by Emmet Moss
Clearing his mind, Bider re-examined the mark he had found. Leaning closer to the impression, he snapped his fingers and waved Garett over. Pointing towards a second indentation, he pulled the young man in close.
“This one’s been sloppy. He might be tired or wounded, I’m not sure,” he said with some urgency. “I have the trail, but I’m not sure how old it is yet. I need you to go see Sergeant Shade and pass on my findings. Tell him to send someone back with you, no sense taking chances if we can take them down easily.” Nodding, Garett turned and quickly made his way back towards the camp. With luck, Bider mused, he would not be gone for longer than a quarter hour.
At first the trail was difficult to see, and progress was slow. As he continued to follow the markings, Bider realized that the assassin’s tracks were quite fresh. Almost no effort had been made to cover the path, and the assailant was obviously worried about his potential escape. He was convinced that his quarry was nearby.
The clear tracks had been the clue. No Guild member of this stature would panic; these were soldiers who could take down their prey with ease. One lone scout would certainly not register as a threat to the person hiding nearby. Kill the scout quickly and then blend back into the environment…
Bider was confident with his blades, but he was no pompous fool. In a stand up duel, one on one, he would be no match for a member of the Guild. He could only hope Garett had found someone quickly and would return with numbers. He had no desire to die today.
As he crouched by a large oak, a soft rustle came from his right, an accompanying whistle of air following instantly thereafter. Bider was already moving, but still he was too late. Wincing, he threw himself on the ground behind a small thicket. Closing his eyes tight, he grimaced and clutched the bone handled dagger hilt entrenched in his shoulder. Had he moved any slower, the blade would now be lodged in his throat.
“Do we really need to continue this charade, little one?” the assailant spoke from the shadows.
Bider spun around, desperately trying to spot the location of the voice; a very female voice, he noted. This woman toyed with him, but his plan was to delay his death temporarily so as to give Garett and the others more time. He needed to save every precious moment.
“A continuation is all I can offer, m’lady,” he called back. “Once your dagger missed, I knew that the battle was joined. Would that you had given me some forewarning,” he added.
“Cute, but by the mere fact that you still breathe is proof enough. Otherwise I’d be emptying your pockets as you lay choking on your own blood,” she replied.
“I’m glad you like me,” Bider said, stalling further. He pulled the blade painfully from the wound and was quick to staunch the bleeding with the ripped sleeve of his tunic. Tying a rough tourniquet, he struggled to his feet with his eyes continuing to scan the forest. Reaching down and grasping the discarded weapon, Bider whistled in appreciation. “Nice blade by the way.”
“Enjoy it for the next second, wee one, because it’s mine,” the assassin spun around a tree some ten paces to his left, arm cocked and ready to release a second missile. Caught off guard, it would be almost impossible to evade the throw. Believing she had been positioned directly ahead, he had set his stance in response to a threat from that location.
She’s too good.
As the black-garbed killer’s arm reached its apex, a sudden movement from behind caused the slightest hesitation. In shock, Bider watched a tall, green creature the size of a man reach out and swat the woman aside. She flew through the air as though weightless, tumbling to the ground some distance from where she had been standing.
Utterly fascinated by what was unfolding, Bider watched as the creature made entirely of earth and grass, crushed her in its arms and withdrew into an area of dense brush. As quickly as it had appeared, the creature vanished.
“Coren, are you all right?”
Still shaken by what he had just witnessed, Bider was surprised to see Gavin Silveron crouching at his side. “I think so,” he stammered.
“We cannot remain here, Coren, it isn’t safe. Can you travel?” the captain asked impatiently, his eyes trained on the space where the assassin had been standing.
“Yes, and Captain did you see that?!” Bider exclaimed. He could barely breathe, and his heart thudded loudly in his head. Accepting a hand from his commander as well as a clean strip of cloth for his arm, Bider locked eyes with the man.
