by Terry Brooks
Mostly, it appeared, Ulk Bogs were like gophers or moles, living in burrows and eking out a living through foraging and thievery. Tesla’s uncle, Weka Dart, who had befriended and aided Grianne Ohmsford when she had been trapped within the Forbidding decades earlier, had been the Straken Lord’s Catcher once, but it was unclear what his niece had been doing beyond waiting for Grianne to come back into the land of the Jarka Ruus.
Although why Tesla would do this or even expect it to happen was baffling.
Not that it mattered. Weka Dart’s history was incidental to what was occurring, and Oriantha was nothing if not pragmatic. She had remained behind in the Forbidding when she had been given the chance to escape because she could not abide leaving Redden Ohmsford behind when there might be a chance to help him. She had lost her mother and thereby her reason for coming on this expedition. Going back now offered no resolution to her rootless life. If anything, it felt like a betrayal. Her mother wouldn’t have gone back; she would have kept going. Just as she had with Khyber Elessedil—right up until the very end. Could Oriantha do any less and still live with herself?
Of course, there was more to it. She wanted to free Redden Ohmsford—even though they had only just met and she had no real attachment to him—because she was fond of him and did honestly want to help.
But what she wanted most was revenge on Tael Riverine.
For her mother.
For the other members of the ill-fated company.
For the inhabitants of the Forbidding.
This creature—this so-called Straken Lord—had ruled the Jarka Ruus, the denizens of his world, for decades and perhaps centuries and had done nothing to help them. Tael Riverine’s sole achievement was to gain domination, and his sole objective was to procreate so that his line could continue to rule. She found it repugnant in both demonkind and humankind. There was no suggestion of advancement or enlightenment or useful purpose. There was only the promise of raw power exercised by one ruler so that it could be bequeathed to others.
A good part of her outrage was derived from her connection with the creatures imprisoned here. She was more of an outsider in her own world than she was in this one, and her sense of kinship with the Jarka Ruus was strong. Like her, they were different, and their differences set them apart. But in this world she was just one of many, and all of them very much in the same situation. In her world, she belonged to a tiny group of mutant creatures who were mistrusted and disliked and set apart from the much larger populations of Men, Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, and Gnomes. There, she lived a life in the shadows, disguising the truth about herself.
It didn’t escape her that the creatures of the Forbidding lived the same sort of life here—the same sort of persecuted existence—that she lived in the outside world.
She might not be able to do anything about an entire world in which her fate was subject to the prejudices of the general population, but perhaps she could make a difference in a world in which a single individual’s removal could change everything.
She was toying with these thoughts as Tesla Dart reappeared from out of the increasing gloom, chattering away.
“Furies, dozens of them. Roaming the boulders and brush like vermin. Hate those Furies, I do. Mindless killers.” She gave a look over her shoulder as if to make sure the Furies weren’t following her. “Want to make sure. They could see us, come for us.”
“They won’t bother,” Oriantha told her. “They serve the Straken Lord for now.”
The Ulk Bog made a rude noise. “Serve themselves is what they do. All teeth and claws and no brains.” She gave a noticeable shiver. “Keep them far way, shape-shifter. You listen.”
Oriantha was listening, but she was not particularly worried. She could manage Furies if they found her. Shape-shifters were clever and resourceful. When you could become anything—even the air you breathed if it was dark and hazy enough—there wasn’t much that could harm you unless it got very close or caught you unawares.
Suddenly Tesla Dart squealed and leapt up excitedly. “Lada returns! Come, Lada! Come, Chzyk! Tell me all! Here to me, Lada!”
The lizard raced across the open ground and leapt into the Ulk Bog’s arms where the latter proceeded to pet and rub the little creature in fond welcome. Lada turned around and around, raising and lowering his scaly head and tail, and generally doing everything he could to make himself available for the other’s welcome attentions.
Then he began to chirp, and Tesla Dart chirped right back, the two engaging in a conversation that had all the elements of a comedic parody. But apparently each understood the other, for when they had finished Tesla put the Chzyk down again and turned to Oriantha.
“This is no good, shape-shifter girl,” she said solemnly, shaking her head for emphasis. “Tael Riverine has put boy in cage at camp’s center, next to tent where he sleeps. Boy is watched closely. Guards right by him. You go in, even at night, they catch you quick.”
“How many guards around the cage?” Oriantha asked. “Exactly.”
The Ulk Bog chattered at the Chzyk once more, and the little creature responded in kind. “Four, one on each side. Goblins. But demon-wolves loose in camp near cage, too.”
Oriantha nodded, considering. “No worse than what I thought.”
“You don’t do this,” the other pleaded. “Let this be. You wait. A better chance comes later. Do this now is foolish!”
“This whole business is foolish if you stop to look at it too closely.” Oriantha sat back and regarded the Ulk Bog solemnly. “Let’s wait until it gets dark and take another look at it then.”
In fact, she stayed where she was until after midnight, sleeping several hours in between, eating a little something and staring out across the wilderness to the fires of the Straken Lord. She watched the shadows in the firelight, tracking their movements, immersing herself in the flow of the camp. She breathed in the night air and centered herself for what lay ahead. She had already decided she was going after Redden, in spite of Tesla Dart’s warnings. Her chances were far better in a crowded open place than if she were forced to enter a confined space with only one way in and out.
