by Sandra Kopp
Angelika sat down beside her. “How long ago was this?”
“Barely a fortnight.”
“Arris and Davon were well?”
“Yes. They accompanied Charles and Hans to San Leyon to search for a Baugonril whose cry we heard during our flight.”
Angelika closed her eyes. “They will not stop in San-Leyon. I know my brothers. They will enter Barren-Fel and Arris will confront Ryadok himself.”
PART III
IN THE REALM
OF DARKNESS
THE SEARCH FOR BAUGONRIL
Arris shivered. Enveloped by inky darkness, he crept along the icy corridor. Something like frosty fingers brushed his cheek. He threw up a defensive hand, but finding only stagnant air, relaxed and again inched forward.
Slippery uneven stones offered treacherous footing, but like a moth drawn to a flame Arris pushed on, his eyes now riveted to a bluish glow just ahead. He wondered at its hypnotic attraction.
The corridor slowly curved left. A gentle whisper, full of anguish yet soft as a feather on a summer breeze, floated to his ears. “My son. Why did my son have to die?”
Arris’ heart leapt. Mother!
His father’s voice responded coldly, “This is not your son.”
Arris swallowed and quickened his pace. The voices dropped to ghostly whispers.
Luminous blue haze filled the corridor with enough light for Arris to distinguish the stones upon which he walked. The corridor angled sharply to the right. White light spilled from a narrow doorway on the left.
Arris gripped the hilt of his sword and tiptoed to the open door, flattening himself against the wall to one side of it as he noiselessly pulled the sword from its scabbard.
The whispering ceased. Arris inched closer to the door and slowly turned to peer inside. The room looked like a round hollow carved out of the gray stone. Flickering blue mist resembling tongues of liquid fire played upon the bare walls. Three figures, robed and hooded, stood with their backs to the door before a stone bier in the center. A towering black shadow oscillated sensuously on the wall in front of them.
Arris tightened his lips. Speak! he wanted to shout, but the three remained silent.
Abruptly they turned. Heavy hoods obscured their faces as, with measured steps, they approached the door. Arris pivoted back and flattened himself against the wall again.
The first figure emerged. Sword ready, Arris leapt in front of it, but the figure exploded into a brilliant cloud of shimmering dust. So likewise did the other two, leaving Arris alone, his sword hanging impotently at his side.
Ohalama! I wanted to see them! He stared through the settling dust at the prostrate form on the bier. Well—since they denied me that courtesy I shall instead pay homage to this unfortunate comrade.
Arris entered the room, glancing cautiously about as he approached the bier. Seeing no sign of the fourth presence—the towering shadow—he turned his attention to the dead man. He saw his own face, ashen and drawn, frozen forever by death’s paralyzing grip. Gasping, Arris put a hand to his heart. Is this a portent? Or a dream?
A maiden materialized beside the bier, directly across from him.
“Merewyn!” How beautiful she looked! The light played upon her golden hair and softly illumined her creamy complexion. Sadness and curiosity filled her face as she gazed down at the corpse, seemingly unaware of Arris’ presence. “Merewyn, that is not me! I’m here! Look at me, Merewyn!”
Ignoring him, Merewyn reached down as if to stroke the lifeless cheek, but stopped short of touching it. The hand closed and slowly withdrew.
“Merewyn!” Impulsively Arris reached for her, but she turned away, her head cocked as if listening.
A man emerged from the darkness and she ran to him. Arris watched helplessly as they embraced and then vanished.
Arris sank to his knees. He wished only to flee this place, but his legs refused to respond.
Something hovered directly overhead. Filled with dread, he jerked his head back to look above him. Two monstrous fangs, dripping venom, glinted in the pale light. . .
The companions spoke little as they rode. Arris, silent and aloof, contemplated his extraordinary dream of the night before. While the hooded figures remained unknown to him, he judged from the voices that two of them must have been his parents. Did this portend his death? And why had Merewyn come? Not to grieve for him, he thought bitterly, for she had another.
