by Sandra Kopp
Arris turned abruptly. “How did you know?” They had left their companions far behind, for which he was grateful, for he wished no one to overhear their impending exchange.
Nedra’s tongue darted nervously across her lips. “I don’t know. I’ve experienced this for some time now.” A trembling smile crossed her face. She glanced down at her tapered fingers curved over the front of the saddle. “I consider it a precious gift but. . .some of our people think me a witch, I fear.” Her eyes darted to his. Again she moistened her lips. “I sense that, when first we met, you considered me bold. I assure you, I am not. I find in you a kindred spirit, someone, at last, who understands.”
“I see.” Arris wondered if her submissive femininity was genuine or simply a guise to appeal to his Nimbian propriety.
“You have such extraordinary eyes. I knew when I saw them you are no ordina—”
“They signify no special power or gift. Several in my family, and in other families of Aerie, possess such traits.”
“There you are.” To Arris’ relief Charles, leading the rest of the party, emerged through the trees. “We thought you were trying to lose us.”
“I didn’t realize the speed of my walk.” Nedra’s confession still confused him. “Does anyone need to rest?”
Hans waved a hand. “I can go on.”
“Yes, let’s continue,” came from Arronmyl. “We’ll camp no later than nightfall. In the morning, I and my party shall visit the Rauths while you four head to Kapras Rock.”
“Agreed,” Charles said. “Lead on, Arris.”
Arris nodded shortly and started walking. The old evergreens huddled closer, swallowing what little sunlight might have broken through and lending the sensation of a tunnel to the narrow trail. Boots and hooves alternately crunched on gravel or pounded bare hard-packed earth. Moss covered ancient trees and rocks. Gnarled roots snaked across the rutted path. After a half mile the ground began a gradual slope and the party heard the sound of rushing water.
“We’re nearing the Lost River,” Nedra said.
Abruptly the trail steepened, transforming itself into a tangled web of roots, rocks and gravel. “Watch out,” Arris cautioned. “Choose your steps carefully.”
Sliding and side-stepping, they made their way to the bottom where, after jumping an enormous rotted log, they broke through the trees and gathered on the gravelly river bank.
“Whoa.” Arris blinked at the roiling whitecaps swirling and foaming with rabid ferocity at the massive rocks in their way. “This makes the Ashgard look tame.”
Arronmyl nodded. “But we’ve not far now—and this bank makes a good road.” He turned and smiled at his weary party. “Onward!”
IN THE REALM OF DARKNESS
At twilight they reached the bend in the Lost River marking its final stretch to the rapids and resulting plunge into Gonor Canyon. Point of the Last Chance, the woodsmen called it, for south of this bend the waters gathered such speed that no boat could land or safely navigate the treacherous rocks downstream.
Arronmyl signaled the party to stop. “We’ll camp here. The village isn’t far now, but it won’t do to come upon the Rauths at night. They’re a wary lot, and I don’t care to arouse suspicion.”
He turned to Charles and his companions and continued, “My people will camp on the shore, but you four had better conceal yourselves in case any Rauths pass by. In the morning you can go on while we get the horses.”
Charles agreed and led his companions to a spot inside the trees. “I want to be able to see their camp,” he said. “I hate surprises, and this land teems with them.”
As they tied their horses, Hans declared, “I can’t fish from here. And I’ll not be kept from the river, for a fat trout bids me to supper.”
“Your stomach will be the death of you, man,” Arris muttered.
“Don’t be daft. I’ll not be taken by any Rauth,” Hans shot back. “I’m neither rash nor stupid. I recognize enemy territory as well as you. We need strength to fight the witch king, and to muster strength we need fresh food.”
Charles agreed. “It’s still light enough to see anyone coming and dark enough that from afar they’d take us for woodsmen. And with so many people milling about, we can blend unnoticed into the trees.” He smiled and clapped Hans on the shoulder. “Get your trout, and bring us some, too.”
Hans swiftly unsaddled Parsius and made for the river, where several woodsmen already fished. Nedra joined him, much to his delight, and soon the air rang with their laughter and playful banter.