She looked at the sky and waited for moonrise. When the orb appeared in an overcast sky, slipping out from behind clouds and mist, it was only a small crescent and the light it shed was pale and weak.
She stood up and looked down at Tesla Dart, who was staring up at her with wide eyes and a look of disbelief.
“I’ll need Lada to show me the way. Will you allow him to do that? Just to take me as far as the cage?”
Tesla nodded mutely, her face stricken.
“Wait for me until you see the army begin to move out again. If I am not back by then, go your own way. Leave all this behind and have no regrets. This is my choice. Any consequences that attach are mine to bear.”
“This is a mistake!”
“It is my mistake to make,” Oriantha said.
The Ulk Bog gave her a desperate look. “Wait, then. I have something.” She fumbled in her pocket and finally produced a small key. “Take this. If you find boy, you will need it. Tael Riverine fits him with conjure collar to keep him from using magic. Key will open lock and release collar.”
“How do you happen to have this key?” Oriantha asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Weka gave it to me. He kept it after he was dismissed as Catcher. If he was imprisoned, he knew he would be fitted with collar, too. He would not allow such. Use it to free boy.”
Oriantha took it and tucked it into her tunic. “You are a constant source of amazement, Ulk Bog.”
“You are a fool!” the other snapped. “Please, don’t go! You will end up like the others. You will not come back!”
Oriantha bent over and kissed the little creature on the cheek. Then she was gone into the night.
Redden Ohmsford lay huddled in his cage, rolled into a ball in an effort to escape the creatures that took every opportunity to shake the iron bars of his prison or reach inside to torment him. They
came in all shapes and sizes, all types and forms—things he had not only never seen but also never imagined. They screamed at him—howls and shrieks that caused his skin to prickle and his stomach to clench. He was made physically ill from the harassment, his insides roiling, bile rising to his throat, but there was little he could do about any of it. By staying in the center of the cage with his body tightly balled up, he could just avoid their grasping fingers and claws. By closing his eyes, he could almost pretend they weren’t there. But nothing really helped.
There were guards on each side to keep his tormentors at bay, but they showed little interest in doing so. The Straken Lord had come by to look at him only once since the day ended. He had not spoken a word. He had watched his minions torment the boy, then moved on.
Now, with darkness fully descended and the world around him gone fiery with torchlight, the smoke from the burning brands acrid and thick in the air, and the sounds of the camp an undiminished cacophony, Redden Ohmsford, already beyond despair, was just waiting to die. He no longer had any hope of escape or rescue or intervention on even the most basic level. His death was assured, and he had reached the point where he would welcome it.
Somehow he kept from crying out, even though the urge was so strong it threatened to break free in spite of his efforts to hold it in. But it was the one aspect of his life he could still control, and he was afraid if he gave in to it, he would be lost entirely. So he went deep into his mind and dredged up tiny scraps of memories that he had all but forgotten and tried to re-create them fully. If he worked at it hard enough, it took him away from his immediate surroundings and placed him in a softer world of better days.
It didn’t save him entirely, but it allowed him to stay reasonably sane. It gave him respite from his misery. It allowed him small moments of time in which to regroup.
But it wasn’t enough and he knew it.
The smells and sounds of the camp invaded his cage. The stink of the Straken Lord’s creatures and their animals—especially the monstrous wolves with their rangy muscular bodies, bristling hides, and glowing eyes that prowled the perimeters of his cage—as well as the stench of the raw, bloodied foods that fed the army permeated the air. Chains rattled and traces creaked; wagon wheels rumbled through the camp—great iron-rimmed wooden disks that could crush anything unfortunate enough to fall in front of them. Breath steamed in the cooling air. Raucous laughter, screams, and shouts rose and fell with the power of an ocean crashing over rocky shores.
Redden’s thoughts were of Railing and home, but they were disjointed and confused, and one memory bled into another. He could feel them re-forming—an amalgam of separate and distinctively different shards forming a larger, more cohesive creature that was false in most respects. But even realizing what was happening, he refused to let go. If he could not manage to separate out the bits and pieces that were real, he would settle for the imagined whole that wasn’t. Building on it in the darkness of his mind, with the horror all around him closing in, he could feel himself disappearing a little at a time, becoming steadily more removed from the reality of his life. In his musings, in his re-created memories, he found relief and sanctuary of a sort that demanded only that he let go of the real and embrace the imagined.
He found it to be a small trade-off.
Yet he was strangely detached from the process. He could feel his mind going, could sense the erosion of his sanity, but was too weary and too beaten down to stop it from happening.
Just let this end, he begged into the dark.
Just let it be over.
Oriantha left the shelter of the rocks running in a low crouch, not wanting to be caught silhouetted against the horizon even though the sky provided little more than a dim skein of starlight from scattered breaks in a heavy blanket of clouds and mist. She moved swiftly, keeping on a direct course as she went. She was not yet close enough to the Straken Lord’s camp to be worried that she might stumble on any of its members, but Tesla Dart had warned of prowling Furies and she sniffed the air as she went, trusting her shape-shifter instincts to warn her of the vicious little beasts.
