by Ryan Peter
It had been just over two weeks since the Outlanders and Fore soldiers left the village of Buit. The journey was hard and monotonous, the sweeping valleys and open farmlands losing their arresting and enjoyable quality because of unceasing rain. Although there were some days of sunshine, the weather was slowing them down.
Tarkanyon discovered that Altana’s men were indeed divided over their political views. Most of them knew Altana’s political leaning. Some, he suspected, would leave him at the first chance they could get. Altana, for his part, seemed unfazed and had certain men whom he would constantly rely on. But what Altana was going to do at the villages was something he still couldn’t guess.
It had been drizzling all morning, thunder and lightning threatening heavier rains to come. By mid-morning it began to come down in torrents. But they needed to move on. They were travelling north-east now, on their way to a village named Raud, that was said to be rebelling against the king.
To the north of them some of the towering peaks of the Great Mountains could be seen more clearly, an ominous blue and gray silhouette faintly visible in the distance. The air was cold and clammy, and the smells of spring had been drowned in the smell of damp. As the rainstorm became more aggressive the contingent realised they couldn’t continue. They would have to wait for it to calm down. Fortunately, they were approaching a small wood which would do wonderfully well for shelter. It was situated closely to the road, so they diverted from their path, descended down a small hill, passed one lonely and desolate tree on the hill and took shelter at the edge of the forest in a small well-covered clearing.
They cooked lunch over their fires and waited. As usual they had separate camps. Tarkanyon warmed himself at their fire, having just enjoyed lunch, and looked around the wood.
“It's a setback that we must travel in such a large group,” he said to his men. “I grow weary each day of the situation at the Twin Cities.”
“So do we all,” answered Chrisolian. “And you have said the same thing every day for the past week.”
Poiternium took out his guitar in an effort to cheer everyone up. Turrik was studying the dagger again, something he did every day. He kept mumbling to himself that the dagger was 'not the same' but wouldn't answer anyone when they asked him what he was talking about.
Suddenly Tarkanyon became aware of a vigorous, warm wind sweeping through the wood. It disappeared just as immediately as it had appeared. Then it returned, this time blowing through the tops of the trees, sweeping down and touching over their fire. Once again it disappeared. The horses seemed unsettled, stamping and neighing. Tarkanyon got up, looking around.
“Poiternium, stop your playing!” he said.
“I feel it too,” said Merexia suddenly, looking around. Poiternium stopped and they sat in silence.
Another gust appeared, this time more determined than the last. Chrisolian frowned at Tarkanyon, who turned around and shouted to Altana.
“What is this forest?” he asked, but thunder and lightning boomed over his voice.
“What?”
“What forest is this?”
“It's the... Turri Wood!” cried Altana. “It stretches north; not very large!”
“Turri?” grumbled Tarkanyon. Another gust swept through. The Outlanders were waiting on Tarkanyon's command.
“Douse the fire,” he said to Drius. “Quickly.”
Drius obeyed immediately. Tarkanyon looked over at Altana's camp. “Douse your fire!” he cried. “Do it now!”
Altana brushed him off. “What? It is our only warmth!”
This time the gust left the Outlanders and advanced towards the Foré encampment. It managed to blow their fire out completely. Altana was asinine, looking at the logs. It disappeared again and only the long monotonous tone of heavy rain and gentle dripping in the trees was heard. Another roll of thunder, but no wind.
“It’s either the rain or the wood,” said Tarkanyon. “I’m unsure which one.”
“Or of where?” asked Chrisolian.
“Curious,” said Drius.
Altana came up to them, annoyed. “Now what is it? Why must we sit in the cold?”
“I am unsure, just yet,” said Tarkanyon. He signalled to his men, nodded to Altana, and walked a little further into the wood, looking over the trees quietly.
Without warning, a sharp and shrill shriek echoed deeply from within the wood. Altana's men were up at once and so were the Outlanders, Bo's ready in hand.
Silence. Only the sound of the rain and the drip drip amongst the trees.
Tarkanyon turned around to look at the Outlanders. Suddenly he had the sense of impending danger behind him.
“Tarkanyon, behind you!” yelled Merexia, leaping towards him. Tarkanyon dived down as a flurry of leaves dashed over him. It travelled towards the Outlanders, whirling madly before them. As it did so it collected sticks, bark and a few rocks from their dead fire. They all watched in amazement that turned to terror as the whirlwind furiously hurtled towards them, a sharp stick stabbing Poiternium in his left shoulder and a rock banging against Jerenic's head. He fell immediately. Turrik dived as the wind blew over him, his hood falling off, exposing his black braids underneath. He swiped his Bo at some of the rocks in the air, knocking them straight to the ground. Then he set his hood back over his head.
“That’s the way I like to wear it!” he said, shaking his fist at the wind.
