The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  He was busy weighing his options when he heard it; a deep sigh from the trees just metres away, followed almost immediately by an intense cold. It seemed to reach for him through the wall of the hut. Shade lost all thought but that of flight; he shot out through the open doorway and darted around the next hut, bending his run to angle for the trees while keeping the sense of cold behind him.

  It was one of them, one of the dark things. Still here, waiting for any who had escaped to return.

  Shade reached the edge of the Tangle and ducked under the low branches, focusing all his energy on flight. He’d escaped them once already, he could do it again. He danced around trees impossibly fast; the world around him drained of colour as he sped on and on, losing himself in the shadows.

  But he wasn’t fast enough this time. He could feel the cold reach for him, kissing the heels of his feet. Somehow it was keeping up with him, gaining on him, coming closer with each step. He almost looked back, if only to get one final look at whatever it was that would end him.

  It was the trees who saved him. They parted suddenly, a wide open space appearing where none had been before. Shade knew immediately what had happened. The trees had seen his desperate flight and done the only thing within their power to help. They had called the Guardian.

  Shade skidded to a halt as soon as he burst into the clearing and fell face down onto the ground, clasping his eyes shut and driving his nose into the dirt so as not to catch a glimpse.

  There was a single whisper, right at the edge of hearing, then darkness.

  9

  Wilt slid the weld blade quickly along the rabbit’s limp body, angling the blade up at the last moment to leave a flap of pelt hanging from its legs. He put the knife down and grabbed the flap in both hands, flipping the rabbit in the air, snapping his wrists at the high point of the loop and ripping the skin from its body in one jerk. He caught the body and hung it from the hook Higgs had formed in the stone wall of the cave.

  See? Told you having crafter skills on hand would prove useful.

  Not bad at all, Higgs. Rawick himself would have been proud.

  Delco? I wondered if we’d ever hear from you again. It’s been days.

  Has it? I’m sorry, Wilt. It’s hard to keep track of time when I’m—

  When you’re trying to communicate with Rawick. I understand. Wilt bent down to wipe his knife clean on the rabbit’s discarded fur. Besides, without the knowledge you passed on to me, I would have starved in the first week out here.

  A sudden warmth bloomed on Wilt’s back, then floated away again, a spark dancing in the breeze. Was that …?

  Yes, I think so. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

  Wilt slid the long knife back into the sheath on his hip and sat down to poke at the fire. The coals were a deep red now, the flames low. Just about perfect for cooking.

  Have you ever wondered how you came to learn about wilderness survival, Delco? I mean, he must have taught you some things, but did you gain the knowledge when he—

  When he used the white weld on me? When he almost killed me? It’s okay to talk about it.

  Well?

  I’m not sure. We used to go out into the woods a lot, camping, hunting. But the muscle memory, the way your hands know where to be, how to move—, you can’t learn that from being taught. I think it comes from somewhere deeper.

  Wilt looked up at the cleaned and dressed rabbit hanging from its hook. Deeper. Like the welds. I think you might be right. I still don’t understand half of what I find my hands doing out here.

  He reached out with the stick he’d been using as a poker and hooked it around the loop of the rabbit’s back legs, then arranged the whole on a small spit he’d built over the fire. A rich smell filled the small cave immediately.

  It’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about, Wilt. It’s hard to know what he means sometimes, hard to get any words out of him at all, but in the last few days he’s become more insistent. More urgent, like he’s trying to tell me something.

  And?

  It’s the trees. He says the trees are speaking to him, directly to him I mean. They say they’ve been waiting for him. For us.

  Us?

  For you, Wilt. They’ve been watching you.

  A flame flared in the fire as hot fat dripped from the rabbit’s body, and Wilt stared into it, his eyes losing focus. Inside it, dancing in orange and white, he saw himself standing on the edge of the river, just outside the walls of Greystone. Across the river were the trees of the Tangle, waving slowly in the wind. Staring back at him. Why?

  That’s where it becomes less clear. Something about the dark. A darkness. Something from the depths. Something they’ve seen before, long ago.

  The words brought another vision, foaming waters filled with serpents, twisting angrily about themselves in their hunger, desperately searching for a way back to the surface world. Beneath them, below the wash and the fury, was the darkness.

  But what does it mean, Delco?

  I don’t know. I’ve tried, tried everything I could think of to make sense of it. I can’t. I don’t think Rawick himself understands what they mean. They’re so old, Wilt, so alien to us. But there is one. He says there’s one who can help us. He says …

  Wilt could feel the hesitation on his tongue as though Delco’s thoughts really were his own.

  He says it’s waiting for us.

  We will have to do something about your clothes.

  Wilt looked down at himself, suddenly aware of his appearance. The physical realm had become less important in the past few weeks. He was still wearing the remains of his black robe from Redmondis, hardly recognisable now. Below his waist the robe had been ripped and shredded, scraps of cloth bound around his legs into something that passed for trousers. Above it the material was in better shape, though it hung loosely from his frame, billowing about his chest and arms.

