As Borlo Hensley, proprietor of the Ram’s Horn, the only inn in town, said after they had gone: “We welcomed them with open arms, and the first thing these strangers asked for was information! of all things. Had we seen any Foul Folk? Suffered any raids? Heard any Vulgs howl? Had any disappearances? Seen a yellow-eyed Man? Noted any monstrous flying things? And other such nonsense. Oh, Widow Trucen said she’d heard a Vulg howl some nights back, but Burd the wheelwright said ‘twasn’t nothin’ but a Wolf or two. Set her right he did, and she hasn’t forgiven him to this day, turns up her nose and passes him by.
“Strange questions, these, for it seems they were hunting after some’n, a Rutch or Drōk or Ogru, or even a Guul. But we couldn’t help them in their folly.
“The next thing they wanted were rooms and baths, though why the baths, I wouldn’t know. Said they’d been in the wilderness several weeks and hadn’t bathed even once in all that time, and couldn’t we smell that it was so? I told ’em they smelt just fine, and that too many baths’d make ’em sick. But they went ahead regardless.
“The Wee Ones, splashing and singing together, they were. And then after…well, let’s just say they kept in their room to themselves a good long while.
“The Elfess, now, she had a voice like that of a evengale, playing Ella’s harp and singing songs at night. Magic it was, that or I’m a confirmed twithead, the way she made that harp do. And the Elf, he spoke poetry, some so fierce as to make your blood boil, and other so sad that there weren’t a dry eye in the house.
“Horses they bought, and mules—three of each. Made Burd right rich, I shouldn’t wonder, what with purchasing this and that and the other for to go along with ’em…good coin all, though I hear tell that Burd says he was paid with a jewel—Ha! I’ll believe that when I see it.
“The big Man, now, they say he’s a strong one. Lifted a waggon Burd was fixin’. Like it was of no consequence. Up by the corner. ‘So what?’ says I when Burd was telling me, ‘Dardar the smith can do that.’ ‘This is what,’ says he. ‘The waggon was carrying a load of fireturf. A whole load at that!’
“Now, it ain’t that I’m callin’ Burd a liar, or even a exaggerater, but a Man’d have t’ be as strong as a ox to lift a load of turf, and that’s no flam.”
A murmur of agreement rippled among the patrons of the Ram’s Horn but quickly silenced as the innkeeper spoke on.
“Something else Burd said about the big Man, though, right peculiar: seems as if the horses and mules were skittish around him, like they was afraid o’ his smell or something, but they settled when he finally put a hand on them and spoke…gentled right down, they did.
“Be that as it may, three days they stayed, then left. South they are headed. I told ’em to steer clear of the Mire. A bad place, that, what with its bogs that’ll suck a Man under in a eyeblink, and the things that live in there what’ll do you in and gulp you down, to say nothing of the vipers and adders and of the nits and gnats and bloodsuckers and the poison vines and other such.”
Again a mutter of agreement washed through Borlo’s listeners. Almost as bad as Dragonslair, said some. Worse than Dragonslair, said others. Full of “deaders,” added others still. And once again the arguments erupted over which was worse—Dragonslair or the Khalian Mire—a war of words which had lasted without resolution for nearly thirty-four hundred years.
And as they debated with one another, the land jolted and juddered, timbers rattled and crockery clattered, and none paid it any heed, for living where they did, the world forever shook.
* * *
Mid-morn of the day they left Inge found three riding horses and three pack mules fording the river that marked the border between Aralan and Khal. In the lead rode Aravan, a laden mule on a tether trailing behind. Immediately after came Urus and Riatha, each with a mule following. On these last two mules, ensconced among the cargo, rode Gwylly on one and Faeril on the other, for no ponies were to be had in Inge.
The swift-running water was high and frigid, the river wide-swollen with spring snowmelt. Leaving his mule with the others, Aravan rode across, testing the depth, gauging the current, assessing the danger. On the opposite shore he wheeled his mount and rode back across, the water up to his horse’s belly at the deepest. “Should a mule fall,” he said to the Warrows, “cling to the pack frame. The animal will right itself, and if the water is deep, it will swim to shore. We will come after ye or throw ye lines should there be a need.”
His words, though prudent, proved to be unnecessary, for the crossing was uneventful.