“One of us has found a little joy, at least.” Charles grinned at Arris, who remained stone-faced and silent. With a stab of regret Charles remembered that Arris had once lost his heart to a beautiful Nimbian maiden who had not returned his love. Perhaps the memory still galled him. Charles dropped the matter and busied himself making camp.
An ample catch of thirty trout rewarded the fishermen’s efforts. Elvia, Tabitha and Raina found fresh mushrooms, and soon the company sat down around a friendly campfire enjoying a hearty supper. Arris, however, warily watched the river.
Charles stopped chewing as he regarded his friend with concern. “What do you see?”
“I can’t say, but I think we four should return to the trees.”
“In this land I’ll trust your instincts.” Charles motioned to Davon and Hans, and the quartet gathered up their food. Staying low, they slipped into the forest and found a sheltered spot amid some rocks and logs not far from the riverbank. Hans kindled a small fire and they gathered close, talking quietly among themselves as they finished their repast.
Hans leaned against a log and patted his stomach. “A fine feast!” He sighed morosely. “And tomorrow we leave the river.”
“We’ll find other rivers and streams with fish.” Charles stared into the fire. “I wonder what awaits us here.”
“I think I’ve a good idea, given what we’ve seen so far,” Hans returned.
Arris, too, stared into the flame. “And that was but a small part of the arsenal.”
Davon peered through the trees, frowning. “Someone’s coming.”
Charles peeked around a bush. “Arronmyl.” He straightened as the lanky woodsman joined them.
“Might I sit with you lads a moment?” Arronmyl asked.
“Certainly.” Charles and Hans made room. Arronmyl groaned as he lowered himself to the ground between them. “These old bones aren’t as forgiving as they once were.” He pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch from the leather satchel strapped around his waist, then carefully poured some of the fragrant weed into the bowl and tamped it down with a gnarled forefinger. Leaning forward, he lit the pipe from their little fire. Eyes half closed, he pulled in a deep breath and held it a moment before slowly exhaling. He glanced at Arris then and frowned. “Our Arganian friend looks troubled,” he observed. “Indeed, he has seemed so from the beginning.” Arronmyl shifted his weight. “What do you know, friend, that the rest of us do not?”
Arris drew a nervous breath. “I would caution you, sir—and all of the company, for that matter—from henceforth voicing any reference to our errand.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Say nothing of Ryadok—do not mention his name or the name of his beast.”
“Ah. You think he hears us.”
“I fear the very wind carries our words straight to his bedchamber.”
Arronmyl thoughtfully sucked in another puff. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he cradled its bowl in his cupped hand and shot Arris a sideways glance. “We will do what we must then.” He stared into the fire a moment, put the pipe to his lips again, closed his eyes, and drew a long breath. Bright orange threads racing through the pungent leaves illuminated his weathered face. A plume of smoke billowed from his pursed lips. “The sons of Arronmyl speak the language of the forest,” he said quietly. “The Dark Lord will hear only birdsong and tree frogs as we lay our plans.”
Arris’ tense shoulders relaxed.
“Now,” Arronmyl continued in his n
ormal voice, “hopefully we’ll find good hunting here. I’ve not eaten venison in weeks. I tire of fish.” He emptied his pipe into the fire and stretched. “Lads, I bid you good night.” Rising stiffly, he made his way to his band, where he sat down in their midst and motioned them closer, evidently passing on to them Arris’ warning.
Hans yawned. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but my bed, such as it is, awaits. And my dreams tonight shall be especially sweet.” He gazed for a moment into the fire, his ruddy face glowing with quiet exuberance.
“I’m happy for you.” The softness radiating from Arris’ features in the flickering light showed he meant it sincerely.
“Thank you.” Hans rose and kicked dirt over the fire. Charles helped stamp out the last embers, and the four trooped to their camp.
The night passed peacefully, too peacefully, Arris thought. He heard neither cricket nor frog song—only the whispery rush of the Lost River, tantalizing, seductive. It spoke to him, trying, it seemed, to lure him to it. Arris. . .
