The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  ‘But what if it’s … You’ve heard the stories too, Jenks. A dark spirit haunts these woods. The trees themselves talk to it, guide it on—’

  ‘Enough of that, man. Child’s stories. Tales told by worried mothers to keep their young ones from wandering too far into the Tangle. No more talk. Eat your food.’

  The two men walked away, leaving the cat alone in the shadows, watching the low flames and considering their words.

  A dark spirit? Can they mean—

  No, Wilt. We haven’t been this far south. And we haven’t—

  We haven’t killed anyone.

  I’m more interested in hearing about this village. Sounds like raiders, but they’ve never dared come this far inland before. We need to find out more. We need to see what that man saw.

  The cat sat up, his eyes bright in the firelight.

  I don’t know if I can control it.

  We need to know. We’ll help you, Wilt. We’ll help you maintain focus.

  Suddenly the cat was gone and a black mist haunted the space he had left, a thousand black welds squabbling for position. A deep, bone-chilling cold filled the air, fighting for dominance with the low campfire.

  Wilt dropped his senses deeper, the world around him becoming a grey sea of shadow. Bright forms burned around the edges, calling to him, but he ignored their pull and focused on his target. A single black weld swam out through the night air toward the guard who had stood by the fire just moments before.

  Jenks, still deep in conversation with his partner as they walked across the campsite, stopped mid-sentence as the weld slid straight into his mind and Wilt began rifling through his memories. It only took a moment to find what he wanted.

  He stands at the edge of the forest clearing, staring out across what used to be a village. Fires still smoulder in the wrecked huts and a thick, acrid black smoke fills the air. At the village border are fallen guards, armour only half on, as though they had been caught by surprise, cut down as they struggled to gather themselves into something resembling a formation. The killing wounds were clean and quick. Professional.

  His experienced eye takes in the scene and stores it for later evaluation and report. He reaches out and punches one of his men on the shoulder, gesturing them onward, into the village. Maybe there will be survivors, someone they can help. He knows even as he has the thought that it won’t be true. They are hours too late.

  Deeper into the village, the smell of the smoke is choking now. The bodies scattered around them are no longer just those of armed men. The raiders have left no witnesses. He spits on the ground and lets his eyes drift across the scene, taking it in but refusing to allow his eyes to dwell on any one horror.

  At least they died quickly.

  A call from one of the men, and he hurries over, eager to have a task, something to occupy his mind. A woman’s body is stretched out on the ground, impaled on a thick, curved black sword, the first of any foreign weapons they have seen. The blade itself radiates evil, the edge strangely serrated and dimpled, as though it were grown rather than forged from steel, its inky surface a dark scar on the world. The guard who called him over reaches out to touch it, then pulls his hand back sharply with a cry.

  ‘Agh! It’s cold, colder than ice. It burns!’

  At the man’s touch the blade collapses in on itself, crumbling into black dust, the wind carving it away to join with the smoke that fills the air.

  He hawks and spits again at the thought of that black air filling his lungs, then turns and marches away.

  The image faded as the weld snapped back to Wilt, leaving Jenks to shake his head at the sudden dizziness that washed over him. A moment later the spell passed, and he continued on his way.

  Wilt opened his eyes to the world of the present. The campfire was almost out, the coals smoking and smouldering, fighting to create some sort of heat in the sudden, unnatural cold.

  That sword. It looked—

  It wasn’t a sword. It looked more like a limb.

  We should worry about that later. It’s time to leave.

  More soldiers were approaching the fire, rubbing their hands in anticipation of a hot meal. Wilt heard a crack as he shifted his feet and looked down to see the grass around his feet was frozen white.

  The next moment a black cat streaked through the campsite and into the shadows of the forest, unnoticed by any of the guards. A cry of dismay chased it deeper into the Tangle as the soldiers discovered their stew had somehow turned ice cold.

