Disenchanted

by Robert Kroese

  The archer shrugged again and strung another arrow.

  “And as you can see, they aren’t having much of an effect. You’re just delaying the inevitable. When you run out of arrows, I’ll finish climbing and be gone. And you’ll be out two dozen arrows. Tell me, do you have to pay for your own arrows?”

  The archer hesitated.

  “Because you’re not getting them back, you know. You’ll lose all your arrows and have nothing to show for it. What are you going to tell your captain? That you shot all your arrows over the wall?”

  “I’ll tell him I was trying to stop a wraith from escaping the city.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you want to stop a wraith from escaping the city? Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you want the wraiths outside the city?”

  The archer scratched his head. After a moment, he shrugged again and shot another arrow into Boric’s back.

  “Tell you what,” said Boric. “If you stop shooting now, I’ll give all your arrows back when I get to the top. But if you keep shooting, you lose all the arrows.”

  The archer paused to consider this. After some time he replied, “You promise you’ll give them all back?”

  “On the grave of…well, on my own grave, I suppose. I haven’t been a wraith very long; I don’t really know how the oaths work. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  The archer shrugged again, which Boric took as agreement. He continued his climb, even slower now because of the arrow protruding from his left hand. Finally he reached the top.

  “All right, give me back my arrows,” called the archer.

  With some difficulty, Boric worked the arrow free from his hand. The tapered head kept it from going backward; he had to pull it all the way through, leaving a pinky-sized hole in his palm. The arrow in his thigh was slightly easier. He threw them both down to the archer and began feeling around for the arrows in his back.

  “Come on, then, I haven’t got all night,” said the archer.

  “Well, you should have shot me in more accessible places!” growled Boric.

  “Hello, what’s all this?” he heard another voice say. A second archer had joined the first.

  “Waiting for this fellow to give me back my arrows. He swore on his own grave.”

  “His own — ”

  “I’m a wraith,” called Boric, trying to work an arrow out of his back. “Nice to meet you.”

  The second man waved to Boric. “Why don’t you stop him?” he asked the first archer.

  “I tried,” protested the first. “Arrows don’t work on the undead.”

  “Nonsense,” said the second archer, and shot an arrow into Boric’s back.

  “Hey!” Boric yelled. “I’m not giving that one back!”

  “See?” said the first archer. “Pointless.”

  “Well if that doesn’t just beat all,” said the second archer.

  A third voice joined the discussion. “You two! What are you doing there? Why is that man on wall? Shoot him down at once!”

  “No good, Captain,” said the second man. “Watch.” He shot another arrow into Boric’s back.

  “For Grovlik’s sake,” growled Boric. “Stop that! How do you expect me to — ”

  “Let me try,” said the captain, taking the first man’s bow. He shot an arrow into Boric’s back.

  “Told you,” said the first archer.

  “Keep shooting and I’m not giving your arrows back!” Boric shouted.

  “You have to,” said the first archer, sounding aggrieved. “That was the deal.”

  “No, the deal was that you stop shooting me and I give back the arrows you already shot. You can’t keep shooting me and expect to get your arrows back.”

  “I didn’t shoot you; they did,” retorted the first archer. “I can’t be held responsible for every night watchman who stumbles through here with a bow.”

  “It’s your bow!” Boric growled.

  “Well, now you’re just nitpicking,” said the man.

  “Look, can we agree that it’s not in anyone’s interest to keep shooting arrows into my back?” asked Boric.

  The men conferred among themselves and finally came to an agreement. “No more arrows,” said the captain. “And you give back all the ones we’ve already shot.”

  “Fine,” Boric groused, and set back to work extracting arrows. After a moment he was struck on the head with a fist-sized rock. “What in Varnoth’s name was that?” Boric bellowed.

  “Nobody said anything about rocks,” said the second man. “Rocks are okay, right?” The other two men shrugged and nodded.

  “All right, that’s it,” said Boric. “I take back my oath. Get your own bloody arrows.” And with that, he slipped off the wall, landing with a thud on the other side. He got to his feet and began to walk south toward the Thick Forest, pulling out arrows as he went.