“What is this!?” cried Altana, his men dispersing, taking shelter amongst the trees. He watched in horror and dived behind a tree himself. The horses were distraught with terror, trying their hardest to break loose from their bonds that kept them tied to the trees nearby. Tarkanyon sprung towards his own men as he saw a fluster of leaves rushing through the air behind them. Another whirlwind – there were now two. It lunged swiftly over them as the first whirlwind swooped towards them again. The second seemed to smash against the first, propelling it sidewards, ricocheting off it and landing in front of Tarkanyon. It whirled before him and seemed to have turned around.
Rocks and twigs from the first wind levitated above the ground close to the Outlanders, as if the wind was hovering in one spot. The twigs and rocks slowly turned and aimed directly for the Outlanders.
The wind in front of Tarkanyon grew in size as more leaves collected amongst it; it advanced again towards the first whirlwind and slammed itself against it: this time driving and trapping it against a tree.
As it did so, the screeching they had heard previously echoed again through the wood, but now it came from the direction of the whirlwinds. The bark and twigs of the first whirlwind formed into a shape – something that looked like a face; sharp twigs and sticks for the top of the head, sticking out menacingly while smaller twigs formed around it. It was being pushed back further into the tree. Two small dark rocks formed its eyes, and sharp pieces of bark worked into cheekbones that rippled as the shriek came again. More bark formed a mouth, with sharp stones and twigs as teeth. The mouth jutted out like a beak, or a dragon's mouth, opening widely as the creature shrilled. It seemed to bite into the other, wind and leaves from its adversary got stuck between the sharp sticks and bark of the mouth.
The tree it was being thrust against bended backwards, creaking and moaning. The face bit again into its enemy and this time managed to escape from its trap, swooping quickly into the heights of the wood's canopy. It looked down on them as branches were being wrenched from the trees, forming into a mass of wood, stone, sand and droplets from the rain.
“What is it?” cried Chrisolian. “I have never...”
The second whirlwind also began to pick up stones, wood and branches from the floor of the forest, spinning between the trees and camp fires, spreading ever larger.
“They are fighting!” shouted Tarkanyon as the first wind plummeted from the heights of the wood towards them; it was not aiming for its adversary - it was aiming for the Outlanders. “Disperse!” he shouted. “This will make things difficult for it!”
Merexia grabbed Jer
enic who was still lying (seemingly unconscious) on the ground. He flung him over his shoulder as the Outlanders dispersed. The whirlwind adapted and changed its direction. Now Tarkanyon was its target.
Once again, the second whirlwind plunged and smashed against the first, a shriek coming from both of them; a clutter of sticks, bark, stones, water and leaves hurtled through the air and met on the ground. They both struggled with each other, a fierce hurricane of debris forming in the clearing where the Outlanders had their fire. The mass of rubble was soon joined by the cutlery and supplies of the Outlanders and – much to his dismay - Poiternium's guitar. He let off a cry. Some of the rocks, branches, knives and forks shot off from the cyclone, smashing against the trees and lurching through the forest. All had to dodge the onslaught of debris as pieces flew towards them. At one time, Poiternium's guitar shot off too, scrambling through the air and breaking against branches far up above. Poiternium let off another hopeless cry.
“It's protecting us!” Tarkanyon shouted, now realising what was happening. “The second is protecting us! We must make haste from here!”
The swirling hurricanes continued in fury; trees and branches that were in their way suffering their violence.
“What of our supplies?” cried Merexia to Tarkanyon.
“We must go! As long as we're here they will continue to fight! We will have to take whatever we can but no more!”
The Outlanders obeyed, each coming out of their hiding place and collecting what they could. While they did so, Tarkanyon ran over to Altana, who was sitting with his back to a tree, a horrified look on his face.
“Captain!” he said, as he came closer. Altana's eyes were closed as he continued to push against the tree.
“Captain!” shouted Tarkanyon again, this time shaking him. Altana opened his eyes. “Outlander!” he cried. “What is this evil?”
“The one protects us from the other.” Tarkanyon looked over at the mass of cyclone again. It was impossible to differentiate which was which now. “We must make haste – let us leave this wood, now! Get your men together, we must go!”
Some of Altana's men had already fled. Altana stared over at the cyclone and weakly nodded. Tarkanyon left him and ran over to Polin, who was (as he expected) much less distressed than the other horses. “Good boy,” he said as he flung himself onto his horse, quickly grabbing a dagger from his belt and cutting the rope that bound him, shouting “Ride!”
Polin leaped into action, springing to the edge of the forest and leading Tarkanyon straight to the road despite the pouring rain. Some of the Outlanders were there already, waiting at the road, with only three of Altana's men.
“Where are the rest?” shouted Tarkanyon as he rode towards them.
“Ours come now,” said Chrisolian, as Merexia and Poiternium joined Tarkanyon from behind. Merexia had Jerenic on his horse with him and Jerenic’s horse trailed behind, held with a rope.
“My guitar!” cried Poiternium. The shrill of the two creatures was heard once again; a cacophony echoing throughout the wood. Altana could be seen riding up the small hill, looking around him, seemingly watching for some of his men.
“Some of the others have fled down the road already,” said one of the Foré men to Tarkanyon. “I think it was Kel, Eran and...”