Southerly they rode, cutting cross-country through the rolling hills, intending to follow along the banks of the River Venn until it came to the Avagon Sea. Altogether, as the raven wings, they were some two thousand miles from Caer Pendwyr and slightly more than that from Challerain Keep, the two principal residences of the High King: the keep his summer quarters; the caer his winter home; the two Courts some fifteen hundred miles apart, the King travelling between in April and September.
Although the five comrades were two thousand miles from either residence as the raven flies, by land or by a combination of land and sea they were farther still. It would take them nearly four months to reach either place, given the choices before them.
Urus had growled when Aravan had proposed his plan sixteen days past:
“In four months, Stoke could be anywhere.”
“Yet we have little choice. We need the aid of the Realmsmen.”
“Realmsmen?”
“Aye, Realmsmen. After the Winter War, nearly a thousand years agone, High King Galen, the son of Aurion, founded a group of Men he named Realmsmen: guardians of the Kingdom, champions of Just Causes. They range the Realm and defend the Land.”
“When I was in the ice…. These rangers, how do we enlist their aid?”
“They headquarter in Caer Pendwyr in Pellar. It would be best to go there to describe Stoke and his deeds and have his likeness sent to all Realmsmen throughout the High King’s domain. ’Twould also be best to go to the caer to seek audience with the High King, for no matter which place we go, we are months from either residence. And should we strive for Challerain Keep in Rian and be hindered along the way, then he will be gone to Pellar by the time we arrive.”
“I like not this delay, Aravan, yet I have no better plan and we have but a short list of choices. Stoke is lost to us, and we could search forever. We need aid, and mayhap in Caer Pendwyr we can find it. Let us go there then and seek audience with the High King…and contact the Realmsmen. Mayhap together with their aid we will find the one we seek.”
And now they travelled southerly, aiming for a port on the Avagon Sea to book passage to the place where High King Garan dwelled.
* * *
The next day they sighted a swamp on the horizon, and by the noontide they rode along its marge. Large, hoary old trees, black cypress and dark swamp willow, twisted up out of the muck, looming, barring the morning light, their warped roots gnarling down out of sight into the slimeladen mud. A greyish moss dangled down from lichen-wattled limbs, like ropes and nets set to entangle and entrap the unwary. A faint mist rose up from the bog, reaching, clinging, clutching at those who would seek to pass through. Though it was early spring, snakes slithered from drowned logs into green-scummed water, and swarms of gnats and flies and mosquitoes filled the air like a grey haze, for the heat of decaying vegetation provided the dark environs with the warmth to sustain such life in all but the dead of winter.
And alongside these environs they rode, out where the cool air protected them from the swarms of bloodsuckers.
Looking in through the trees, they could see that the bog itself was a veritable maze of water and mire and land and wild growth. And as the Sun shone down into this green enigma, the swamp steamed in response; and it seemed as if the air within might become too thick, too wet to draw a clean breath. The marsh heaved with gases belching from slimy waters, bubbles plopping, foul stenches reeking.
South they rode
as the Sun sank into the west, and lengthening shadows streamed from the hunched hummocks, from the twisted trees, from the sharp-edged reeds and saw grass, filling the bog with gloom. And above the barely heard hum of the swarms of flying pests within, other noises began to fill the air: a chirruping and breeking and peeping of swamp dwellers, along with ploppings, splashings, wallowings, slitherings.
“Lor!” breathed Gwylly. “I’m glad we’re out here and they’re in there.”
The Sun began to set. Long shadows slanted across the darkening land and into the murky bog, filling the environs with ebon blackness, creeping shadows slipping among the reeds, past the foul moss adrip from lifeless branches, over oozing muck and above scum-laden water, the Khalian Mire taking on an eerie aspect as night fell.
And as the five set up camp along its edge, Faeril’s eyes were ever drawn to the sinister galleries. Of a sudden she jumped up and pointed. “Oh my, there’s someone within calling for help, for I see their lantern.”
All looked where she pointed. Gwylly leapt to his feet as well, preparing to go into the mire.
“Nay, wee ones,” said Aravan, “stay! ’Tis no lantern ye see, but a ghost candle instead,”
Faeril turned to the Elf. “Ghost candle?”
“Aye. Said to be the spirit of one who is dead. Said to try to lure the innocent and the unwary unto their doom within the bog.”