  [9] Named after Count Revantle Thick, whose last known words — spoken during one of the monthlong cross-country golfing campaigns that went on at the peak of the Old Realm — were, “I think my ball went in those trees over there.”

  [10] The question of whether animals have souls is a perennial favorite; the current prevailing view among elves is that dogs, pigs, and hedgehogs possess souls, and that cats, humans, and horses do not.

  [11] The Purse of Priam, which contained an endless supply of silver. The Purse of Priam caused the runaway inflation throughout the Old Realm that many historians credit as the primary impetus for the Realm’s collapse. It was ultimately disposed of by Varnum the Grey, who tossed the Purse into the Cave of Infinite Regret, from which it can never be recovered. Overcome by sorrow at the loss of the Purse, Varnum spent the next twenty years scouring Dis for the Balm of Bourdain, which was said to be capable of easing any suffering. He finally found the Balm buried in a small hole not twenty feet from the Cave of Infinite Regret. Cursing the years he had wasted traveling to the remotest corners of the Realm, he squeezed some of the Balm into his mouth and waited for relief from his suffering. When nothing happened he broke into a rage, throwing the Balm of Bourdain into the Cave of Infinite Regret as well. Upon doing this he immediately noticed a small card that had been lying under the Balm that read “FOR TOPICAL USE ONLY.” Varnum spent the next six months in severe gastrointestinal discomfort and then died.

  Episode Five

  TWENTY

  Boric reached the Thick Forest just before dawn. At the edge of the forest, the Avaressian Road turned into a narrow footpath that vanished into the woods. Boric entered the woods cautiously, following the path that he had taken years before on his mission to meet with the elves. He didn’t know the exact location of Quanfyrr — no human did — but he knew roughly in which direction it lay. The expedition he had been part of years earlier had simply traveled deeper and deeper into the forest until it came upon an encampment of elves that had been erected in anticipation of humans’ arrival. Boric figured if he went deep enough into the woods, the elves would find him. And if they didn’t — well, he’d find Quanfyrr eventually. He had heard the legends of the strange and terrifying creatures that roamed the Thick Forest, of course, but spider-wolves, wolf-lizards, lizard-spiders, and whatever other fell beasts protected Quanfyrr held no fear for Boric. He was the monster here.

  Monster or not, though, the Thick Forest made for tough going. Once he stepped on a mineshroom that blew most of the flesh off his left leg and twice he brushed against a red-leafed needlewort, riddling much of his upper torso with poisonous barbs. It rained for most of his first two days in the forest, drenching his wrappings. The feeling of the clammy gauze against his flesh made his spirit shiver. The worst part of the journey, though, was the three-mile-long fart marsh. Boric had never been so thankful to be on solid ground.

  On the morning of his third day in the forest, Boric heard a whistling sound next to his left ear, followed by an arrow thudding into a tree in front of him.

  “Oh, great,” said Boric. “Ar
rows again.” He turned to see the archer standing perhaps thirty paces away on the trail behind him: he was a slightly built man wearing an outfit of tight-fitting brown leather. His ears were slightly pointed: an elf. He had another arrow trained on Boric.

  “You might as well drop the bow,” said Boric. “I can’t be killed. I mean, look at me.” Boric was a mess: his left arm was blackened bone, his left leg looked like beef jerky, his lower body was covered with horrendous-smelling muck, and his torso was riddled with needles and arrow shafts.

  The elf dipped his fingers into a pouch at his side and then touched his fingertips to the arrowhead, which was suddenly engulfed with flames. Boric shuddered. Fire and daylight were the two things he still feared.

  “Fire will hurt me, it’s true,” said Boric, trying to maintain his composure. “But it won’t kill me. And how many of those arrows do you think you can loose before I cut your throat?” Boric drew Brakslaagt and held in menacingly before him.

  The elf smiled. He arched the bow and let the arrow go. Boric ducked and the arrow sailed over his right shoulder, impaling a pigeon against a pine tree. The pigeon, still alive, squawked as the flames singed its feathers. Before Boric could straighten, the elf had loosed two more arrows: one through the pigeon’s head and another about six inches above it.