Gavin Silveron turned his gaze away. “I saw nothing,” he replied.
“But the assassin…” Bider whispered.
“She must have tripped and fallen into a hidden chasm. These woods hide many treacherous things,” Gavin replied with indifference.
Stunned by the denial, Bider took a moment to collect himself before turning to follow the Fey’Derin leader. Still uneasy from the strange conclusion to the attack, the small scout nearly walked headlong into one of the ancient trees. The Aeldenwood took that woman’s life, but by the gods, how could you explain it? And why would the captain turn a blind eye?
“If I leave for Dragon Mount, I only show my fear!” Gavin hissed as he surveyed the five men gathered around the table. “Am I to turn tail and run like a coward?”
“Is it better to worry about your pride than your life, Gavin?” Caolte retorted hotly. “I’ll have you know this isn’t an attack like Khali’s.”
“Don’t you dare bring talk of that incident into this room. It has no bearing on the present!” Gavin retaliated sharply.
“I would beg to differ, Captain,” Ethan interjected. “The last time our enemies used that mongrel Khali in an attempt to strike at the Fey’Derin’s foundation. The only difference this time lies in the manner chosen to bring about the same result.”
“I agree.” Eör Rockfar nodded. “They used assassins; Guild assassins, no less. Where once they hit our youth, now they target our leader.” The gruff dwarf tugged absently on his braided reddish beard as he finished his statement.
Exasperated, Gavin shook his head. “But unlike before, I can guarantee I’ll not find a trail to Gadian Yarr’s or Lord Dalemen’s estate, nor will I be able to strike back. The Guild has always kept their motives hidden.”
“Why focus on vengeance, Gavin?” Caolte asked earnestly. “We have identified the enemy. Next year’s warfare may very well decide the future of the land, and Duke Berry will need every ally he can muster.”
“And why are we so important?” Gavin paused and looked at the officers around the table. “Why do I need to stay alive? I could enter Imlaris and have a fair shot of killing that bastard Yarr, if I so chose. Why should I sit here and bury more men and leave the culprit alive to scoff at our sorrow?”
“Gavin, if there is one thing that will tear you apart, it is the blame you take on for each fallen man,” Eör replied sadly. “Those soldiers on the wall last night knew what they risked by joining the company. They were proud of it, and damn proud to serve with you. Don’t pity them. They were Fey’Derin, and they died with honour.”
“I don’t often speak against you, Captain, nor against revenge,” Ossric’s deep voice reverberated from the folds of his thick beard. “You know how badly I want to see the fools from Khali’s band of murderers suffer for their brutality, but I believe the others here speak the truth. From the moment you pulled me out of the sewers in Avery, I knew you were different.”
“Ossric…” Gavin sighed.
“No, no, just let me finish, Captain. The recruits need to complete the ritual, we all know that, and so what better reason exists than to have you lead the party north?”
“We’ll double the watch and keep veterans on the walls. If the Guild strikes again, we’ll be ready,” Sergeant Brock Fearan added.
“Speak with Ir’Wolien while you visit. The old man will be glad to see you after so long,” Caolte said, his eyes sparkling as the Silveryn Archmage’s name was uttere
d. Only Ethan caught the flash of anger that briefly crossed Gavin’s face.
“It seems you’ve already decided.” Gavin said, his gaze slowly travelling to each member sitting at the table.
“That we have, Captain. It’s in the best interest of the company.” Ethan Shade replied.
Realizing that he was handily outnumbered, Gavin’s head slumped down onto the rough wood. “Do I dare ask what time I leave?” he mumbled.
“I’ll have my recruits ready by the break of dawn. A four day march will do them some good,” Eör smiled, clapping the captain on the shoulder. “We’ll see you in the morning, sir. Do try and get some sleep.”
The other men joined in approval and wished him goodnight. For the first time since the Fey’Derin’s inception, Gavin realized how exceptional his men had truly become.
