Sleeper Of The Wildwood Fugue (Book 7)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “How many promises have you broken since leaving the tribe?”

  Timoran removes the other warrior’s arm from his shoulder and shoves him back to the others. He chokes down the urge to attack, his primal rage making his heart beat loud enough to fill his ears. Repeating his oath in his head does nothing to quell his anger as he watches the four men grin and chuckle. With a shaky hand, he takes another sniff of the herbs to cleanse his nose and calm his nerves.

  “We don’t need this pathetic loser, Alanik,” Ralgin argues, pushing to the front of the small group. He tries to tap his spear on Timoran’s head, but his weapon is easily batted away. “I guess he’s fast and strong, but he won’t be any help. Remember, he can’t shed the blood of his tribesmen, so he’d be dead weight in our plan.”

  “What are you planning?” the champion asks as he shifts his feet. His muscles tense for a pounce, which causes the younger barbarian to back away.

  “The Snow Tiger Tribe needs fresh leadership and new laws,” Alanik declares as he runs his thumb along the edge of his axe. “The laws are all about honor and courage, but that isn’t how the world works any more. Men like us are cast out because we refuse to lay down our lives for a battle we didn’t believe in. How is that fair?”

  “You swore on your honor and ancestors to fight for the tribe,” the redheaded warrior angrily growls. He flexes his fingers in preparation of having to draw his weapon, the tension in the tunnel growing palpable. “If you did not want to do so then you could have become something else. It is not mandatory for us to remain warriors after our two years of training. You have nobody to blame, but yourselves.”

  “The tribe has no respect for those who refuse to fight,” Banton mentions, spitting on the floor in disgust. “Even if we became farmers or blacksmiths, we’d still have to fight when the king declared a full-scale war. It was better to get all of the perks of being a warrior than be seen as pretenders.”

  “You plan on overthrowing the king. I assume Alanik would be the new ruler.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be you,” Ralgin snaps, chuckling at his own comment.

  “Shut up, Ralgin,” the armored warrior says in a cold, threatening voice. He stands before Timoran and looks him in the eye, refusing to back down from the brewing rage. “After this hunt, we’re going to travel to Arx and negotiate a price for a small force of warriors. Maybe get a few assassins too. Then we’ll conquer Stonehelm and put the Snow Tiger Tribe on a new path. If you’re willing to break your oath then we’ll let you join us.”

  Releasing a tired sigh, Timoran turns away from Alanik and walks to the edge of the walkway. He stares into the rising river of sewage as he considers his options, drawing his great axe for comfort. A pang of homesickness is in his heart, but it is dwarfed by the rage and hatred he feels toward the four men before him. His eyes fall on the tiger-stripe patterned head of his weapon, the object signifying his passage into adulthood and his most precious belonging. He remembers his earlier days of exile where he would talk to the great axe and pray that Kerr would answer his questions through its polished surface. This habit stopped when he swore to live by his tribe’s tenants and bring honor to it even though he can never return home. He steels his spirit and accepts that these selfish men will have brought this fate on themselves.

  “One cannot go to war against the tribe if he or she is still a member,” Timoran whispers, wiping a tear from his cheek. He takes a shuddering breath that the others see in his back and shoulders. “Do you forsake the tribe?”

  “Let’s not-” Sentrent starts to say before Banton smacks him.

  “If that’s what it takes,” Alanik proudly states, taking a confident step toward the other barbarian. “Let’s not pretend anyone here is still a member of the tribe. We’re all exiles, so why should any of us remain loyal?”

  Timoran whirls around to take Alanik’s head off in one savage swing, the body standing for a few seconds before tumbling into the sewage. Ralgin and Banton rush at the champion while Sentrent holds his ground, his legs locked in place. The pair finds it hard to attack due to their muscular bodies and the width of the walkway. Banton comes close to hitting his friend with every swing while the spearman frantically jabs at their enemy. Ralgin loses his patience and rushes forward, but his clumsy attack is easily deflected. The redheaded barbarian thrusts his great axe at the crazed warrior, the top points piercing the younger man’s chest. With a roar, Timoran moves Ralgin in the way of the maul’s next swing and the force drives the great axe into the spearman’s heart.