  “Not bad,” said Boric, observing the carnage. “But that last shot was a bit wide.”

  “The last shot wasn’t aimed at the pigeon,” said the elf. “It was aimed at the mosquito he was chasing.”

  Boric turned to look at the arrow. “Oh,” he said quietly, sliding Brakslaagt back into its scabbard.

  “Why have you come to our forest, stranger?” the elf asked.

  “My name is Boric. I was King of Ytrisk. I have been cursed to walk Dis as a wraith because I hold this sword. It is of elven design.”

  The elf approached Boric, regarding his burned and tattered body. “My name is Arvin,” he said. “Let me see the sword.”

  Boric pulled the sword slowly from the scabbard, holding it for Arvin to see. “I can’t let go of it,” Boric said.

  Arvin nodded, studying the markings on the sword. The fuller was inscribed with a series of strange characters. Boric had assumed it was in some ancient language, but had no idea what it said.

  “What does the inscription mean?” asked Boric.

  “It’s hard to say,” said Arvin, running his fingertip along the characters.

  “What do you mean? Can you read it or not?”

  “Oh, I can read it, but it’s hard to say. Something like eeyauh heewahauwalalari eenyooralimeeyoi aralamaleenamaras.”

  “And that means what?”

  “Hatred is the cold frog in your boot.”

  Boric stared at the elf. “Are you sure you have that right?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s hard to say in Elvish, but the meaning is quite clear. Hatred is the cold frog in your boot.”

  “Is that some sort of riddle?” asked Boric. “Am I supposed to solve it to break the curse?”

  “Doubtful,” said Arvin. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. The elves design the evil artifact but leave the actual manufacturing to the dwarves. The dwarves can’t read Elvish, of course, but they like to put some Elvish characters on the artifacts to give them a feel of authenticity.”

  “So what you’re saying is that the markings are gibberish.”

  “Yep,” said Arvin. “I mean, maybe it means something, but I wouldn’t kill yourself trying to puzzle it out. No offense.”

  “How do I break the curse then?”

  “No idea,” said Arvin. “But I’m just a hunter. The council might know. Come on, I’ll take you to them.”

  “You mean to Quanfyrr?” asked Boric, surprised. “I thought its location was a secret.”

  “What? Where’d you get that idea?”

  “The last time I was here, many years ago, I was met at a sort of temporary encampment. I assumed it was because the location of Quanfyrr was a secret.”

  The elf laughed. “Boric, that was Quanfyrr. What, did you think we lived in some great elven metropolis in the middle of the forest? What would we build it out of, our sacred trees? And where would we get chisels and saws and hammers? We have no mines or industry, and we don’t trade with anyone outside the forest. We live in tents. Quanfyrr is the Elvish word for camp. And there isn’t just one. They’re all over the place.”

  A light dawned in Boric’s mind. “No wonder Calapus never found the elven capital,” he murmured. “There isn’t one.”

  “We move around all the time. Especially during wartime. You humans think in terms of battle lines and fronts, but there’s no such thing in the Thick Forest. Just a bunch of random encampments. Whenever the Avaressians got close to one, we’d pick up and move. If the opportunity presented itself, we’d take out a hundred or so soldiers with arrows and then run away. You people are as loud as an ox and smell even worse, so there was never much chance the Avaressians would surprise us.”

  Boric shook his head in amazement. He still pretty much thought the elves were assholes, but he had to admit they were cleverer than he had given them credit for.

  He followed Arvin through the woods for several miles. Occasionally Arvin would raise his bow and pin a pigeon or squirrel to a tree. Once he shot a deer.

  “That’s repulsive,” said Boric, watching as the deer fell limp to the forest floor.

  “You’re one to talk,” retorted Arvin.

  “I just mean killing things for no good reason. Why shoot them if you’re not going to eat them or use their hides or anything?”

  Arvin snorted. “Tell me, Boric, how many people did you kill as King of Ytrisk?”