The effect of the Aeldenwood’s supernatural growth will be far-reaching. Vital trade routes connecting the various regions of Old Caledun and Farraine will be severed. An era of isolation will result; an era that, I believe, will curb our world’s advancements and limit our cultural evolution.
—Tel’Lianne, ‘The Aeldenwood Mystery’
Chapter XVI
King’s Road, Northern Council
Corian Praxxus had selected a dangerous route for his caravans. With the encroachment of the Aeldenwood over the past generation limiting the central trade roads, an increasing number of merchants were more than likely to pay the extra coin and board a vessel on the coast. Disappearances continued to mount among the convoys electing to follow the once safe passageways through the Great Wood. Very few merchants remained who chose to risk their livelihood for what appeared to be an easier and cheaper journey.
In regards to Corian’s business interests, there was the tantalizing prospect of increased profit. The trip through the forest was considerably less expensive. There was no extra cost for hiring a ship and its crew, no sea sickness, and no lengthy travel diverting his wares far away from their eventual destination. With the arrival of winter, he also counted on the thick eaves of the Aeldenwood to serve as protection from the elements. Snowfall was rarely heavy in the supernatural forest, and Corian wasn’t fond of the bitter winds and icy waters of the sea.
And so, at the risk of his own safety and that of the whole entourage, Corian Praxxus from the Innes Vale was willing to attempt passage on the old King’s Road. The route was key to the bulk of all trade in Caledun back in the time of the High King. Historians often compared it to a river current, with goods moving constantly, and the well-worn path teeming with activity.
In the dark years of decline after the king’s death, the road remained one of the few passageways connecting the northern and southern peoples of the old kingdom. For reasons unknown, the path remained relatively free from the invading woodland that so indiscriminately claimed land in all directions. Some speculated that the Silveryn Mages were involved in what seemed to be some sort of magical protection.
Alessan was eagerly anticipating their arrival at the famous roadway, yet in the pit of his stomach was also a feeling of dread. Although the Aeldenwood was anything but welcoming, he still wanted to tread the same path spoken of in the histories of Caledun.
They would also be passing through the forgotten land of Farraine, a one-time neighbour and ally to Caledun during the rule of Darion Lordares. Although the capital city of Telmire had been abandoned only a short generation earlier, the kingdom was no more. Farraine had been ruled by a royal family of its own, one that could trace its roots back as far as Caledun’s kings of old.
On occasion there had been war and strife between the lands, but when in need, both had supported the other. In 3AE329, the Northern Council ceded a small parcel of land near the northernmost tip of their holdings to the surviving members of Farraine’s royal family. New Telmire was little more than a refugee town at that point, but the foundations of a new capital city had slowly taken shape over the past decade. The youngest daughter of the last king would rule one day, but for the present, a regent had been appointed until the girl reached maturity. Alessan was convinced that passing along the borders, and even within ten leagues of the old capital, would surely be a sight to behold.
Slowed by the terrible road conditions and the size of the column itself, the trip along the northern edge of the Aeldenwood was both tedious and treacherous. On more than one occasion, impertinent pack mules, as well as problems with various wheels and hitches, caused the convoy to grind to a grumbling halt. Well sheltered by the unsettling trees of the forest, none of the men wanted to spend any more time in the cold than was absolutely necessary.
Three or four times daily the wagons would get stuck in muddy ruts, putting additional stress on the metal fastenings already replaced once by the caravan smiths. The wind howled mightily, and some of the horses drawing the wagons proved more stubborn than those Alessan had worked with in the stables of Briar. Nearing the end of the fourth day, he wondered whether he could survive the physical toll his body was being forced to endure. His muscles ached terribly, and yet he complained little and slept as best he could in the cramped quarters of his covered carriage. In the Lumber community, Alessan had long ago learned to curb his tongue, all too aware that he would be judged harshly for calling attention to his frailties.