Was that Merewyn’s voice?
Why did my son have to die?
Had his past nocturnal images comprised a dream or a vision? Arris rubbed his forehead. Dreams hardly concerned him—but Baldimora, his mentor in the Arganian arts, had warned that visions portended things to come.
Arris. . .tell me plainly what you said to me the night we parted. I longed to hear more but could not understand your words. What did you say to me?
Arris sat up, his pulse racing. In the face of Ryadok’s malevolent shadow he must guard his thoughts. He rested his forehead on one hand, absently tapping the side of his leg with the fingertips of the other.
Will you not speak to your love? The voice, still whispery, had deepened and sounded like rushing water. She calls for you, yearns for you, lusts to wrap herself around your manly frame! She will die unless you speak! Call to her, Arris! Quickly!
Arris caught his breath. Employing Merewyn’s voice, Ryadok sought to goad Arris into sending some signal he could use to entrap them. He clenched his fists. He must not answer, for some remote, otherworldly Presence listened, waited. Arris sensed this Presence as a subconscious thought, a familiar but indeterminable someone from his distant past whose delicate voice now whispered enigmatic mysteries Arris could not interpret.
Arris had become a target of Ryadok’s cosmic probing. Worse, he harbored intense desire. Merewyn—young, yet wise for her years, beaten down, yet not defeated. Independent, yet willing to hearken to reason. Strong, beautiful, prepared to stand for her beliefs. A woman to aid him in his calling, to comfort, protect, and cherish. She never left his thoughts, and Ryadok would use her to distract him.
Arris lay down again. He could only assume that fortune had smiled upon Merewyn and granted her safety—and love—in the arms of another. At least, she appeared so in his dream.
Arris raised his head and rearranged the jacket over the satchel that served as a pillow. He would never admit defeat. He would persevere and accomplish what he set out to do—and when he triumphed he would return home with honor and enter into the highest Arganian Order, there to remain until he died. The thought bolstered his strength, and he lay down again and fell asleep.
Something—he knew not what—jarred him awake. A fleeting shadow passed before the door of their shelter, and he sat up, wondering if he should rouse the others or investigate the matter alone. He decided on the latter course and quietly arose, taking care to make no sound as he crept outside.
The waxing moon hovered languidly just out of the reach of an upstretched branch. Arris heard a soft rustling behind some bushes a few feet ahead. He crept forward, fingers curved over the handle of his dagger.
He had progressed some fifty feet from the shelter when the rustling stopped. Arris stood still, peering toward the bushes. A dark form appeared between two trees in front of him. Before Arris could move, it rushed at him. Nedra’s hands clasped his shoulders, her face inches from his and he froze, too stunned to recoil.
“Forgive me, Arris,” she whispered. “My father told us what you said. I’m frightened. What should I say or even think?”
“Think what you wish, but say nothing,” Arris whispered back.
“What if he knows our thoughts?”
“I doubt his power extends that far, though he could possibly determine one’s thoughts through words and actions.”
Her warm breath tickled his cheek. Curling gentle fingers around her wrists, Arris carefully removed her hands from his shoulders and pushed them back to her sides. He heard her small shaky gasp, felt her tremble under his touch and quickly released her. “Because of the danger of this undertaking, I wished you and your maidens to return home.”
“You esteem us too lightly, Arris Marchant.” She breathed softly and leaned forward, almost resting her head on his broad chest. “I’ve something else to tell you.” She fell silent.
Arris’ insides churned while he waited. “What?” he blurted finally.
She sighed deeply and looked into his face. “More help will come.”
“Who?”
“You consider them only myth and legend, but they exist. And they will come.” Again she fell silent, her eyes never leaving his as she slowly leaned toward him. Arris retreated a step.
“Don’t you feel it?” she pressed. “Don’t you feel anything?”
“I will reveal what I deem needful. Right now I have nothing to share.”