  “You cowardly bastard!” Banton shouts at Sentrent, whose broadsword is limply hanging at his side. “I knew we should have abandoned you years ago.”

  Timoran swings at Banton and their weapons clash, the echo ringing down the tunnel. A quick jump back by the champion makes the maul-fighter stumble, leaving him open to a crushing blow to the back of the neck. The snap of his spine sends a shiver through Sentrent’s body, the swordsman letting his weapon slip from his grasp. Timoran keeps his eye on the shuddering survivor as he crushes Banton’s windpipe with a solid stomp of his heel.

  “Will you let me live?” Sentrent asks, falling to his knees and holding out his hands. “I didn’t forsake the tribe or attack you. I’m not much of a warrior anyway. I . . . didn’t know what else to do so I went along with them. I didn’t even want to desert the tribe in the first place, but Alanik threatened me.”

  “Take your sword in case you run into the Felcri,” Timoran states in a cold voice. He pulls a rag out of his pocket and cleans the blood off his great axe. “If I ever run into you again, Sentrent, it will be by accident and you will have found a real life. I am sure there is a place for you, but I can tell you that it is not within the tribe that I hold dear or on the battlefield that I honor.”

  “Thank you, Sir Wrath,” the man says, scrambling to his feet and grabbing his weapon. Hurrying into the tunnel behind him, Sentrent stops and turns to face the other barbarian. “If it means anything to you, I hope you find peace someday. With the blessing of Kerr, I’m sure it will be within the Snow Tiger Tribe.”

  Timoran watches Sentrent disappear into the shadows and sighs when he realizes that he has bodies to dispose of. Sheathing his weapon, he goes about throwing the remains into the sewage and watching them drift into the distance. The sound of a rustling cape makes him pause while he still has the head of Alanik in his hands. He turns to see a black-haired man in ebony platemail, an aura of power filling the tunnel.

  “I was wondering what you would do here,” Gabriel admits as he approaches Timoran. A low whistle slips from the god’s mouth and Alanik’s head turns into a pile of sand. “I was highly entertained. Did you learn a lesson from this?”

  “My past is out there and will forever haunt me until I face it.”

  “That sounds good enough. It is your sharp mind and pure wisdom that makes you one of my greatest creations,” the god says with a wide smile that sends a chill down the mortal’s spine. “Keep that in mind when you return to Stonehelm. You will be going home before your trials are done, Timoran Wrath. I guarantee it and look forward to your trials.”

  Gabriel vanishes in a puff of black smoke, leaving the barbarian to think about the ominous promise. Looking at the splatters of blood and a few scraps bone left on the ground, Timoran prays that his return home will not be for a very long time.

  *****

  Luke inches along the wall, keeping an ear out for sounds of movement. The squish of rotten filth beneath his boots has become part of the background as he cautiously makes his way through the maze of lower tunnels. He senses something larger than a rat, the form created by his sound sight of a man with a curved sword. This is the fourth time in the last hour he has found Asher, which gives him some relief and frustration. Luke is happy that the nobleman is still alive, but he wishes his senses would stop focusing on him. As it stands, he is no longer sure where Delvin or the Felcri are since their last encounter. It has been a challenging hunt with rep
eated ambushes that the three warriors have barely managed to survive. Every time one of them has been attacked, the others rush to the rescue and drive the Felcri away.

  Turning a corner, Luke sees the glint of chainmail in a narrow beam of light that comes from a pulsing orb in the wall. He thinks it is Asher again until he sees the round buckler on the figure’s arm. Quietly moving through the muck to Delvin, he clears his throat to get his friend’s attention. With a roll of his eyes, he bats the dirt-covered longsword out of his face. The dim light makes both warriors appear filthier and more exhausted than they actually are. Luke notices the wound above his friend’s eye is still seeping, which brings his attention to the burning cut along his own ribs. He sticks a finger through the gash in his leather armor patch, feeling to see if the injury is still bleeding.

  “How are you doing?” Delvin whispers, wiping the blood out of his eye.

  “Still bleeding, but it won’t slow me down too much,” Luke replies, gesturing for the other warrior to follow him. He pinpoints Asher’s location and guesses as to the quickest way to the noble. “Asher is moving around somewhere, but I have no idea where the Felcri went. Maybe it’s full from eating all those mercenaries.”