  6

  Daemi weighed the dummy training sword in her hand, trying to adjust her mind to its foreignness. The wooden blade was the correct weight, but the balance was all wrong. Whoever formed it had paid too much attention its appearance, ensuring the hilt, handle, and blade looked as close to the real thing as a wooden version could, rather than the more important overall balance of the sword. It felt top heavy, and the tip of the blade kept wanting to dive forward into the dirt.

  Daemi tossed it to her other hand and reached for a second one. She’d just have to work with what they had. Maybe after this afternoon’s session she’d find time to speak with Petron and get some crafters to work on more realistic weapons for them.

  She stood up and stepped into the circle, flexing her arms, swinging the two blades back and forth. As soon as she did so, two more guards joined her in the duelling ring, and she put all other thoughts out of her mind.

  The two guards wore full faced helms, and each carried their favourite training weapons. The man on the right—Daemi could tell they were both young men by the set of their shoulders and their wide stance—carried a staff, weighted on one end to resemble a halberd. The other wielded a long sword and shield. Daemi dropped her arms to her sides and bowed briefly to each opponent.

  ‘Begin.’

  The gravelly voice of the master called out from the edge of the circle of guards lining the duelling ring marked out in the packed dirt. The audience of guards roared out in answer, and her two opponents started in, wasting no time closing the space between themselves and her. As soon as they were in range they split, circling in opposite directions, eyes wide and wary behind their helms.

  The sounds of the world faded as Daemi watched them, waiting for the first attack.

  The halberd wielding guard swung suddenly, a fast cutting blow that sailed easily over her head as Daemi ducked and rolled to her left, straight toward her attacker, bringing her much shorter blades into range. The guard swung, dancing his feet in a circle to avoid her approach, bringing the tip of his weapon back around to point at her as he backed away to the far side of the circle.

  Daemi continued her roll back up to her feet and grinned at him. It was a feint, nothing more. The other would be striking …

  Now.

  A shuffled step was all the warning she needed as the second guard closed in. He swung a vicious diagonal cut at her, a blow that would have sundered any armour had it been made by a real sword. Had she still been standing there. As it was, Daemi was already behind him, a double spin to his sword arm side bringing her into range. Her duel blades shot out together, punching cruelly into the guard’s side, right where the front and back plates of his armour buckled together, the shock of the blow blasting all the air from his lungs and dropping him to his knees.

  He recovered well, turning his collapse into a roll to bring himself back to his feet, reversing his blade into a horizontal slash that was far too slow to trouble Daemi, but gave him time to step away, his blade pointed at her chest.

  Daemi smiled again, watching the point of his blade droop as the bruising blow she had struck had its effect.

  ‘Raise your blade, Talis.’ The master was quick to notice too, and called out his correction.

  The first guard moved in, hoping to take advantage of the distraction. Daemi was too quick again, throwing herself forward this time to roll into range, both blades chopping out in a lightning-quick cadence, smacking into the handle of the staff where the guard’s gloved fists held it.
The first blow shocked the weapon itself and the second landed squarely across the guard’s gauntlet. His hand dropped, and the halberd almost fell before he gathered himself and trotted away from her again.

  It was too easy, only two against one. The master had to see that. He would have something else planned.

  Daemi let the two guards gather themselves, allowing the shock and pain of her blows to sink in. Let their next attacks be more measured, more precise. Let them learn to fear the consequences.

  ‘What are you waiting for, men? Attack!’

  Another cheer rang out in answer to the master, urging the guards on. Both stepped toward her now, eager to strike her down. Too eager.

  The first guard swung his halberd again; it was obviously too heavy for him now and his attack lacked control. As Daemi ducked, she clapped her two blades into it, adding force to its momentum, sending it straight into the second guard, who had moved too close to his companion. The second guard raised his shield just in time, deflecting the blow but sending himself sprawling to the side, out of range. Daemi ignored him for the moment, eager to finish things off quickly.

