by T P Sheehan
“I can imagine quite a lot. She was moments away from crushing me to death with her limbs, the way they were wrapped around me.”
“A nymph will only hurt you where her seduction falters. Not that you’ll have an option next time. Should you two meet again, she won’t be out to seduce you, she’ll be set to kill you—I promise you that!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Magnus said, trying to end the conversation.
The Juniper stone path came to a point where it turned sharply in a southerly direction. Magnus peered down the path that vanished into the darkness beyond. Eeriness seemed to leach back toward him. He shuddered and turned away.
“We shan’t be going that way,” Eamon said. “Through there is the true Valley of Shadows. We’ve being skirting its borders.”
“Have you been that way before?” Magnus asked.
“Aye. That I have.” A macabre expression washed over Eamon’s face and he swallowed hard. “Don’t be tempted to go there.” He pointed down the path with a long, bony finger.
“I’ve no intention to.”
“You may never come out and if you do, you’ll not be the same person.”
Magnus looked around. The trees were so densely packed together, there was no way Breona could squeeze through in any other direction. The southern road seemed the only option. “Very well, but I see no other path.”
“There’s always another path,” Eamon insisted. He picked a long, thin stick from the side of the road and pointed it. “That way is north. Now watch carefully.” He threw the stick with all his might toward several thick-trunked pine trees. The stick hit the nearest tree then fell to the ground. “Now you try.”
Magnus alighted from Breona and stood on the juniper stone path. I’ve been led into the middle of nowhere by a madman. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Eamon.
“Do it!”
“Okay, okay,” Magnus sighed and bent to pick up a stick of his own to throw.
“Not a stick, throw your Juniper stone.”
Magnus pulled the stone from his coat pocket and felt its warmth. He stared at Eamon again, shaking his head.
“Throw it!”
He drew back his left arm, focussed on the widest of the pine trees in front of him and threw the stone with all his strength. The stone hurtled toward the tree. As it drew closer it threw a brilliant purple light until it made contact with the tree and vanished without a trace. In its place, a quivering purple glow danced across the tree’s surface. Magnus stared wide-eyed, trying to understand what had just happened.
“That’s our path—come.” Eamon led Mr Overstreet toward the large tree. “Come Magnus, the gate shan’t stay open for long.”
Magnus watched as Eamon vanished through the tree just as the stone had. He turned to Breona, who backed away from the tree. Magnus reassured her as best he could and without hesitating, closed his eyes and walked headlong toward the large pine tree, pulling Breona’s reins behind him.
By the time Magnus prised his eyes open again, he and Breona were on the far side of the tree.
Magnus felt his body over, making sure he was still in one piece then looked to Breona, who side stepped clumsily, disorientated. Magnus looked around and drank in their new environment. They were now free of the forest, standing in a shaded clearing a short distance from a paved road. Eamon was talking to one of many people who were busily moving about the roadside, packing horse drawn carts and talking amongst themselves. Magnus felt as though he had just woken from a dream. Or have I just fallen into one? He turned and looked back at the tree behind him and felt the rough surface of the trunk with the palms of his hands. A purple light danced momentarily across them before fading to nothing.
“Magnus!” Eamon called from across the clearing. The old man looked pleased with himself. He bid farewell to the woman he had been talking to and trotted back toward Magnus.
“Welcome to the Northern Road!” Eamon said. “We’ve come out of Froughton four miles east of the main road through the Outer Rim. No one will suspect you left the forest here. And we’re only a day’s journey to Guame. What do you think?”
Magnus nodded. He was happy they had made it yet still a little perplexed about the sudden change of scenery.
“Here, don’t forget your stone. You’ll need it for the return journey.” Eamon handed Magnus the Juniper stone. Its purple glow had all but faded. “You’ve a good arm. I found it over by the roadside. You threw it a good hundred feet!”
“And through a tree,” Magnus mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yes, it’s a kind of magic!” Eamon whispered with a wink.