Riatha spoke. “Aravan speaks one of their names. They are called will-o’-the-wisp by others. But by any name they are indeed a danger should ye try to go in after them. They will lead ye on a chase to nowhere, mazing thy minds, getting ye lost, luring ye unto deep waters where ye may drown. So stay, for ’tis no lantern ye see, but a cunning spirit of the swamp.”
Reluctantly, the Warrows resumed their seats. “Tell me, Aravan,” asked Gwylly, “how came ghost candles to this place?”
Aravan looked at the firelight dancing on the faces of the Waerlinga. “Let me a tale unfold for thee, a tale of a time long past, for I have heard how the Khalian Mire came to be, though I was not on Mithgar when it occurred and did not witness the events I am about to relate, so I cannot vouch for the truth of them.”
Riatha poured more tea into each of their cups, and all settled back as Aravan began:
“In the Time Before, there was a crystal castle with a rainbow bridge sitting midst a fair land, much like the rolling hills to the west, yet forested thickly. The castle with its bridge was a marvel to behold, and occupied by a Folk most fair. Some say they were Elven, while others say they were Men, and none I know can say for certain which indeed they were. Ye see, of the Time Before little is known, except that it was in the days before Elves knew of those things worth striving for and instead sought to conquer all.
“Regardless, in the center of the forest stood a crystal castle peopled by a Race most fair. And ’round the castle and beyond the bridge were gardens of remarkable flowers and trees and running waters and dancing fountains and a sward so green as to put emeralds to shame.
“Beyond the gardens lay the wide forest, a woodland filled with game: hare and stag, deer and chuck, boar and wild kine, and more, oh more, oh very much more.
“Through this realm a clear river flowed, its waters pellucid and cool and with a taste to quench all thirst, and it was filled with fish and eels and clawed backswimmers, frogs and turtles, too. Thereupon as well were waterfowl: ducks and geese and swans and loons and colorful gallinules, and other such swimmers and waders.
“Birds dwelled in the forest as well, gamebirds and songbirds alike.
“Fruit and nuts grew on the branches and vines, and berries on the briars. Honey filled many a hollow tree, and the ground was rich with herbs and mosses and greens and mushrooms wondrous and rare. And where the soil was tilled and planted, gardens grew and fields flourished, and their bounty was plentiful.
“Cattle and goats and sheep found lush grazing, and crofters’ barnyards were filled with fowl and their nests with eggs.
“Every evening, it seemed, a gentle rain replenished the soil.
“So abundant was the land that no spit was without at least a hare or a fish or a stag or a goose or other such, all so savory, so tasty…well, let us just say that hunger was an unknown thing.
“And the King who reigned o’er all was blessed.
“Yet there were those who coveted the crystal castle with its rainbow bridge and lush gardens surrounding it and the rich Land beyond, with its forests and fields and clear, clear waters, and would have it all be their own.
“One of these covetous ones was a King in his own right, and he proposed a challenge to the rightful ruler. His army he would bring to the sward before the castle and there they would meet in battle, the winner to take all.
“And so knights and squires, footmen and bowmen, all gathered on the wide sward. The two great armies met and fought a mighty War. Back and forth raged the combat, the striving bloody and fierce, and tens of thousands fell. Yet the rightful King won the day, though of his great Host there remained but a pitiful few, yet his enemy had far, far less.
“But the enemy was most treacherous, and amid his ranks a Sorcerer stood, the mightiest of his day; and he was the true power behind the enemy throne. And when the Sorcerer saw that the battle was lost, that the forests and fields and remarkable gardens and the crystal castle with its rainbow bridge would not be his, he called up a mighty spell. And with a cataclysmic lurch the land fell, forest and fields all. The gardens themselves sank beyond sight, and the rainbow bridge and crystal castle shattered into shards beyond count.
“The spell was so powerful, so wicked, that all living creatures within its sphere were destroyed: all the remaining knights and squires, all the remaining footmen and bowmen, all the pages and thralls, all nobles, including both Kings, as well as their Queens, and last of all the Sorcerer himself.
“The clear river that flowed through the land continued to stream down from the mountains, and for many months it went no farther, pooling on the land instead. Slowly the great depression filled, and the forest and plants, the herbs and mosses, and the wondrous mushrooms, all were drowned. All the dead plants and animals and Men—or Elves—all rotted.