  “I don’t think it had time to eat any of them,” Delvin says, checking around a corner while Luke casually steps into the open. “There was something strange about the last fight. The Felcri came in fierce, but it ran away once one of us hurt it. It’s possible that it’s no longer invulnerable, so now it’s scared.”

  Luke nods and goes over the encounter in his mind, every detail crisp and clear. “It definitely came in without a care when it took that first mercenary out. It’s a shame that she survived falling into the water only to get killed in the next encounter. Though I think she managed to hurt it too because the Felcri had a brief moment of confusion before we gathered our wits. It’s possible that the monsters being sent after the Grasdons are imperfect and their invulnerability is unstable. They never know when they’ll be susceptible to damage again, but it does happen. Maybe we can capture it alive and Fizzle can get a look at it.”

  “He might even be able to talk to the Felcri.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sure Wayland would have it killed on sight.”

  “The man does seem pretty stressed and irrational,” Delvin replies with a wry smile. He gently punches Luke in the shoulder and stifles his laughter. “That’s your future father-in-law. You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

  “Can we not get into this conversation right now?” the half-elf requests through clenched teeth. “We’re hunting a deadly beast here.”

  “I was only teasing and trying to lighten the mood,” the other swordsman replies with a tired sigh. “I guess there’s always the chance that you’ll marry Sari instead. You’re right. This isn’t something I want to talk about. It’ll only make me worry more about Nyx and continue hating you for having both of your loves around.”

  “Hate me?”

  “Maybe too strong a term, but I’ve definitely had moments of wanting to punch you the last few days.”

  Luke turns to stare his friend in the eye, noticing that the man is not entirely joking. “I’m miserable because I’m going to have to hurt someone I love. You’re miserable because the woman you love is missing. I’d trade positions with you only because I know you’re problem will have a happy ending.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Delvin asks, walking around the half-elf. He slashes at a nearby shadow when it comes, terrifying a group of rats that rush into a nearby hole. “We don’t know where Nyx is or what’s happened to her. She could be kidnapped by the nomads or in Stephen’s hands.”

  “She’s with Dariana, so I doubt Stephen will have her. Even if she’s not really on our side, she obviously doesn’t like her brother,” the forest tracker explains, hurrying to take the lead again. He risks using Stiletto’s sense of smell, stopping immediately when his stomach lurches from the stench. “As for the nomads, I hope they don’t have Nyx. I’m having trouble thinking of anyone who has benefited from capturing her. It tends to end with her unleashing devastation on the area. So stop worrying about your extremely powerful, unrequited love and figure out how to get into that desert. Preferably without an elephant even though that was hilarious.”

  “It’s not like I can go out the front door,” the brown-haired warrior scoffs, scratching his head with his knuckles. He groans at the feel of sewage dripping from the tip of his sword onto his hair. “This is truly disgusting. I’ve been in sewers and swamps before, but this place is a maze of ladders, tunnels, and filth.”

  The warriors come to a room that resembles a giant bowl, the sides slick with slime and the bottom covered in a foot of stagnant water. A grate in the ceiling has rusted out and the remaining mesh is dangling in the shaft of sunlight. Squirming forms move in the water as Luke and Delvin struggle to make their way to the other side without falling into the pool. They sheath their weapons, freeing their hands to crawl along the slick surface. With every move, the warriors slide closer to the bottom and the mysterious creatures get more agitated. A fanged eel erupts from the water when Delvin slips within reach of the creature. He feels its sharp teeth pierce his boot and foot, but cannot draw his sword to fight back. The other eels hungrily gather in anticipation of him falling in, the slimy beasts roiling into a frenzy. An echoing, roaring screech scares the predators into retreating to the bottom of the pool, the surface becoming calm and serene.

  “Please tell me that was you,” Delvin whispers to Luke as he climbs toward his friend.

  “Nope,” the half-elf says, nodding his head to the wall on the other side of the pool. “The Felcri seems to be able to move without making a sound, including a heartbeat. I think it’s been in here the entire time.”