Because if they found her, she was finished.
But she did not believe this would happen. Her confidence was high and her determination strong. She would find Redden Ohmsford and she would bring him out of his prison to safety before the night was over. For she had her own Furies buried deep inside, and they were every bit as dangerous as the real thing.
She was still some distance from the perimeter of the camp when something small and dark flashed by her boot. A second later Lada was in front of her, standing on his hind legs, chirping softly. He watched her for a moment, then dropped down on all fours and scurried away. Quickly he was back again, peering up at her.
She understood. He wanted her to follow.
She smiled. In spite of all her predictions of doom and gloom, Tesla Dart had sent Lada to lead Oriantha into the camp and to the cage of Redden Ohmsford.
She changed then, discarding her human form, turning into a phantasm composed of shadows and smoke. She was transparent and amorphous as she moved down through the darkness toward the camp, a shapeless gathering of detritus from fire and dust. Lada scurried on ahead of her, zipping first one way, then another, always careful to make certain no one was looking and to choose a path cloaked in shadow.
It was a long journey to their destination, and more than once Oriantha thought she had been discovered by one of the enemy. A head that was lifted and swiveled, searching. A voice that paused in mid-sentence and went still as eyes shifted warily. A near collision that was avoided only by her quickness. A shriek or a snarl that signaled a suspicion all was not right.
On each occasion, she was in danger of discovery. Her shape-shifting abilities had their limitations. So long as she remained untouched by a living creature, she could remain hidden from view. But if she were bumped or grabbed or just brushed against even for an instant, her disguise would fail and she would be revealed. If that happened, she would have no chance. She was stronger and quicker than most, but she was surrounded by enemies who would overwhelm her by sheer numbers long before she could get clear of them.
She pressed ahead nevertheless, wafting through the Jarka Ruus as if she were just a part of the campfire smoke. She followed Lada, but tried to choose paths that were less crowded and more easily navigated. She had gone into a mind-set where she was exactly the thing she was pretending to be, all the way down to lacking real substance or cohesion. It was extremely taxing, requiring intense concentration. She had carried off this particular effort before, but not when the risk of discovery was so great or when the time required for maintaining the disguise was so protracted.
The minutes dragged. Lada kept going, darting here and there, a quick bit of movement beneath boots and clawed feet and iron-rimmed wheels. Oriantha expected the Chzyk to be crushed at any moment, but he always managed to avoid the worst. At one point, he darted so far ahead that Oriantha lost sight of him completely, and was then cut off by a clutch of Goblins that crossed her path while hauling weapons and supplies. She was forced to wait until she could get clear of the crowd before trying to continue, advancing blindly through the masses, trying to maintain the same direction, searching for something that would tell her where to go.
But then Lada reappeared, coming back for her in a series of short rushes that took him through scores of creatures, stopping long enough to let her see him before turning back again and darting off.
The hunt continued for almost an hour. The Straken Lord’s camp was huge and his army massive. Stopping and starting again was frequently necessary. Detours and changes of direction were mandated by a continual shifting of the positions of the creatures all about them. But they pressed on, Oriantha managing her disguise and keeping her eye on Lada until time lost meaning and her thoughts were of nothing but continuing her advance.
When it finally reached a point where it seemed her ordeal would never end, Oriantha stumbled into a cluste
r of tents that included one so large she was certain she had found Tael Riverine’s quarters. Seconds later she rounded a tent wall—and there was the cage, with the crumpled form of Redden Ohmsford inside it.
She stopped where she was, pressed close against the canvas as she watched Lada rush toward the cage then veer off sharply as one of the prowling wolves wandered too close. Oriantha could see the danger of trying to do more. Even if the Chzyk managed to leap into the cage to allow the boy to see him, he would be completely visible to anyone looking in. A quick snatch of a hand or snap of jaws and it would be over. Oriantha held her breath as the Chzyk tried to approach the cage a second time. This time one of the wolves turned its head toward the little creature and sniffed the air, growling deep in its broad chest.
Lada had endured enough. He darted back to where Oriantha hovered in her smoke-and-dust form and looked about for her. Then, having done what he had been sent to do and having no way to reach the cage that held the boy, he scurried back the way he had come and was gone.
Oriantha held her position by the tent wall, studying the movements of the wolves and the Goblin guards. The guards remained stationary when they weren’t chasing away the curious and the troublesome, but the wolves roamed aimlessly through the entire area surrounding the cage and what she was assuming to be the Straken Lord’s tent. She could find no pattern to their movements, and it was impossible to know from one moment to the next what they were going to do. If she attempted to reach the cage, she would have to react to their wanderings and sudden changes of direction spontaneously.
It was an incredibly dangerous situation. One mistake and the game would be up. One small bump against one of those wolves and she would be revealed.
But she had known the risks before she set out and had come too far to turn back now. And looking at the slumped figure of Redden Ohmsford, she thought she was probably too late in any case. She hadn’t seen him move since she had found him. She hadn’t seen any sign of life at all.