“Names do not matter to me,” said Tarkanyon. “How many?”
“Four, or five,” replied the man.
Altana came up to them. “What horror! What is that?”
“Sprûin,” answered Tarkanyon. “They have not been seen for many generations. Some call them the spirits of the wood. Now, get your men together! Five have fled, but who remains in the wood?”
Six men were racing up the hill, four on horses, two without, scrambling for their lives and tumbling over their feet. Behind them, another four.
“That makes eleven of you,” said Tarkanyon. “If we know five have fled, you are missing only three. I suspect they must have also fled.”
Altana shouted at his men. “Form in line!”
“We must ride!” shouted Tarkanyon to all of them. “The Sprûin may not reach us in the clear, but I do not wish to take that chance!” He kicked Polin with his heels who sprang into a gallop again. The others fell in line and Chrisolian and Drius pulled their horses next to Tarkanyon.
“What of Jerenic?” asked Tarkanyon.
“He is fine, only minorly concussed,” answered Drius. “He is recovering already.”
“Why do you think the Sprûin wished to kill us?” asked Chrisolian. “It is known that they do not involve themselves with men.”
“We have not heard of Sprûin for many generations,” replied Drius before Tarkanyon could answer. “It is very perplexing.”
“The Turri Wood,” mused Tarkanyon. “Do you know anything of it?” Both shook their heads. “It does not seem to mean anything to me. Perhaps we should ask the others when we reach some shelter again.” He looked back at Altana and his men, straggling behind. “I suspect they will not want to shelter in another wood for quite some time,” he added, looking forward.
Two of Altana's men were seen through the mist up ahead, desperately scrambling through the heavy rain. Altana saw them at once and instructed two of his horsemen to ride ahead and gather them up. Tarkanyon could hear shouting and confusion as they came up close, the thunder rolling across the sky adding to the commotion.
“Traitors!” cried a voice, the heel of a boot from one of the horsemen digging into the face of one of the running men as they galloped past. The entire party stopped, a brawl breaking out quickly amongst them.
“Altana!” cried Tarkanyon. “Your men must be controlled!”
But there was too much confusion in the pelting rain and Altana was nowhere to be seen. Tarkanyon's men looked at him. “Very well,” said Tarkanyon. “If he will not, we shall. Now!”
The Outlanders drew out their Bo's. Drius was first into combat, swooping off his horse sideways and falling to the ground. He anchored the end of his bo on the road and used it to hurl himself at two of the Foré soldiers in one cartwheeled action. As his feet struck them both he landed and swooped his bo at one of the horsemen, knocking him straight off his horse. He quickly wiped his black braids from his eyes as his wet pony-tail had become untangled in the rain.
Moyna had also flung himself off his horse, ducking underneath a horseman who had anticipated his move and tried to slice at his chest. As the soldier missed, Moyna butted the end of his bo straight into the chest of the horseman who fell headlong to the ground.
The rest of the Outlanders were on the soldiers and horsemen at once. Jerenic had assailed three of the soldiers, disarming them and flinging their swords in the air in one up-side-down-side-up movement that looked as if his red-wood bo (which matched his red braids) danced in the rain like a flying insect.
Tarkanyon found Altana standing with his one foot on the chest of a man on his knees in front of him, the point of his sword sticking into the man's throat. His victim had blood streaming down from his nose. Another man was lying beside him, face down in the road, blood flowing from his chest and mixing with the gushing water. He was already dead.
“What are you doing?” Tarkanyon yelled.
“A traitor – a man who flees from his comrades!” Altana was shouting; but he was shouting at the man, not answering Tarkanyon. “See, this kind of insolence cannot be tolerated!”
“Fool!” cried Tarkanyon, approaching him. “You need all of your men for your quest! You yourself were in terror when those creatures appeared!”
But Altana ignored him, addressing his men instead. “He has sealed his own fate, just as the other!”
As he was about to drive the sword through the man's throat, Tarkanyon (with his bo) thrust it away and exerted all his weight upon him. They came crashing to the ground, splattering in the cold water. Tarkanyon was on top of him, his bo around his throat and choking him only as a warning. “Do not be a fool! We have no time for this!”
“No
!” cried Poiternium. Tarkanyon turned his head and saw the man whose life he had just saved drive Altana's sword through himself and fall sidewards, lunging over the dead man who was beside him. Another one of the Foré men came over to him, drew out the sword and kicked him brutally, the body hurtling backwards and rolling down the hill, quickly disappearing into the thick mist of the rain.
Tarkanyon checked himself and got up slowly. The Outlanders had the brawl under control, but unfortunately were unable to save a man from his own folly. “This is madness,” he said, looking around at them intensely under his dripping brow. Only the pelting rain answered him. There was a splash and Altana, drenched, rose to his feet and mounted his horse. His men quickly picked up their swords or forced them away from the confused Outlanders. They mounted, those without horses sharing with their fellows.
“Ride!” charged Altana. They bustled passed the Outlanders, ignoring them.
“Complete madness!” cried Tarkanyon. “Madness!”
CHAPTER TEN