But for this purpose he had postponed a high calling, alienated his family and left his homeland. He must not fail. Yet already he felt defeated. Baldimora’s warning concerning his under-developed skills still nagged him. When they left Garris, Charles had insisted on beginning the search for Baugonril in Valhalea rather than trust Arris’ instinct that the beast lurked either in San-Leyon or Barren-Fel. Even worse, Arris had left Nimbia under his father’s curse rather than his blessing, a fate deemed worse than death by the Nimbians, for no father disowned his son save for the most heinous crime.
For several days they searched the eastern Valhalean forests. The soft earth yielded only scattered impressions of deer, elk, bear and cougar. Arris’ Arganian senses detected nothing extraordinary. Two weeks later came a faint but distinct howl from the east, and a crestfallen Charles offered his humble apologies to Arris.
Arris smiled knowingly but answered kindly. “Nothing you did requires my forgiveness, Charles. At least we know the monster has not entered these lands. I fear, however, his soon arrival. We must hasten to San-Leyon if we hope to stop it.”
“I wish we had found the thing in Valhalea,” Hans grumbled. “These woods are treacherous enough, but the woods of San-Leyon harbor more treachery than Baugonril itself!”
“I doubt that, but share your feeling,” Arris returned dryly. “Ryadok, however, did not choose his lair with our comfort in mind.”
“Aye, and he chose well.” Hans cast doleful eyes toward the Mystic Mountains, darkened, as usual, by shadow and fog. “Let’s go then. The sooner we find this thing, the sooner we can kill it and go home.”
The week-long journey passed uneventfully for the most part, marred only by the gloomy murk of springtime in San-Leyon. Frequent rains muddied their path and dampened their spirits. Even when the rains relented, heavy mists enshrouded the forest. The moisture-laden branches dripped continually.
Arris spoke little, and only when spoken to, withdrawing, it seemed, ever deeper into his own thoughts.
“What’s eating the lad?” Hans asked Charles one evening after Arris abruptly moved his horse and gear some distance away.
Charles stared at Arris as he rummaged through his pack. “He’s honing his senses, I guess.” He glanced then at Davon, who looked as perplexed as Charles felt. Davon pursed his lips and shook his head.
Charles dug deeper and pulled out a piece of jerky. “Even his brother doesn’t understand him.” He scowled at the brooding Nimbian. “I can understand him needing space sometimes, but why not leave his gear with ours?”
“He seems to be listening, watching,” Hans noted.
Charles closed the pack and slapped the dirt off his pant leg. “That’s it, then. He searches for Ryadok’s beast using Arganian tactics and we distract him.” He sighed. “We entered these sodden wilds four days ago. I hope he finds something soon.”
Branches stirred behind them. Arris had slipped back, unnoticed, and now stood over them. “I surmise we’re directly between the borders of Valhalea and Barren-Fel. While its spawning grounds lie distant, Baugonril may now roam this area. I’ve no idea how the beast will manifest itself, so listen to your senses and note anything unfamiliar. And whatever you do—” Arris smiled grimly—“try not to bleed. Rumor has it Baugonril goes mad at the smell of blood and will fly like an arrow to its source.”
Arris walked away, making no response to the whispered speculations between Hans and Charles and answering only in monosyllables when questioned directly. Even during supper he refused to speak and afterward walked away from the camp alone. H
ans settled against a tree and watched him go, thoughtfully puffing his pipe.
“I can bear this no longer. Something is not right.” Charles rose and set off after Arris. “I offended him by insisting we return to Valhalea, and despite his words, he has not forgiven me.”
“Let him be.” Hans pulled the pipe from his mouth. “The lad’s mulling something. We both know he doesn’t hold a silent grudge but freely speaks his mind.”
“He’s not angry with you.” Davon caught Charles’ arm. “I know my brother. If he had a quarrel, he would tell you. I feel, however, that he senses something too fearful to speak of. I’ll talk to him now. Perhaps he’ll reveal what troubles him.”