“Surely you detect Rya—”
“Do not speak his name. I have nothing to share. We came here to hunt game. Now return to your father, and for pity’s sake don’t creep about the camp in the dead of night. Someone might mistake you for an enemy and kill you before they recognize you.”
He turned away, and as he left, she heard him mutter, “I pity you, Hans.”
For a moment she stared after him, eyes flashing defiantly. Her right hand, its fingers arranged in Epthelion’s universal sign of contempt, jerked upward. Tossing her head, she turned on her heel and marched back to her own camp. Noiselessly she entered the shelter and settled herself across from the motionless figure along the opposite side.
As she wrapped her blanket around her, a gruff voice asked, “What did the Nimbian tell you?”
“Nothing, Father,” she answered sweetly. “But never fear. I shall yet draw his secrets from him—every one of them!”
THE CONFRONTATION
“Ah, such a sleep I had!” Hans tightened the cinch around Parsius’ middle. “So refreshed I could take on a thousand—” he quickly caught himself—“elk or deer! Or fish! What a feast we had last night!”
Arris scowled as he threw the saddle onto Barada’s back. The startled stallion snorted loudly. “Save your jubilation, friend,” Arris muttered. “Nedra feels nothing for you!” He pulled the cinch tight. Barada raised his head and flattened his ears.
“You might spare your horse, at least,” Davon remarked dryly. “He has faithfully borne your disagreeable self many miles, but your deplorable treatment may compel him to stomp you instead.”
Arris calmed himself and stroked the stallion’s neck. “Forgive me, Barada,” he whispered. Remorse clouded his face, but he scowled anew as Davon and Charles exchanged grim glances and Hans, oblivious to their growing contention, cheerily rattled on.
Arris finished his preparations and mounted. “I must see something,” he said. “I’ll return shortly.” He reined the stallion to the south and urged him into a brisk trot.
A quarter mile downriver, he stopped and dismounted. “Stop it, man! Have you no control over your own faculties? Your mind, your body, belong to you alone! She, a maid, cannot take them from you, an Arganian! She laughs at you now because she turns on her feminine wiles and you melt like snow in the August sun!”
Or perhaps she’s a witch, a pawn of Ryadok bent on clouding my powers and sucking the life from me. I fear already he senses my presence, perhaps knows my thoughts, in which case I pose grave danger to my friends. . .and my brother.
I must separate myself and go to meet the sorcerer alone.
Arris sighed heavily as he ambled along the shore, his eyes glued to the ground before him. Throughout the night the Voice had spoken, interlacing his dreams with mocking whispers and vague images impossible for him to understand.
A true Arganian protects those with him. Faleo should not have died. None of those men should have died. Baldimora was right. I’m not ready.
Arris found a flat stone and picked it up. A flick of his wrist sent it skipping smoothly across the glistening water. Laughing waves licked the rocky shoreline, and he marveled that even this doomed river, fated a black and bottomless abyss, could still revel in a bit of sport.
He found another stone and threw it, and then another.
A rough arm encircled his neck and dragged him into the trees. Arris fought, but his attacker held the advantage of strength and surprise. Before he knew what had happened, he lay on his back. Davon, wild eyed and panting, glared down at him, his hands clutching Arris’ collar.
“Now, Arris. You have shut me out long enough. I’ll be held off no longer! Tell me what ails you, man!” He tightened his grip, and Arris gasped as Davon shook him hard. “Out with it! Our companions worry you no longer befriend us! Out with it, I say!”
Arris gagged and coughed. Davon shook him again. “All right!” Arris spluttered. “All right.”
Davon loosened his grip enough for Arris to catch his breath. Arris blinked twice and managed a shaky grin. “You’ve grown strong, little brother!”
“Don’t flatter me. Don’t—”
“I don’t. . .flatter you, Davon. I speak fact. Now let me up. I promise I’ll not strike back.”
Besides the river’s rushing waters, they heard only their own panting and the pounding of their hearts. Davon slowly released his grip and eased off his brother. Arris groaned as he struggled to sit up.