  “Personally? A few dozen. Of course, I presided over a hundred or so executions, and if you include those killed in battle under my command — ”

  “And how many of them did you eat?”

  “None, of course!”

  “Repulsive,” replied Arvin.

  “That’s different!” Boric growled.

  “Yes,” said Arvin. “I’m just killing animals.”

  “I meant that — ”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure there was an excellent reason for every one of those deaths. I’m a hunter, Boric. That’s my job. I kill things. Picking up the things I kill is a completely different job.”

  “Wait, so someone else follows behind you and picks up the things you kill?”

  “Retriever elves,” said Arvin. “Although I’m not sure they’re all behind us. That first pigeon I shot is probably already in a stew.”

  Boric said nothing, partly because he was chagrined at his presumptuousness and partly because he was overcome with a wave of nausea at the mention of pigeon stew.

  Soon they came upon a collection of scores of tents of various sizes scattered amongst the trees. An elf dropped to the ground in front of them, his foot hooked in a loop at the end of a long rope, the top of which disappeared into the leafy canopy above. He removed his foot from the rope and let go, and the loop shot back up into the trees. Boric couldn’t make out the mechanics of it, but there seemed to be a system of counterweights that allowed the elves to use the ropes to easily lower themselves from high in the trees. Boric could see dozens of small platforms, rope ladders, and tents set up in and between the trees. Occasionally an elf could be seen moving from one tree to another, but for the most part the camp seemed empty.

  “Welcome back, Arvin,” said the elf who had dropped from above. “You’re slipping. Three pigeons, four squirrels, a deer, a rabbit, and a mosquito.”

  “Don’t forget the walking corpse,” said Arvin.

  The other elf regarded Boric. “It’s burnt,” he said.

  “We can cut off the black part,” said Arvin.

  Boric’s hand went to his sword.

  “Relax,” said Arvin. “I’m joking. You’re completely rotten anyway. Come on, I’ll take you to see the council.”

  The council turned out to be six elves sitting cross-legge
d on blankets, smoking pipes filled with something that smelled like strawberries and feet.

  Arvin cleared his throat as he and Boric approached. “I found this in the woods,” Arvin said, indicating Boric. “It says it’s cursed by a sword of elven design.”

  “Greetings,” said Boric. “You see — ”

  “Shhh!” hissed Arvin. Murmurs went up around the council. Arvin leaned close to Boric and whispered, “Corpses aren’t allowed to speak in the council. Let me do the talking.”

  Boric wondered how often corpses had attempted to disrupt the proceedings of the council. Evidently often enough that someone had thought to make a rule against it.

  Arvin explained Boric’s situation, and Boric was told to sit in the middle of the “council room” so that he and the sword could be inspected by the council members. Arvin sat next to him. The elves poked Boric with sticks and inspected his wrappings. One of the elves broke a chunk of charred flesh off Boric’s elbow.

  “Hey!” Boric cried, to murmurs of disapproval. Arvin glared and shook his head.

  Next they passed Brakslaagt around the circle, Boric contorting himself to hold onto it while they twisted and turned it, handing it from one elf to another and speaking to each other in what Boric assumed was Elvish. One particularly grave-looking elf who wore his hair in long braids that went to his waist regarded the sword silently for several minutes. Finally he slid his thumb along the blade and then jerked it back, watching beads of blood appear on the tip of his thumb and roll down his wrist. “Eeya lamareyasa weeyaramanala lasayeena,” he pronounced gravely.

  “What did he say?” Boric whispered to Arvin.

  Arvin whispered back, “He says, ‘Don’t do that; it hurts.’”

  “All right, that’s it,” growled Boric, getting to his feet. “Do you know how to break the curse or not? Tell me now or I’ll cut all your throats.”

  Boric became aware that he was surrounded by archers aiming fiery arrows at him. He slid Brakslaagt back into its scabbard and raised his hands. “Okay, okay. No throat-cutting. Obviously I made a mistake coming here. I’ll just be on my way.” He stepped away from the council and made his way to the edge of the camp. After a moment, Arvin caught up to him.