  Her strike on the halberd turned into a quick spin as she shot out her trailing leg, sweeping the feet of the first guard out from under him. Instantly she was on him, her dual blades rapping out a quick staccato of strikes across his chest and helm.

  The guard shot his hands into the air in surrender, and Daemi spun back to her one remaining foe.

  ‘Move in, Talis. You do no good hanging back.’

  The master’s tone was one of exasperation now, and the sound brought a grim smile to Daemi’s face. He’d been trying to best her with these arranged duels for weeks now, yet every time she’d won out. Done it easily, too. It was beginning to look a little embarrassing for the rest of the troop.

  As Daemi watched the guard close in, the skin across her back tightened, as though an icy breeze had blown down the back of her neck. She continued to circle, studying the way the guard stepped toward her, the way the tip of his blade pointed up straight at her heart.

  It was the merest flicker of a glance that gave it away. Daemi made out the guard’s eyes behind his helm, the way they moved suddenly up and over her shoulder, and Daemi rolled to the side just in time to avoid the sudden thrusting attack of a third opponent stepping out from the ring of guards.

  So, the master had had enough of playing fair. Now he simply wanted to win.

  Daemi completed her roll and spun back to her feet, keeping low to the ground, watching as the two guards moved in toward her. The new opponent held twin daggers, shorter than Daemi’s swords but probably faster. He must have been picked especially in response to her choice of weapons, the master hoping to nullify any speed advantage she had.

  The scarred skin on her back was aching now, tight and hot and stretched. Daemi forced the thought out of her mind to focus on the duel.

  Both guards stepped to the side and closed in, aiming to attack simultaneously from separate angles. It was no good waiting for them. Take the initiative.

  Daemi decided and attacked. She cut straight at the sword and shield wielding guard, her blades a blur of movement, cracking hard into the man’s shield. She wasn’t concerned about him blocking the blows, merely wanting to distract him for a key moment.

  As the shield moved to block, Daemi stepped further to the side and threw three heavy blows into it, spinning it, and the man holding it, around—right into the second guard, who had been about to launch an attack of his own. Suddenly the first guard found himself blocking the blows of his own companion, Daemi having stepped behind him. The next moment he was on the ground; four hard shots into his back and legs and he dropped like a stone.

  Daemi didn’t stop to admire her work, leaping over the prone man to bring both blades slicing down at the remaining guard’s head. The guard raised his daggers and just blocked the blow, but the force drove him onto his knees. Daemi’s high attack flowed effortlessly into a low swinging kick that caught the guard right in his exposed stomach. His arms dropped, and two more quick strikes on his helm ended the battle.

  ‘Enough.’ The master’s disappointed tone left no doubt as to his opinion of the fight. ‘You are victorious again, Captain.’

  Daemi stood to attention and saluted in reply.

  ‘Some day one of these dogs will best you, I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘May that day be soon, Master. I’m in danger of becoming bored.’

  The master’s eyes widened at Daemi’s disrespectful words, before his mask cracked and a wide grin broke out across his face.

  ‘Ho now! I will have to come up with more surprises next time then, little cat.’ He turned back to the other guards, his face freezing in an expression of cold command. ‘You lot, back to the training grounds. We have a long afternoon ahead.’

  He nodded in salute to Daemi and led the guards away. Daemi watched them go, standing perfectly still at attention until the last of the guards had moved out of sight. As soon as they were gone she slumped down, pulling her tiger-faced helm free and shrugging the tight training leathers off her shoulders.

  Sure enough, the inside of her armour was streaked with red. Her scars had opened again.

  Daemi grabbed her cloak from the pile of belongings to the side of the duelling ring and threw it over her shoulders to hide the stains that marked her undershirt. She hadn’t felt the rip this time, just the tightness that had come to be so familiar since she’d woken weeks ago with the scars marking her back. The scars from the touch of the nightmare creature that had almost ended her. The scars Wilt had given her.