THE HUGMDAEL INN
Over his shoulder, Magnus watched the last rays of sun sink beyond the western horizon. It thinned to a green flash before disappearing altogether, marking the end of autumn’s days. Magnus longed to follow it over the horizon and be home again with his parents. He wanted to be with his father, mending the fences and ploughing the fields. He wanted to hand Breona’s reins to his mother, having developed a greater appreciation for their relationship. Magnus wondered if he could have done something to make things any different, but nothing would have stopped the Quagmen attacking in the night. And nothing would have stopped the priest from taking Catanya away from him on the back of a fire dragon.
Magnus looked back to the east and the road where his journey would continue. At least my path has been set. To have nowhere to go and no hope at all would be unbearable. Neither Ganister nor Csilla gave any mention of travelling the Northern Road to Guame. It was to be the final leg of his journey before speaking before the Authoritarium. Magnus began to feel the burden of what he was about to do.
Eamon convinced Magnus he was best keeping off the road once night had fallen. “You must stay at the Hugmdael Inn. They have rooms that will keep you safe and warm and it will do you good to sleep in a bed.”
Once they reached the Inn, half a mile along the Northern Road, Magnus insisted Eamon stay with him. “I will pay your way and you will eat a hot meal with me. I owe you that much and more.” Eamon eventually agreed.
Magnus was reluctant to leave Breona in the stables at the far end of the compound behind the Hugmdael Inn, but Eamon did so with Mr Overstreet, leaving all his worldly goods neatly stacked in the corner of the stable. In the end he decided if Eamon felt safe to do so, then he should too. However, Magnus kept his belongings strapped to the saddle that was still on Breona’s back. “Just in case,” he told her.
The front tavern of the Hugmdael Inn was dimly lit and littered with dozens of men in small groups mumbling into pewters of ale. The tavern stank of damp, stale beer and sweat. As Magnus and Eamon entered, all eyes fixed on them and soon singled out Magnus as the stranger none of them recognised.
Eamon led the way to the bar. A burly waiter with an unkempt crop of oily hair stared lazily as Eamon ordered two pints of beer. He handed them two pre-poured mugs, plonking Magnus’s down in front of him and spilling its foamy head across the table before wiping the mess with a greasy rag he then threw over his shoulder. The waiter looked Magnus over, pushing his tongue under his bottom lip. “Eating?”
“Aye,” Eamon replied.
The waiter grunted and moped to a room out the back. He returned with two bowls containing a grey gruel that Magnus could not identify as any known type of edible food. The waiter spilt half the bowls’ contents across the table, again using the oily rag to clean the mess up. Magnus breathed through a wave of nausea and Eamon quickly handed the waiter two gold coins and took his mug and plate of food.
“Follow me,” he said to Magnus.
They found a vacant table and sat. Magnus insisted, “I told you I would pay your way.”
“Shhh,” Eamon whispered. “Not here. These men are trying to size you up. If they think you have money, they will take an unsavoury interest in you.”
Magnus looked around. While most had resumed muttering between themselves, they still cast furtive glances at him. “T
his is the hot meal I promised you?” Magnus said, quieter than before.
“Aye. The best you’ll find in these parts. And the best drink,” Eamon leaned in toward Magnus. “Wait till you see the accommodation.”
Magnus tilted his bowl letting the sloppy grey contents roll around inside it. He tried to figure out what it was and how exactly he was supposed to eat it, as they were not given utensils of any kind. Glancing around, Magnus saw others scooping their food with their fingers or slurping from the bowl’s edge. Soon enough Eamon was doing the same. Not convinced, Magnus took a tentative swig at his mug of warm beer.
“You asked me earlier about the dragon priests,” Eamon mumbled, his mouth half full of gruel.
“Yes,” Magnus whispered, not convinced this was the place to discuss the subject. “Should we discuss this later?”
“Baa, don’t mind that. They could use an education.” Eamon slurped his drink. “What is it you’d like to know?”
“What do you know of them?” Magnus fiddled with the crudely made handle of his beer mug. Eamon exercised his usual habit of pausing at length before responding, further frustrating Magnus.
“Battle-hardened,” he finally said.
“Battle-hardened? When was the last time they fought a battle?”
“Hmm. Twenty years since the Battle of Fire. Before you were born. But they train hard—very hard. Fierce warriors, they are.”