Charles nodded and settled down beside Hans. Davon turned and hurried into the forest after his brother. He found Arris seated on an old fallen tree some hundred feet from the camp, one foot planted against the trunk and both hands clasped around his knee as he stared morosely at the ground. Overhead, the clouds parted enough for the moon to peek through, and filmy slivers of soft silver light sifted through the foliage and drifted like delicate cobwebs onto Arris’ silent form.
Davon stopped a few feet away. He had never feared to approach his brother before. Even now he feared not Arris, but the Thing now binding Arris with icy bands of silence and isolation.
Arris raised his head but did not turn. Davon felt Arris sensed his presence but wished not to acknowledge it. Impulse told him to turn back—exactly what the Thing wanted him to do. Davon squared his shoulders. The Marchants had always faced trouble together. He would not abandon his brother now.
Davon stepped up to the log and sat down. “The clouds keep their distance tonight,” he remarked as he glanced at the sky.
“They will lower themselves soon enough,” Arris returned. “You’ll be slogging through them again within the hour.”
“True.” Davon rubbed his chin and sighed. “I suppose I’m trying to will them away so that finally a little sun can shine through.”
Arris smiled wryly. “A vain hope. These skies never clear until well into summer. You forget where we are—the deep wooded wilderness of Epthelion.” By the sentence’s end his tone carried a sarcastic bite.
Davon chewed his lip. Arris shot him a sideways glance. “You didn’t come to discuss the weather.”
“No. I’ve another matter in mind.”
Arris looked ahead again. “So. . .out with it.”
“You’ve been. . .preoccupied of late.”
“And you wish to know the cause.”
“I have wondered,” Davon said slowly. Arris made no response, and after an awkward silence Davon ventured, “Did Charles’ insistence that we go first to Valhalea offend you?”
“No.” Arris wearily shook his head. “I have closed and forgotten the matter.”
“Perhaps you sense a greater evil than we originally anticipated.”
A short, explosive sigh betrayed Arris’ mounting aggravation. “I doubt any evil can exist greater than what I have already prepared for.”
Davon again started to speak, but Arris threw up a hand. “Do not ask for explanations. I have none to offer. I will not deny that something weighs upon me, but I must first consider my course of action. In the meantime, you may give Charles Bordner and Hans Ogilvie full assurance they have no hand in my present. . .preoccupation.”
For a full minute Davon regarded him silently. He had not been granted the Arganian gift of empathy, yet it became increasingly apparent to him that grief, and not anger, had seized his brother. The very heavens seemed to mourn with him now, for the moon withdrew behind a veil of clouds. Something wet hit Davon’s cheek as the boughs above him wept. A ghostly haze crept along the forest floor. The mournful hoot of a distant owl broke the steady chirrup-chirrup-chirrup of singing crickets.
“Some sadness grips you,” Davon said softly, “and where you are I cannot follow. I would not drive you further away, but will leave you to work it through. Please know, however, that if you need another voice, another sword or another’s strength to draw on, mine are at your service.” He laid a sympathetic hand on Arris’ shoulder. “Come back when you’re ready, but do not tarry long. The mists are moving in, as you said they would.”
Arris nodded shortly. Davon dropped his hand and rose.
Before he had taken five steps, Arris spoke. “Have you ever felt your very heart had been torn from within you,” he said quietly, “that all you once loved and cherished had been replaced by something even more lovely; and you embraced that new vision with greater zeal and with a joy beyond what you had ever hoped or dreamed…only to have it taken from you, snatched away by cruel fate. . .or by one you thought your friend. . .and then find yourself with nothing—not even with what you had at the first, before that which was better came.”
His voice broke, evaporating into a fragile whisper so fraught with grief that Davon stopped, stunned. His thoughts returned to Aerie just over a year before. He shuddered at the memory: Arris’ unprecedented decision, the shocked and shaken family, a father so angry he disowned his first-born son. Yet King Euratio had not condemned Arris, but instead commissioned him and wished him Godspeed.
“That’s not it.” Davon resumed walking but saw another vision: Arris kissing the hand of a beautiful maiden with thick golden hair. Arris raised his head to speak to her, and Davon recognized undisguised adoration in his brother’s eyes.