  You’ve lost a lot of weight. Biore’s tone was scolding.

  Any suggestions?

  The village we saw. There must still be something there we can use.

  The idea of returning to the ruined village disturbed Wilt. The silence and finality of it.

  You can’t see other people looking like this, Wilt. Besides, it should be better now. It’s been days. The fires—

  Must have run out of fuel by now.

  Wilt crept through the village, his left fist clenching and unclenching around the thin stone ring he wore on his middle finger. It felt heavy and cold on his skin, colder than he had expected.

  Did you expect it to feel hot? Give me some credit, I’m more of a crafter than that. You shouldn’t feel it at all. Just know that when the need arises, it can provide the heat required, especially when you … do your thing.

  Wilt smiled and stopped fussing with it. He scanned the broken buildings with fresh eyes now, looking for a likely source of clothing. Most of the huts had completely collapsed, the fires and elements having had their way with the timber frames. Further out from the centre, though, there were still one or two stone huts that seemed in better shape.

  There. They look almost untouched.

  As he strode closer, Wilt saw why. These huts were only half built, the timber roofs not yet spanning the stone walls completely, the newly sawn timber still moist and green. Wilt circled the closest hut, trailing his fingers along the thick roof beam. Immediately he thought of the Tangle, of the wall of trees staring at him, and snatched his fingers away.

  Did the villagers really fell trees from the Tangle? Can you imagine anyone in Greystone even considering such a thing?

  No, Higgs. But then Greystone has been surviving at the edge of the Tangle for decades, and this village is only a few years old. Maybe they didn’t know any better.

  Maybe the Tangle got its own revenge.

  Wilt shook his head and ducked under the beam, into the shadows of the hut. Sure enough there were a few scattered sacks and crates stacked in the shelter of the half-roof. They looked untouched.

&nbs
p; See if there’s anything we can use. Hurry, this place still makes me nervous.

  Wilt sorted through the containers. He was lucky; in one crate was a pile of old clothing that looked like it would fit him. At any rate, it was in better shape than the scraps he wore now.

  Minutes later he stepped out of the hut feeling like a new man. He had cut the bottom half of his black robe free and replaced it with trousers made of a thick, hardy looking material that felt like suede. Over the remains of his robe he buttoned a thin leather vest.

  You look like a woodsman.

  Wilt smiled and stretched in the sunlight. You mean we. We look like a woodsman.

  A sudden snap of noise brought his arms down, all his senses instantly alert.

  The other hut. Behind us. There’s something there.

  Wilt dropped into a crouch and scurried around the side of the hut, hand on the hilt of his blade. He reached the corner of the stone wall and waited, peering around its edge.

  There was nothing, only silence. The Tangle itself seemed to be holding its breath.

  Your other form. These walls mean nothing to it. Biore couldn’t hide the hunger in his voice, but Wilt had to admit he was right. It was the surest way.

  The next moment a black mist cut directly through the stone wall, surging straight toward the second hut, toward the bright glow of life that huddled there, so obvious in the grey shadowed world he floated in.

  Wait, Wilt. Don’t hurt it.

  The welds urged him to ignore Higgs’s words, the hunger in the pit of his stomach roaring for satisfaction. His mind was almost overrun by it, the roar morphing into a strange music that washed over him, blanking out everything else but the pulse of life that called it onward.

  He stopped outside the hut, his hand reaching toward the spark of life crouching on the other side of the wall, his blood calling for him to take it, to snuff it out. To feed.

  The blood. The blood within the stone.

  The next moment his human hand was in front of his eyes, resting against the solid wall. He had almost …

  A clatter of movement snapped him from his thoughts as whoever had been hiding made a break for safety. He glimpsed a short, thin body leap out of the hut, heading straight for the Tangle. Wilt hurried after it, around the hut and into the trees.

  Catch him.

  It was him. A young boy, moving incredibly quickly.

  Wilt ducked into the shadows of the Tangle and felt the world close around him. The boy was already stretching his lead, moving faster than ordinarily possible, dancing between the thick trunks. With each step Wilt dropped further back, losing sight of the figure as it flittered in and out of the broken sunlight.

  We can go faster than this.

  No sooner had Higgs made the thought known than a large black cat took Wilt’s form, streaking ahead, matching and then gaining on the boy. The trees surrounding them seemed to lean in, reaching out to try to hinder and slow the cat, but it pushed on.

  He almost had him. Just one more leap.

  The trees gave way to a large bright opening, a clearing in the forest, and the cat was suddenly bathed in sunlight.

  The cat stopped, the boy it had been pursuing forgotten as it stared at the strange figure standing in the middle of the clearing.

  It was a man—at least, it may have been once. The skin showing through his long green robe was cracked and broken, almost like bark, and from his brow two long antlers grew out, twisting together like twin sharpened branches. One hand clutched a tall wooden staff, and the other was held palm outwards, as if in greeting.