“Ages passed. Silt collected. The depression, which was shallow to begin with, the depression slowly became a great bog, a mire, a swamp. Black cypress came, and rushes, and a grey moss that hangs down to catch up and strangle the unwary. Reeds and scum and snakes and bloodsuckers came, and beasts too foul to name. And what was once the most blessed of Lands became the Land most baned, due to a Sorcerer’s curse.
“They say that the spirits of the dead are forever trapped within, those who fought in the War. And that is what ye see when ye sight a glimmer in the dark, dark canopied vaults therein—ghost candles, corpse candles, will-o’-the-wisps they’re called; but by any name they are the spirits of the dead, lights that’ll draw ye to a watery doom if ye follow their lure.
“Yet that’s not all who inhabit the mire, for there, too, are the undead. Decaying corpses riddled with rot yet curiously ever preserved lie beneath the black muck and the stagnant pools, rising up at night to stalk through the sucking mud and bubbling ooze and choking vines, o’er the decay and slime, sometimes silent, sometimes calling out for the living, seeking victims, for these are the undead reaching out to clutch whoever they can, to suck the life out of the very blood and sinews and bones of the pitiful wretches they capture.
“And that, my wee Waerlinga, that is the tale of the horrors of the Khalian Mire. Beware the call of the rotting undead, beware the ghostly lights, beware the Sorcerer’s curse, but most of all”—Aravan leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper; the Warrows’ eyes were as wide as saucers—“most of all beware of those who tell such tales, for those are the ones who will GET YE!”
Aravan’s hands snaked out, clutching at Waerlinga, grabbing each by an arm. “Yaahh!” they shrieked simultaneously, startled beyond their wits; then all burst forth in laughter, Urus’s great rolling
booms roaring, Riatha’s silver voice trilling, Aravan belling, and Gwylly and Faeril both rolling upon the ground, mirth pealing.
The horses and mules looked about as if to say, What fools, and when Riatha noted it and, unable to speak, pointed instead, laughter rode upon laughter until throats grew hoarse and ribs ached.
* * *
Yet in the central grasp of the Khalian Mire, deep in the rotting ruins of an ancient castle, a yellow-eyed Man stood over a shattered crypt, muttering arcane words above an open sarcophagus, a sarcophagus occupied. In the guttering torch-light, Drik and Ghok shrank back in fear, trying to remain unseen, trying to slip from sight among the writhing shadows, for they knew not what next would come.
CHAPTER 25
Lógoi tôn Nekrôn
Spring, 5E988
[The Present]
Stoke stood above the ancient sarcophagus, his yellow eyes glaring down at the desiccated remains lying within. Rotted raiment clad the withered flesh. Skeletal hands clutching a scepter were folded across the corpse’s chest. Brown with untold age, dried skin stretched taut across a sunken-cheeked face, as a skull covered with dark, shrivelled leather parchment. Hollow sockets stared upward, ebon holes unseeing, and yellowed teeth shone past mummified lips grinning a rictus smile. To one side lay the shattered lid of the stone coffin, the knightly figure carven thereupon smashed into a thousand scattered pieces. Feeble, wavering torch-light cast writhing shadows throughout the chamber, dark pits showing entrances to the myriad passages riddling the catacombs. In the guttering torchlight, Drik and Ghok shrank back in fear, trying to remain unseen, trying to slip from sight within the fluttering gloom, for they knew not what next would come.
There remained but seven Chūn—Drik and Ghok—those and five Vulpen—Vulgs. All told, Stoke had started his trek through the snowstorm with twenty-seven Drik and Ghok and seven Vulpen. Of these, twenty Chūn and four Vulpen had slipped aside in the outbound canyon to ambush those who followed; the remaining seven Chūn and three Vulpen had gone with Stoke into the blizzard, leaving a track to lure the followers on. The trap, though, had been a disaster, for the ambushers could not see through the blinding nighttime snow, and fifteen of the Drik and Ghok and two of the Vulpen had been slain. Of the five Chūn who had survived that deadly encounter, one had died of a stab wound taken in the combat, and the other four had been slain by Stoke in his wrath at discovering that they had failed. The two surviving Vulpen, Stoke’s favorites, had been spared. And so, altogether there now were but seven Chūn and five Vulpen in Stoke’s entourage.
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