almost nothing.

  And the worst thing was, there was no one he could go to for clarification. He knew for a fact that no passing of knowledge in this realm was random or accidental, but how would all that knowledge help Max? The Ancients, some new badass of molten tin, a battle in the Astral (what the hell was an Astral, anyway?), Loaetia's priestess... How would any of that help him? Urkhunt had mentioned something about the hope of the Great Forest—could that be the winged giant? Was he supposed to find him and recruit him for the upcoming battle? But the Whisperer hadn't offered Max any quests. So, what now?!

  "Everyone must choose one of the many paths lying before us, Gray One," Redcliff said, as if reading his mind. "Only you can decide which path to take to your goal. After all, you didn't come here to entertain the mad ravings of a senile shaman, did you?"

  "I wouldn't call you 'senile,' or your stories 'ravings,'" Max chuckled, and handed the mentor the scroll translated by the goddess. "Take a look at this."

  Redcliff unfolded the scroll and read its contents quickly.

  "Aeric never was like the others. Even his peers were fluent in Old Elvish, as you can see," the shaman said, returning the scroll. "I know not the purpose of their mission to Misty Thicket, but only that it happened several years before the Ancients' invasion, after which time no one could be bothered to remember the destroyed consulate."

  "Do you at least know the location of this Five-Finger Mountain and how to get around the spell concealing the cache?"

  "Give me your map," the shaman took the parchment from Max, and marked the location on it. Then he produced another scroll from somewhere, and handed it back to the warrior along with the map. "Take this scroll. It contains a spell called Deep Dispersion, which will annul Alvaric's Hand of Fog."

  You've completed the quest: Mysteries of History II.

  You've accessed the quest: Mysteries of History III.

  Quest type: unique.

  Find the Five-Finger Mountain in Darkaan and recover Falanir's Map from the cache.

  Reward: experience, unknown.

  "One last thing, Gray One," said the master mentor. "Don't listen to anyone. Follow only your instincts. Make decisions without anyone else's input." Redcliff got up, signaling an end to their conversation. "I must be at the Great Prince's by noon. Farewell."

  "Farewell, and thank you," Max nodded goodbye to the shaman. Then, putting the ma
p with the newly acquired scroll away, he made for the exit.

  Sitting on a felled tree trunk, Max was studying contemplatively a colony of honey agaric that happened to be his immediate neighbor. He didn't want to head to Syruan just yet, not before taking some time to sit in silence and digest the sea of information that had inundated him in the past few days—and what better place to do that than here in the forest? The young man took a big gulp of cognac from the flask given to him by Phylatrim, lit up a pipe, and closed his eyes, savoring this moment of bliss. Most players in his place would probably be ecstatic over all the quests he'd picked up and connections he'd made... if only it were all happening before the patch. Presently, however, he hardly found it comforting that virtually every sentient he'd met was pinning all of their hopes on him. At least Kirana had outlined her wishes without any ambiguity, even if actually finding her temple was a tall order in its own right. But what did Sata and Urkhunt expect from him? Because surely they expected something, that much Max knew for certain. Then there was the Great Prince with his exile. And, finally, those words—the words that had haunted the warrior since they were spoken—that he was somehow the hope of the Great Forest. What could he possibly do? Stop the Ancients' invasion? The notion was too crazy to even be funny... Each of the Ancients was probably tens if not hundreds of times stronger than Cenatodone, and the latter's slaying had been made possible by an incredible stroke of luck. Could it be that Max's mission was to rid the Great Forest of the demons on its borders? On the other hand, they didn't appear to be much of a nuisance. And that agonizing death business? Max glanced at the nearby trees with a chuckle. The solution seemed so easy: tie a rope to a bough and make a tight noose, then wake up six hours later and be done with the quest! Agonizing death? Check. He'd have the full right to expect the demons gone and the map to Kirana's temple tucked away in his pocket. If only it were that easy... What were Urkhunt's parting words to him? "Keep doing what you're doing." There seemed to be a hidden meaning there, but what could it be?

  Coming to no obvious answer, Max rose from his improvised seat and stretched. Let's work with the information we have, however lacking, he consoled himself. And what he had was a map indicating the location of the Five-Finger Mountain, which looked to be about two hundred miles into Darkaan as the crow flies. Skirting around would multiply the distance by a factor of five at a minimum. How long would the ocean segment take? And would they actually succeed in bypassing those bloody demons? Their chances looked slim to none, but the alternative was to do nothing, which wasn't an alternative at all. Settled, then. He would wait for his party to arrive, get Luffy hitched, and set out south without delay. Let's make our own road less traveled, Max grunted as he built a portal to Syruan. Then, with a farewell glance at the clusters of honey fungus on the fallen free, he stepped through the rippling green screen.

  Wild Wood. The last refuge of Maloc's First Legion. Zone level 255-280.

  "What the hell!" he swore as he looked around.

  He was standing on a hill, with a millennia-old oak grove sprawling downslope. The mighty crowns of ancient trees appeared to be connecting the hilltop with the sky. About a mile ahead and to the right stood a mountain, every inch of it seemingly covered with softwood forest, its shape similar to the Crimean Ayu-Dag, only a bit smaller and narrower. Syruan was nowhere to be seen. Nor were there any signs of intelligent life anywhere.

  There was a soft clapping noise behind him. The warrior turned at once and swore again—the portal window was gone. But why? It was supposed to remain there for a full minute! Max put his palms to his forehead and drew several deep breaths. Calm down, now! he commanded himself. Taking another look around and finding no apparent danger, he walked over to the nearest oak and lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against the tree's massive root. Then, taking a swig from his flask, he lit his pipe and tried to figure out what was happening.