For the time being, he worked alongside a trio of handlers, all of whom drove a wagon and supervised the care of a half-dozen mules. Two of the men rarely spoke to him, but then Seamus and Domhnall barely spoke at all. Half mumbled grunts were the norm for the two northern men who, if Alessan had understood correctly, had been working as merchant handlers for the most of their lives. Neither was married, and their favourite topic seemed to be the beautiful women of the south.
The last man, the lead driver, was the complete opposite. Fingus O’Neill was a gravelly-voiced man who possessed not only the most intimidating arms Alessan had ever laid eyes on, but also held the dubious distinction of being the biggest talker amongst the caravan folk. Fingus loved the sound of his own voice. He talked incessantly about the wildlife, his own life, his home town, his dreams, religion, and of course, women. The middle-aged man was excited by the fact that Alessan had not heard any of his stories. Ignoring the insults hurled about by the other men, Fingus delighted in telling the new arrival everything and anything that came to mind.
Surprisingly, Alessan really didn’t mind. Growing up in the sleepy confines of a small community, he enjoyed hearing of far-off places and strange people. As the two men worked tirelessly to free another wagon from the ice that morning, he realized that he rather liked Fingus.
“So this is the King’s Road...” Alessan said on the sixth day, the column trudging forward under the trees. Craning his neck to watch the foliage cover the sun, Alessan was unable to suppress a shiver of anticipation.
“It’s only a road, lad, so don’t be getting too excited,” Fingus grinned from his seat. “Looks like any other road I’ve travelled, smells like any other road, and has holes and ruts in it just like any other road I’ve seen — so I don’t know what the fuss is all about.”
“But it’s the famous King’s Road!” Alessan replied enthusiastically. “Aren’t you the least bit excited?”
“I don’t want to speak for the other men, lad, but there are quite a few things that get me worked up, and trust me, they don’t have anything to do with this road,” Fingus shook his head. “Now a woman, or a fine bottle of brandy… that would get any man’s blood racing!” he guffawed.
Realizing that these men cared little about where they were, Alessan resigned himself to enjoying the moment quietly.
“If yer wonderin’, we’re headed to the Crossroads,” Fingus replied as he chewed thoughtfully on a long twig. “With luck, and if the weather holds with this here roof above our heads, we can expect to make camp sometime by week’s end.”
“I heard Seamus bellyaching all morning
about the place,” Alessan remarked.
“Seamus is all worked up about the spirit stories some were telling last night. It seems as though his stones aren’t half as big as he might have let on,” Fingus laughed.
“Is it a town?”
“T’was an old waystation back in the days of the king,” Fingus snorted. “Merchant caravans would often spend a night, and some tales say that on occasion even the Gorimm visited the place. With the passing of years, the old buildings have crumbled, and the stop is uninhabited. Some companies passing this way have heard strange things in the dark, but I think they’re just letting fear take hold…that or the drink!” the driver howled.
“Have you ever been there before?” Alessan pressed.
“Aye, a long ways back in my career,” Fingus answered. “I might’ve been close to your age, and probably had the same look of excitement. This was before the roads down south became treacherous and the rumblings of the Gath. All I know is, I never heard any sounds, nor did I see anything. That’s all the proof I need,” Fingus spat the end of his chewed stick off to the side, “In any case, the Crossroads is a place that’s fine passing through, but it’s no place to make a home.”
Alessan remained quiet and mulled over the conversation. Excited by the prospect of seeing another new place in the wider world of Caledun, he passed the remainder of the day wondering what they would find when they arrived.
More often than not, the mood of the camp was jovial once the men had settled down for the evening. It was then, Alessan quickly learned, that a world from which he had been so carefully sheltered, reared its ugly head. Alessan was mildly familiar with both drinking and gambling, although he had never been overly fond of either of the two vices. Three days after leaving town, he had swallowed more burning spirits and dark mead than he had consumed over the course of his entire young life.