  The warriors turn around, grinding their feet into the slime until they feel solid ground and can awkwardly stand. They draw their blades as they watch the green-scaled beast, its body a shade lighter than the dark walls. The Felcri slowly climbs down to the sloped floor and crouches among the filth. Its white eyes dart from Delvin’s longsword to Luke’s sabers, the deadly blades making the vulnerable creature nervous. With a threatening hiss, the Felcri fires its long tongue at the armored champion and yanks it back before it can be chopped off.

  “I don’t think it knows we’re at a disadvantage,” Luke whispers, pointing his sabers at the monster. He stops when it whimpers and backs against the wall. “This thing is terrified now that it knows we can hurt it. What use is a summoned creature that gets scared? Seems like a waste of training or magic or whatever it is that made it.”

  “We’re obviously missing something,” Delvin states as he takes a step to his right. The Felcri watches him and beats the ground in an attempt to ward him off. “It doesn’t want to fight us. All that aggression is gone. If I hadn’t seen this thing fight before, I’d never believe it could be so vicious. Maybe we can take it alive and learn more about the nomad’s monsters. Wayland can choke on his favorite ring for all I care. Uh, don’t tell Kira and Asher I said that.”

  “Deal. Circle that way and we’ll see what it does.”

  With a snarl, the Felcri turns its scaly head toward one of the nearby tunnels and prepares to pounce. It sniffs the air and hungrily licks its face as if a delicious meal has been laid out, the aroma reviving its courage. The creature glances at Luke and Delvin, a brief expression of confusion on its face. Primal aggression returns to its eyes when it hears echoing footsteps and Asher wanders into the chamber.

  “You have it cornered,” the nobleman says while taking a step into the bowl.

  “Not good,” Delvin mutters, shuffling his feet through the slime. He falls to his hands and knees, sliding near the pool where the eels are roiling the water in anticipation. Rolling onto his back, the warrior beheads the first beast that erupts from the pool, but the others refuse to calm down.

  Everything is a blur of motion when Asher slips and falls on his face, his scimitar skid
ding out of his reach. The Felcri pounces only to be slammed in the side by Luke who is sprouting feathers from his body. Surprised by the attack, the monster shoves him away and screeches when its arm is sliced off by the half-elf’s saber. Enraged and startled by the pain, the Felcri roars at its attacker and charges. It is within reach when the young warrior finishes transforming into the griffin and bats the creature away with her wings. The beasts circle each other while Delvin makes his way to Asher and helps him crawl back into the tunnel.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening,” the nobleman says, his eyes locked on the winged beast. He watches her struggle to maneuver in the tight quarters, her wings repeatedly coming close to hitting the walls. “Is that Luke?”

  “We’ll explain on the walk back,” Delvin whispers as he goes back for the scimitar. He drops to the ground when the Felcri is sent flying toward him, the beast’s thrashing tail grazing his back. “Watch where you’re throwing him, Lucy. We’re not in an open space like you’re used to in that form.”

  With a burst of wind that shakes the room, the griffin darts at the Felcri so quickly that it takes a second for the warriors to realize what has happened. Her beak pierces the scaly hide of the other creature and she cracks its sternum in half before she is kicked away. A gash on her front leg makes her hobble through the muck, but she gracelessly leaps across the room to maul the Felcri’s face. Rearing back on her hind legs, the griffin snaps forward to drive her beak into its enemy’s skull. She opens her mouth to splinter the bone and delivers a few solid strikes to the exposed brain. The Felcri drops dead at her feet and she lifts it by the neck, callously tossing it into the pool where the fanged eels devour the corpse.

  11

  Dariana falls to her knees while covering her ears, but the deafening scream continues at full volume. The nomads watch as she collapses on the cooling sand and spasms for a minute, most of them fearing that the foreigner is possessed or diseased. Only a small boy is willing to get near her and offer one of his figs, which she takes with a shaky hand. The child lies on his side next to Dariana and makes faces at her in the hopes of making her feel better. She does her best to laugh and return the silly expressions, but the pain is too much for her to concentrate. To her surprise, the black-haired boy crawls closer to lift her hand off her head and whisper gibberish in her ear, an incomprehensible joke that makes him laugh. The mental scream cuts off and is replaced by faint whimpering, the voice now clearly that of Sharne.