Davon froze. “Merewyn!” He closed his eyes. The gravity of this revelation sent electric chills along his spine. During those few short days, Arris had fallen in love with Merewyn—and Charles Bordner, trusted friend and ally, had sent her to Teptiel, where certainly one of the bachelor farmers had snatched her up. Arris was angry, his judgment clouded, his senses—and perhaps his gifts—compromised. The man upon who rested the greatest hope of this mission’s success might well become his companions’ worst enemy. Why had Arris said nothing?
A twig snapped behind him. Startled, Davon turned. Arris emerged through the haze. “We’d better join the others before we lose our way in this fog,” he said as he passed.
BAUGONRIL!
Few roads traversed San-Leyon’s deep forests, with most of them narrow twisting trails that disappeared into dense undergrowth and then reappeared, sometimes within yards, but more often after distances of a mile or more. The hostile unforgiving land did not welcome visitors. No friendly villagers greeted the lost and helped them find their way; no hospitable inns offered warm beds and cold ale to weary travelers. Only ancient trees, gnarled and heavy with moss, swayed and groaned in the tumultuous winds tumbling down the Mystic Mountains and churning through the valleys on their way north to Barren-Fel. Soggy clouds, impaling themselves on those jagged peaks, foundered like wounded birds onto the forest floor, much of which never saw the sun.
Ever deeper into this desolation Arris led his companions.
“You sure you know where you’re going, lad?” Hans yanked a dead stalk out of his beard and cast it to the ground.
“Due east, but we’ll angle north in a mile or so,” Arris returned. “That should take us straight past Dewey’s Hollow and Gonor Canyon.”
“Ah, yes,” Hans breathed. “The grave of the Lost River—and many a poor soul besides.”
Gonor Canyon—the three-mile-long gash named in honor of Leonid Gonor, the one man who had fallen into it and lived to escape and tell the tale—originated some three miles north of Barren-Fel’s southern border and extended due south into San-Leyon. Precisely on the border, the Lost River tumbled into the canyon and continued underground—to where, no one knew. The canyon’s depth varied from twenty-five to nearly three hundred feet deep. Between its birthplace in Barren-Fel to a mile inside San-Leyon it measured a half mile across and narrowed to a breadth of fifteen feet within the next mile. Its vertical walls and rushing river made escape virtually impossible.
Hans raised an eyebrow. “You think Ryadok hatches his beasts in the canyon?”
“Not likely. Baugonril would h
ave to fly in order to get out of that hole, and I don’t think he can.” Arris thoughtfully stroked his chin. “I rather believe it spawns somewhere east of the canyon.”
He stopped suddenly and pointed at the ground ahead of them. “Incredible!” He swung off his horse and knelt to inspect a large impression in the mud, then glanced up and waved his companions over. “All of you. . .come and look at this.”
The company dismounted and gathered around, staring in disbelief at a gigantic paw print far exceeding the length and breadth of a large man’s head. Four eight-inch claw marks protruded from one end.
Charles’ breath whistled through his teeth. “This creature must be the size of a horse!”
“At least.” Arris’ brow furrowed. “What would you say this spoor most resembles: bear or wolf?”
Hans knelt and carefully traced a finger around the rear of the print. “I’d say it looks more like bear.”
“I agree.” Charles glanced around. “Where is this brute, I wonder.”
“And what’s that stench?” Davon asked.
Arris sniffed. “Brimstone and dung; the smell of hell itself. The creature passed not long ago.” He rose. “It travels our same path. Let’s go.”
They mounted and rode on, but in less than a mile the spoor vanished.
“I can’t tell where it went,” Arris said after a fruitless search. “Let’s continue to the canyon. Unless my instincts betray me, we’ll pick up the trail along the way.”
For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon they rode, not even stopping to eat. Pockets of sun-kissed glade broke through the grudging gloom, and despite their errand the men’s spirits lifted. By late afternoon, however, they still had not recovered the spoor.
They had just rounded a corner when the horses spooked. Parsius reared. “Whoa.” Hans held the gelding down.