  It was impossible, yet true. The portal was supposed to have taken him to his blood brother's castle, yet somehow he ended up stranded in a strange zone a hundred levels above his own. Max produced the map and laid it out on the ground, zoomed in on his location, and whistled. The zone was situated in the southern part of the Wild Wood, roughly sixty miles from the ocean shore and four hundred miles from the border to Nightcrawler territory. What the hell was happening?! How could a typically precise portal spell misfire so badly? Max believed in coincidences inasmuch as he believed in Santa Claus, which meant that this was somebody's doing. But whose? And to what purpose? He could only guess as to the culprit, having met plenty of characters in just the past several days who were likely capable of such a feat. The top suspect was probably Great Prince Irwine who had been champing at the bit to be rid of his dishonored subject. On the other hand, the system log had been clear that the warrior had had two whole weeks! But if not him, then who? Urkhunt? Sata? Redcliff? What would be their motives? And, most importantly, what was he supposed to do now? Sure, he could simply wait for the portal to come off cooldown twenty four hours from now, but would he survive the next twenty four hours?

  As if in response to his fears, there came a crashing sound nearby as a whole pack of wild boars poured out of the bushes a hundred yards to his left. Only their leader was hostile, but Max had no illusions about his chances against a level 270 mini boss. Knocking out his pipe hastily, he shifted into cat form and retreated in the direction of the mountain, taking long leaps. I don't know why I was sent here, but I might as well enjoy the advantage of higher ground, he thought to himself, studying his surroundings as he moved.

  His journey to the mountain was uneventful—he had only spotted a few wolves along the way, too far in the distance to pay any attention to him. Upon reaching the mountain and quenching his thirst from a crystal-clear creek—in cat form since it was both easier and way more fun—he gazed at his reflection in the gently flowing water for a while, then decided he liked what he saw. In fact, Max was beginning to like his new form more and more. Having studied every nuanced detail, he winked to his reflection and grinned, exposing a set of four-inch fangs to the world, then started toward the foot of the mountain. It was hardly more than three hundred yards to the top, but he needed to occupy himself somehow while waiting for the portal to reset. Sure, ordinary cats were known to engage in very different behavior when bored—typically involving their tongue and private pars—but Max had absolutely no desire to emulate his new kin in that respect. Perhaps it was because he was no ordinary cat, but rather an extraordinary shapeshifter. And that kind of behavior was unbecoming for the likes of him.

  The smell of pine around Max was intoxicating. But he also realized the ignorance of fantasy writers who claimed that a person could immediately discern and classify an enormous medley of scents upon turning into a dog or a wolf. To classify a scent, one needed to remember it first. Now, sure, Max belonged to a feline rather than canine family, but of all the new scents he was smelling—and that number was indeed infinitely higher than in his humanoid form—he couldn't begin to identify one from the next. The only scents that clearly dominated the rest were the pungent scents of resin and pine.

  He recalled his visit to the Moscow zoo in his distant childhood. He'd been shocked and appalled at the stench coming out of the animal enclosures. Take that stench and transport it to the woods or any open terrain, and virtually person, even a city slicker, would be able to smell it from fifty yards away, to say nothing of wild predators. But this world wasn't like that at all. Here, animals didn't relieve themselves, and their meat didn't have that particular smell or flavor. He remembered a colleague of his who was an avid hunter gifting him a shoulder roast of boar meat, and the stink (pardon the pun) put up by his wife as a result—Max would sleep at least the next several nights on the couch. He chuckled at the memory. This world was incomparably cleaner and better. First of all, it was completely free of manufacturing plants—here, even dwarven workstations functioned on magical energy. To be sure, Donut had mentioned stories of certa
in outstanding individuals who had tried various tricks, including drilling for oil—and finding it, actually. Only when one of them brought a canister to a group of dwarven craftsmen with a blueprint for a steam engine, the latter responded with raucous laughter, taking him for a loon. Of course, that was before the latest patch when they were still nothing but computer code, but Max doubted anything had changed since. Oil might be a potent source of energy back in that world, but extracting it took a heck of a lot more resources than "extracting" magic in this one. As for gunpowder, it simply didn't burn. To be sure, the future of this world was anything but certain, but firearms were highly unlikely to ever make an appearance here. RP-17 wouldn't allow it. And Max didn't mind that at all.

  He found the skeleton when he drew within a few hundred yards of the mountain. Short grass had gown over the bones, yellowed with time, almost causing Max to miss the remains completely. The bones clearly once belonged to a warrior, as evidenced by the rusted helm. Only the warrior had been neither human nor elf, his skeleton being larger than any humanoid by at least fifty percent.

  A thick, powerful spinal cord extended into what appeared to be a tail, ending in a bone tip that looked like the blade of a soldier's pike. The skeleton's head was turned toward the mountain, its skull larger than any elf's and adorned with a pair of eight-inch-long horns, gray in color and curved back a bit. Still glancing around with caution, Max rounded the skeleton, shifted back to elf form, leaned over the remains and touched them. Empty. That makes sense, he thought. Probably looted by whoever killed him, and I doubt it was a player. The more interesting question was, what were demons doing in the Wild Wood?

  Max recalled the zone's name and pulled up the chronicles. Maloc was an Elder Demon of Ruin and one of the Netherworld's seven lords. Max took a seat on the grass and got to thinking. What was this? Echoes of the epic war of yore? But hadn't Velial's army only invaded Erantia then? There wasn't a word in the chronicles about the Great Forest. Had there been another war after that? There must have been a reason for the legion being mentioned in the zone's description. No use guessing, he sighed, gazing up at the sun shining through the trees. It was midday, but here in the shade it was downright dusky. The gentle breeze rustled through scattered isles of grass, carrying scents of pine needles, tar and sun-warmed rock. Birdsong was coming from every direction, and somewhere on the edge of visibility he could see large shapes flickering amid the trees.