by D. A. Adams
As her strength returned, so grew her readiness to return to Kwarck’s. While she liked the Marshwoggs, this was not her land, and as spring stretched towards summer, the warm temperatures were becoming uncomfortable. Between the heat and humidity of the swampy peninsula, she often felt as if she were smothering, and even though the temperatures on the plains could get just as hot during the summer, the drier heat was more bearable. To her, the Marshwoggs could keep the stifling mugginess.
Crushaw also seemed ready to travel. The enormity of the past year had taken its toll, and he was ready to return to Kwarck’s and live out his exile. From the years of sleeping on the ground, marching through every kind of weather, and punishing his body in battle, his joints had become stiff and sore. Old injuries flared up and ached from time to time as if they had just happened, and his memory had begun to erode. In short, at seventy-six years old, his age had finally started catching up to him, and he was ready to rest.
He had told Vishghu all of this as they sat through the long days of her recuperation, and while the picture he painted was of a frail old man, Vishghu knew that for the most part his health was still good, especially for someone who had endured as much as he had. She had seen him on the battlefield and had fought against him once herself, and while he might have lost some strength and quickness, he was still as skilled with a sword as anyone.
On this day, three weeks after Roskin and Molgheon had left, she, Crushaw, and a handful of Ghaldeons were preparing for their own journey. The freed Tredjards had collectively decided to settle in the mountains that belonged to the Marshwoggs and establish new mines, and the elves too badly injured or too old for the flight to the forest had decided to live out their days on this peninsula. That left only the small party to follow after Molgheon and Roskin, and secretly, Vishghu was glad to have so few with them. That way, they had a much better chance of reaching Kwarck’s without attracting attention.
She and Crushaw sat with the five Ghaldeons inside the same tavern where Roskin had eaten on that first day, and as they finished their meal of fresh venison and spring greens, Crushaw described the route they would take from the mountains to Kwarck’s. Roskin and the others would have to follow Lake Vassa in order to reach the Koorleine Forest and then turn north, but since Crushaw and Vishghu wouldn’t need to visit the forest, they could cut diagonally across the Great Empire. If they avoided settlements and traveled swiftly, they might even reach the hermit’s before Roskin and Molgheon.
Since Ghaldeons and ogres were enemies of the Great Empire, they would mostly travel at night, and Crushaw would wear his fake insignia in case they were discovered. He would claim Vishghu and the dwarves were his slaves, and with a little luck, no one would question the story. When he finished describing the plan, he asked Vishghu when she thought she would be ready to travel.
“I feel good,” she said. “Maybe a day or two, just to be careful.”
“Check with the healers. If they approve, we’ll plan on leaving in two days.”
“It’s been many years since I saw home,” one of the Ghaldeons said. “It’s almost too good to be true.”
“We’re not there, yet,” Crushaw said. “A lot can go wrong between here and there.”
“True, but we trust you’ll lead us home.”
“We’ll see.”
“I trust that, too,” Vishghu added. “You’ve gotten us this far.”
“Go see the healers,” Crushaw said, rising from his seat and strapping on his sword. “I’m gonna stretch my legs.”
With that he left the tavern and disappeared down the street. Vishghu finished the last few bites of her meal and then also excused herself from the Ghaldeons. She left the tavern and headed for the main healer who had tended to her, a tender Marshwogg whose hands – even webbed - were as adroit as any elf’s. She had taken excellent care of the ogre, and Vishghu trusted that she would give sound advice on when to travel.
***
Suvene didn’t like the way the Marshwoggs lived. Their culture had little social structure and no division between masters and workers. In orc culture - the only civilized way to exist - the lines were clear and defined. Masters managed affairs and arranged deals; soldiers protected the lands; overseers kept the slaves in line; and lowly orcs performed labor that slaves couldn’t be trusted with. That made sense. What he knew about the Marshwoggs struck him as anarchy.
Nonetheless, the phantom had led the slaves into these lands, so he had followed. Now, he had tracked them to this small town between the mountains and the swamps, and he had been watching the phantom’s routine for several days. After lunch each day, it walked through town and into the surrounding forest, stopping beside a small stream to nap for half an hour. Then, it would return to town and sit with the ogre until supper.
Since the only time the phantom was alone was during the nap, Suvene had hidden in the trees near the stream and would wait for it to fall asleep. Then, he would catch it unaware and have his revenge. He was well hidden in the middle branches of an ancient chestnut oak, his gray skin blending well with the thick bark. To keep himself quiet and light, he only had a sharp knife and his sword with him; the rest of his equipment and the horse were hidden downstream nearly a mile. All things considered, even the keenest of elves would have had trouble detecting the trap.
The aroma of the tree’s catkins - a thick, sweet smell that drenched the air this time of spring - was almost too powerful, but he stayed still against the bark and watched for the phantom. Despite his boredom and the distractions of birds fluttering and furry rodents scampering from tree to tree, he focused on the clearing where his enemy would emerge, and his attention did not waver, not even for a few moments. Finally, the phantom appeared on the trail and walked to its usual spot beside the stream. The ground was thick with plush clover, and the phantom’s footsteps left deep impressions in the fertile land. Then, it unstrapped its sword, laying the weapon on a smooth rock, and stretched itself out on the soft ground.