Magnus waited for further explanation, raising his eyebrows. “Anything else?”
“Well, I knew one once—an Irucantî. He received the calling. Once he joined the order, he trained and trained…” Eamon drank heavily of his beer. “Anyway, he was never the same after that. Are you following me?”
“I think so.” Magnus was not at all sure though. He tried as he had before to see Catanya as a warrior.
“The priesthood is about shedding away everything that makes them who they were and becoming a committed warrior.” Eamon raised his mug and knocked it against Magnus’s. “Commitment!” he continued. “Well, I suppose a dragon is totally committed to being a dragon, so a priest should be totally committed to being a priest.” Eamon raised his mug again. “Here’s to commitment!”
“Commitment!” shouted a drunken man at the table nearest to them. He and Eamon knocked their beer mugs together and drank to their toast. More men joined the cheer, shouting and drinking with no apparent care of what it was exactly that they were celebrating.
At the height of the cheer the oak doors of the Inn’s tavern burst inward and several men entered. The room fell silent. Magnus immediately recognised who they were—Quagmen. Every hair on his body stood on end and he struggled to breathe. He felt Eamon’s hand grip his knee firmly under the table. He looked to his companion, whose expression had turned to stone.
“Say nothing,” Eamon mouthed in silence.
There were four Quagmen in total and each wore the same dull, black armour as the man who attacked Magnus and Ganister back at his home. Each of them carried a black steel helm with collar spikes in one arm and a pair of sheathed black swords at the waist. In the light of the Inn they looked no less menacing than those Magnus had seen in the darkness of night.
A fifth man followed. The other four stood aside to let him through. He was younger and leaner by comparison, yet strong, nonetheless. His armour was more intricately put together with engraved panels on his chest and forearms. His face was not as broad as the other Quagmen and his pitch black hair was styled short but for a long fringe that fell across his face. His dark eyes scanned the room, looking at each man, and soon enough at Magnus, who couldn’t help but return his gaze. After a pause, the Quagman looked away and walked toward the bar.
“Waiter!” he shouted, but the waiter was nowhere to be seen. He nodded to one of the other Quagmen—the largest of the group—who walked behind the bar to the back room and returned moments later hauling the oily-haired waiter by the collar. “Beer for my men,” the young Quagman demanded.
“Sire,” the waiter nodded nervously, pouring four pints of beer and placing them on the bar before the large Quagman, careful this time not to spill a drop.
“Two gold pieces for the beer, sire?” The waiter’s voice trembled nervously and he held a hand out in waiting.
The young Quagman scanned the room once again, returning his gaze to Magnus. “Who will pay for my companions’ beers?” No answer came from the soundless room. “Who will pay?” the young man demanded in a more aggressive tone. Still no answer came. “Briet. Pay the man yourself.”
The large Quagman grunted and placed his half-drunk beer on the counter, glaring at the expectant waiter. Reaching behind his back he fumbled for a moment then paused. “I have your payment here,” he sneered. As quick as lighting he drew a dagger from within his robes and brought it down hard, burying it into the palm of the waiter’s hand, pinning it to the table. The waiter shrieked in pain and all in the tavern gasped collectively. Some patrons stood from their chairs, trying to move back against the walls, while others froze where they sat. The waiter continued to moan in agony.
Magnus looked at Eamon, who remained seated and held Magnus’s knee firmly as if suggesting he do the same.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the young Quagman announced as his four men positioned themselves at the four corners of the tavern. The patrons shuffled about, trying to distance themselves from the Quagmen. “My name is Crugion, son of Delvion.” Eyes widened even more than when the waiter was assaulted.
Magnus stared hard. Delvion the Quag King… this is his son?
“It seems time has not forgotten us after all,” Crugion continued. “Alas, time does change things and change is coming to you—all of you. Some perhaps tonight, but soon all of you in one way or another will feel the change.” He spoke calmly and deliberately, ignoring the wailing waiter who was trying desperately to pull the blade from his hand that was still pinned to the table.