  For a long moment the cat stared at the impossible figure.

  Then the man broke the silence, his voice that of the trees themselves, an aged creak of timber with the whistle of the wind through leaves.

  ‘So. At last we meet, young spark.’

  10

  The water was perfectly calm, a still, silver mirror reflecting the face that stared into it. The skin of the water bent slightly with the force of the breath pushing down on it, but did not break as the words poured out and spilled over its membrane. The words suggested a shape to the liquid, and it flowed as ordered, arranging itself into the requested form. A final word of command, and the silver surface darkened, and other images appeared.

  A dark shape, scuttling and rushing through a forest, leaped at its target, another shape, a human. A man. Armoured. A guard perhaps? Or a soldier, though the markings were unfamiliar. More chaos as shapes broke into movement all around, and all that could be made out of the confusion of images were flashes of green leaves high above, sunlight struggling to break through and illuminate the scene. A sudden splash of red and the waters darkened again.

  The lips leaning over the bowl whispered again, more urgently this time, and the images shifted in time and place, finding another scene. A strangely lit forest clearing, rows and rows of fallen trees re-purposed as pews. A single figure sitting at one end of the clearing, on something like a throne. A twisted timber structure that seemed almost to grow out of the figure. The figure sat perfectly still, perfectly patient, then raised its head to stare straight ahead.

  Heather jerked her head away with a gasp, snapping the connection instantly. Her heart was pounding, and her breath surged in and out of her lungs. The figure in the vision. It was almost as if it had seen her …

  She pushed her chair back from the table and looked up at the ceiling, trying to calm the panic that rushed through her. She focused on her breathing, slowing it, bringing her heart rate down. In and out. Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay as still as the water itself.

  Finally her body relaxed, and she noticed she was clasping her necklace with one hand. She smiled to herself and relaxed her fingers from around it.

  She dropped her eyes back to the bowl in front of her. The surface was still and clear again, a perfect mirror reflecting only what stared into it. A young girl, almost a teen, face wrinkled in concentration and concern. Long, slightly curled hair tucked behind her ears, eyes calm and cold and somehow sad. Eyes that had seen much.

  ‘Heather!’

  The door to the room burst open and Heather turned to see the young Black Robe stumble in, almost tripping over himself in his haste. The sight took the last of her concentration, and a surge of anger almost made its way to her lips before she recognised who it was. She smiled.

  ‘Frankle. What brings you to the crafter’s halls this early in the morning?’

  ‘Early? It’s—’ Frankle stood flummoxed for a moment, glancing out the window at the low sun peeking up above the horizon. ‘Well. I suppose it is a little early. But we have much to do! I wanted—’

  Heather’s smile widened as he hurried out his explanation. It was almost comical the way he stood in the doorway, arms waving along with his words, almost drowning in the oversized black robe that hung from his thin frame.

  ‘You wanted to be sure we were ready for our presentation. It’s okay, Frankle. I understand.’

  Frankle hurried into the room and sat down on the bed. ‘It’s just that I haven’t had to … perform like this before. In front of other people, I mean. I know we’re—’

  ‘I was nervous my first time too. Everyone gets nervous.’

  Frankle finally gave up trying to explain himself and smiled shyly back at her.

  Heather pushed the vision bowl away from her with a whispered command, and it joined the general clutter of trinkets and knickknacks scattered across her desk.

  ‘Is that …?’

  ‘Yes, Frankle. You know what it is.’

  He watched as she stood up and rummaged through the items on her desk. He wanted to ask another question, even though he’d been told it was considered rude to pry like he did. To ask so many questions all the time. But Heather always had such interesting answers he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Did you … did you see anything?’

  Heather looked at Frankle as if weighing him up. ‘Yes.’

  Frankle knew that look, had suffered
under it ever since he could remember. The look that said he was too young, too small, not yet ready.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  Heather smiled at the sulky tone of his words, instantly melting their frostiness. ‘Don’t be silly, Frankle. I’ll tell you when there’s something to tell. Remember what Petron says, we can’t always trust the visions the waters show us. They don’t always obey the rules of time and place like we want them to. They might show you something that happened generations ago, or something from a possible future. Better to be sure about what you know before telling anyone what you see.’

  Frankle sat for a moment pondering her words, then grinned, and any insult was forgotten. ‘You’re right, I guess. You know, sometimes you sound just like Delco.’

  Heather returned the smile, happy that Frankle could now talk about his lost friend without getting upset. He was making progress.

  She turned back to her rummaging. ‘So. You think you’re ready to show the Masters what we can do?’

  Finally she found what she was looking for. Frankle didn’t reply straight away, his attention fully captured by the long thin blade in Heather’s hand. It was a short sword, one of the long knives the guards all carried. Nothing special about it. But with what they now knew, what they could turn it into …

  He gave a quick nod and stood up. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’