Suvene waited until he was certain it was asleep before moving. Slowly, he climbed down from the branches and slunk over to where the phantom lay. For several moments, he stood above the monster and savored this moment of victory. The phantom’s face was flecked with scars of all sizes and patterns, and asleep it looked much more frail and less fearsome than when he had first fought it. For a moment, he forgot just how fiercely it had battled him at the Slithsythe.
Standing over his enemy, Suvene remembered how as a child he had watched the Masters lavish their children with awards and accolades while he and the other commoners stood in the background. Knowing that he was as talented as any of them, he had promised himself that one day he would earn their praise and rise above his humble station, so he had trained until the blisters on his hands bled. With time, the tender blisters calloused over, and as he grew, his hands hardened like a good piece of hickory. Even though he had never officially won a tournament, every orc he had ever fought agreed that he was the most skilled swordsman in the civilized world. Now, he would kill this outlaw and claim his place among the great orc heroes. His dedication and training were about to pay off.
As he thought this, he straddled the phantom’s torso and positioned himself above it. Then, he drew his knife and pounced on its chest, pinning its arms to its side with his knees and grabbing its hair with his free hand. It opened it eyes in shock but didn’t scream as he had hoped. Suvene spat in its face and pressed the blade against its throat. It stared back at him, its eyes cold and unyielding, its face a mask without a hint of fear.
“It seems I won this time,” Suvene hissed, gripping the knife’s handle more tightly.
“Seems so,” the phantom returned, its voice as cold as its eyes.
“Now, you pay.”
“Ask yourself one question first,” it said.
“What’s that?”
“Can you live not knowing?”
“What?” Suvene asked.
“If you could’ve really beaten me.”
“I did beat you.”
“That so?”
Suvene looked at the sword on the rock and then back at the monster’s face. It stared at him as if they were discussing the weather.
“All right,” Suvene said, removing the knife from against its throat. “I’ll prove it again.”
He leapt to his feet and jumped away, putting a few feet between them. The phantom rolled onto all fours and then slowly rose, groaning as it did. Suvene drew his sword and readied himself in high guard, but the phantom stood in place and stretched its arms above its head and yawned.
“Get your sword, or I’ll run you through.”
“I’m old. Give me a moment.”
“Hurry.”
“You have another appointment?”
“Just get your sword.”
The phantom strolled to the rock and took the worn pommel in its hand. Then, it turned to Suvene, holding the blade in middle guard, and spoke in a voice that chilled the young orc:
“It’s been a few weeks since I tasted orc blood, but today, I’ll drink my fill.”
Suvene stepped forward one step, and the phantom moved slightly to its right, keeping distance between them. They circled twice, each watching for the other to make the first move, and finally, the phantom stepped forward. When it did, Suvene brought down his sword with a powerful stroke, but the phantom blocked the blow and turned the block into a rake at Suvene’s left forearm. He had to move quickly to avoid the ploy, stepping back and raising his sword back to high guard. The phantom also stepped away and returned to middle guard.
Again they circled each other a couple of rounds, but this time, Suvene moved first, rushing in with a horizontal slash. The phantom sidestepped the attack and countered with a thrust, but Suvene, anticipating the move, parried it and swung again. They fought in this manner for several minutes, feeling for a weakness and setting up a counter.
The first time they had fought, the phantom was already fatigued, but this time, its blows came faster and with more impact. Suvene was impressed, even more so than before, but was still certain that he could find his opening. Then, he would strike it down and not leave any doubt as to who was better.
In the distance, a bell sounded, the resonance low and steady. The guard in the watchtower must’ve heard the fight and summoned the town’s militia, so Suvene didn’t have much time left to win. He drove forward with a series of quick thrusts, but the phantom easily parried each one. As they continued to fight, the sounds of soldiers approaching grew louder.
“That’s my cue,” the phantom said, grinning.
Then, it swung at his sword with quickness Suvene had never seen before. When the blades collided, the impact jolted his hands so much that he released his grip and dropped his sword. As if in a nightmare, he watched as his weapon fell harmlessly onto the clover and the phantom aimed its blade at his chest. Although it wasn’t possible, he had lost, his skills falling short when victory had been within reach. Like a gambler realizing the coins are all gone, he closed his eyes and waited for the sting.
“You’re good,” the phantom said, breathing heavily. “But your grip is weak.”
“Just end it,” Suvene returned through pursed lips, but when nothing happened, he opened his eyes and saw a platoon of Marshwoggs emerge from the trees.
“You’re subdued,” the phantom returned. “By their laws, if I kill you now, I’m the criminal, so they can have you.”
“If you don’t kill me, I’ll keep hunting you.”
“If we meet again, you’ll die. Go home and grow old.”
Then, it spoke with the Marshwoggs in the barbaric tongue, and the crude sounds were poison to his ears. He wasn’t scared to die and considered going for his sword, but if he fell here, the phantom would escape again, this time for good. He couldn’t let that happen, so he stood still and waited for the Marshwoggs to bind his hands and lead him to town.