“I have spoken before your Authoritarium this day past, bringing word from the South.” He started to pace around the room again. “Would you like to hear what news from the South I bring?” The room remained silent. “Would you?” he shouted angrily.
Even through his fear Magnus felt it was strange that a room of so many men would so easily bow to the barking of one young man, even with the company he kept. Then he realised these people were mostly peasants—farmers, traders and gardeners. They had no knowledge of fighting. Then where are the knights of the Authoritarium? Why do they allow five Quagmen to roam freely this far north? His father’s words haunted him—“This is what comes of a dictatorship…”
Crugion started to shout again—“Briet, shut that mewling man up.” Magnus turned to look at the moaning waiter. His oily hair now looked more like a wet mop, bobbing around as he jerked frantically trying to pull the blade free. Magnus noticed the big man’s hand was turning black where the blade had entered. The blackness was spreading slowly up—firstly to his wrist, then his forearm. The sight of the encroaching blackness was sending the waiter into fits of hysteria.
“Shut him up!” Crugion shouted. Briet gulped a final swig of beer and sighed loudly, clearly not impressed he had twice been interrupted while enjoying his drink. He placed the empty mug on the bar and took a firm grip of the blade’s handle, studying the waiter’s agonised face. As quick as he had driven it in, he pulled it free, spun the blade around in the palm of his hand and thrust it up under the waiter’s chin, driving it into his throat and out through the back of his neck.
The silence in the tavern was broken by a collective gasp of horror. The waiter’s face turned grey and black mist oozed from the wound in his neck. Thin dark lines started to spread across the dying man’s face.
A cursed blade? Magnus wondered, growing ever more fearful for his own life. It reminded him of the poison Kriser drew from Lucas’s body. The waiter’s eyes turned black and he crashed heavily onto the bar—dead.
“Black blades,” whispered Eamon. Magnus turned to him. �
��Say nothing,” he mouthed once again.
Magnus heard the scrape of Crugion’s armour and froze. He glanced to his right and saw he was standing directly over him.
“You are not from around these parts,” Crugion said. Magnus said nothing, partly because he was told not to and partly because he was terrified. “Does your companion speak?” Crugion addressed Eamon.
“Neither one of us are from around here,” Eamon said in the coolest of manners. “We are just passing through.”
Crugion looked Eamon over with an expression of contempt. “You get around old man. I’ve seen you in Ba’rrat. That’s your old donkey in the stables, is it not?”
“Correct.”
Crugion’s attention returned to Magnus, who looked to the ground, desperate to remain anonymous. He knew there was no greater enemy of the Quag clan than the people of the Fire Realm. It was his realm and their dragons that put an end to Delvion’s attack on the realms years ago, and now they were attacking the Fire Realm once again. Magnus doubted he would leave this tavern alive if Crugion learned of his true identity.
“My companion here is a Rhyderman,” Eamon said.
“Is that a fact?” Crugion stood so close to Magnus he was convinced he would strike him. “You’re from the Ice Realm?” Magnus looked at Eamon who sat in silence. “What are you looking at him for? You can answer my questions yourself.”
“Whilst at the stables, did you see the Astermeer beside my old steed?” Eamon asked.
“I did,” Crugion asserted. “What of it?”
“No man beyond the Ice Realm rides an Astermeer, save for the Irucantî.”
“So then you could be a dragon priest?” Crugion laughed and his men laughed with him. He raised a gloved hand in the air and the men fell silent.
Magnus’s fear turned to frustration. He knew it would do him no good to confront Crugion but Eamon’s suggestion to remain mute would not last much longer. He would be pressed into talking one way or another.
Magnus stood from his chair and faced Crugion directly. Their eyes were level. Crugion stared back at Magnus in silence as if waiting for him to make a move. The four Quagmen did not wait—they moved in swiftly, drawing their swords. Magnus looked at each of them. They all had extremely high cheekbones and low, wide jawbones making their faces appear square and somewhat beastly. Each of them had scars on their faces. The one named Briet had a scar that ran through his right eye and across his cheek. He looked to be blind in that eye. Crugion moved closer to Magnus so that their noses almost touched. They considered one another for a moment. Magnus did not flinch.