  Daemi shook her head to dismiss the thought and trotted out of the training yard, her regular armour in hand. There was only one healer in Redmondis with the skill to close these wounds. She had to see Petron.

  By the time Daemi had climbed the worn stairs to Petron’s chamber, high in the twisted structure that used to be known as the Black Robes’ tower, the blood from her scars had dried, cracking and falling away as she raised her arm to knock on his door.

  Before her fist touched the heavy timber, his voice called out. ‘Come in. You made too much noise trooping up those stairs to bother knocking.’

  Daemi pushed the door open to reveal a large, brightly lit chamber, sunlight streaming into the room through a massive opening knocked out of the stone wall that faced the open sky and the green sea of the Tangle far below.

  She stood there dumbfounded for a second, lost in the yawning space and freedom of the heavens. The world spun with sudden vertigo and she edged toward the door until Petron’s voice snapped her back into the moment.

  ‘Like it? I got some younger crafters to help redecorate. Remove the stuffiness.’

  Daemi found her mouth was hanging open, and she shut it with an audible click.

  ‘Yes, that was my first impression too. They went beyond themselves. Probably trying to impress me.’

  Daemi finally regained control of her senses and turn toward his voice. Petron was sitting at his desk, a tired smile on his face. ‘I … uh … imagine they succeeded.’

  ‘Yes, they did at that.’ Petron chuckled.

  The smile dropped as he studied her, noting the arch of her shoulders, the way she held herself to stop the raw skin on her back from rubbing on her shirt. ‘Again?’

  Daemi nodded glumly and moved across the room to the bed, pulling her garments free as she went. Petron had been treating her wounds ever since they had been inflicted, so many weeks ago now, and she had long since lost any sense of modesty around him.

  Petron stood and joined her at the bed as she lay down on her stomach. He pulled her undershirt up as gently as he could; the dried blood had stuck it to her skin and ripped cruelly as he pulled it free. Daemi made no sound, but the tensing of her back was all the sign needed of the fresh pain he was causing.

  ‘Ah.’

  Petron sat back as he studied the reopened scars, running his fingers around the edge of the wounds. He tried to keep
his tone light though was grateful Daemi had her head turned away from him and couldn’t see the concern in his eyes.

  ‘Is it very bad?’

  ‘No worse than the last time.’ Petron patted her on the shoulder and moved to retrieve the unguent he’d made for just this purpose. It seemed to heal the wounds well enough, though they kept reopening after a few days, as though the wounds themselves were resisting any attempts to remove their mark from Daemi’s skin.

  Daemi’s shoulders shuddered as he spread the medicine.

  ‘And your dreams? Still troubled?’

  Daemi waited for the shudder to pass before turning back to face him. ‘Yes. You know how it is.’

  Their eyes locked in mutual understanding. Each of them suffered from the nightly terrors that seeped into their dreams. Every time the vision was the same. A writhing figure of darkness, reaching for them, then the cold touch of death. The same silent emptiness waiting for them until their eyes opened to find the world still there and breath still in their lungs.

  ‘I had hoped that in time, seeing as how busy we both are—’

  ‘You hoped they would fade like these scars of mine. And I suppose they have, in that neither these scars nor our dreams have healed yet.’

  Petron noted the resigned edge to her words and turned his eyes back to his work. Finally the last of the long scars closed under the healing power of the medicine, and the skin on her back looked almost normal again. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

  He sat back and tossed the unguent across the room to its place among the strange figurines, powders, and bottles accumulated in one corner of his room. ‘I believe it’s time we tried something new.’

  Daemi sat up and pulled her clothes back on. ‘And?’

  ‘And I think perhaps this new Redmondis of ours needs to stop licking its wounds and re-emerge onto the world’s stage.’

  Daemi stood up and finished buckling her armour around her chest. She gave it a thump with her fist to settle it into place. ‘Well, it’s about time.’