***
After the orc had been led away, Crushaw sat on the worn rock to catch his breath. He had almost just died, and for someone who had never feared death, the sensation he now felt disturbed him. Had the orc not been so vain, it would’ve slit his throat and been done with it, for Crushaw had not even suspected the ambush. That fact let him know for sure that his days as a warrior were at an end. In his youth, he would’ve at least smelled an orc nearby and been ready for it. Now, his senses had dulled to the point that he no longer trusted them.
When he and the others made it to Kwarck’s, he would gladly toss away his sword and farm for the rest of his days. Vishghu, who was just coming into adulthood, thought he was silly for thinking such things because he could still swing a sword, but what could she possibly know about being old? When she woke in the mornings, her knees and shoulders didn’t ache. She wasn’t haunted by the memories of evil deeds and a lifetime of disregarding others’ lives. She could probably remember what she had eaten for breakfast that morning as easily as a favorite toy from childhood. Sitting on the rock, he didn’t know which was worse, growing old or being aware of it.
Finally, he stood and sheathed his sword. There was no sense mulling over things he couldn’t change, so he strode back towards town. They would be leaving in a couple of days, and there were a lot of chores left to be done. His horse needed to be shod, and Vishghu’s buffalo needed to be groomed. Provisions had not been gathered and packed, and he had not said goodbye to any of the town’s gracious hosts. There was hardly time to feel sorry for himself with so much still to do.
Chapter 11
On the Edge of the Forest
After Roskin killed the dog-beast, the dwarves and elves continued to the mountains without further incident. In late spring, the weather in the highlands was mild, and other than an occasional shower, they had excellent conditions for travel. It took three days to reach the first major incline, and as they trudged over ridge after ridge, their good luck held out. After a week of difficult marching, they reached the foothills on the western side of the range and, within a few days, were on the central plains.
Now out of the highlands, they were well within the borders of the Great Empire, but the closest city was a hundred miles south at the tip of Lake Vassa. There were countless towns along the shore of the massive lake, but with the elves leading them, the throng could navigate the rolling grasslands without getting too close to any settlement.
On the plains, the dwarves had trouble keeping pace with the elves, and many times over the first few days, the mass had to stop to let them catch up. Growing weary of the delays, a hundred elves chose to leave the group behind and not let the dwarves delay their homecoming any longer. Molgheon was furious with the disrespect, and even though Leinjar reminded her that the two smaller groups had a better chance of traveling undetected than one large unit, she still held a grudge at what amounted to desertion.
For four weeks, they moved steadily along the plains, walking from before dawn until well after sunset and barely stopping, except to eat. The thick grasses cushioned their feet from the pounding of the sustained walks, and wild game provided plenty of food. Even though they were completely surrounded by enemies and tired from the long days, most in the slower group enjoyed the trip along the lake. Finally, they reached the far end and were not far from the Koorleine Forest.
Throughout the walk, they had stayed far enough from the lake to avoid the towns and villages that sprawled along its shore. However, on the western side, near the ancient forest that was the last stronghold of the elves, very few humans dared build permanent settlements, for they knew the forest was too thick and dangerous even for the Great Empire. With it for refuge, the elves could raid any settlement and then disappear back into the trees before soldiers could react.
Because of the lack of human presence, the party marched near the northwest shore, and for the first time in his life, Roskin saw a body of water bigger than a pond. The lake was so big that it had its own tide, and the waves broke on the gritty, brown slope with gentle, methodic sl
aps. The rhythm was hypnotic, and Roskin stared at the water, transfixed by the majesty. It stretched as far as he could see, meeting the horizon as if the two merged into one endless blue line.
Fish occasionally broke the surface - the ripples swallowed up by rolling waves - to snatch an insect or smaller fish. Gulls also disturbed the surface, diving for a fish and rising back into the air with a loud splash. Along the shore, tracks of several different kinds of animals punctuated the coarse sand. The smells of fish and gull and wet fur were strange and overpowering.
They marched on beyond the lake, and after a few miles the smells faded. Then, as the group neared the Koorleine Forest, the elves became more and more anxious. Few had ever seen it because most of them had been born as slaves, but all knew of it. The forest was the last place elves – Koorleine and Loorish alike - could call their own, and as such, they clung to its very name as something sacred. Nearly every elf would fight to the last breath to defend it, so as the group moved within a couple days’ march, conversations became more animated and spirits rose.
Roskin understood their feelings. His mother lived among the thick trees, and the elf in him longed to live there, too. The other dwarves, however, showed little interest in hearing tales of it. They were ready to be back in the western mountains, but their journey would take at least another month. It was hard for them to feel joy with so much distance left to cover.
The slower group made camp one day’s walk from the forest, and early the next morning before they had even eaten breakfast, they were approached by sentries from the forest. Like Roskin’s mother, these were wild elves originally from the Loorish Forest, and their bodies were much leaner and more muscled than the Koorleine elves. Their faces and eyes were also more severe, and even though they greeted the travelers without malice, they projected an aura of untamed menace that made the freed slaves uneasy.
