by Sandra Kopp
Charles groaned and sat up. “Raining again?”
“It is spring and we’re in San-Leyon,” Davon returned dryly. “The rain never stops.” He sighed then. “Do we right, traveling to Marcos’ settlement? For the past two days I have mentally tossed my vision over and over. I saw the hill immediately after my plunge into Gonor’s Canyon and now believe we should travel straight there.”
“But the river travels underground—” Charles waved a hand—“how far, who can tell? If that hill marks the river’s reemergence, it may lie many miles south of the canyon. It may not even pertain to the canyon. Besides—” he glanced dolefully at the weeping sky—“these heavy clouds—”
“I know,” Davon broke in. “Are we sure we’re even headed for the village? We may be going in circles.”
Charles shook his head. “No. We’ve traveled a straight course so far. I have hunted these woods and remember them well. In another five miles lies a well-defined trail leading to the village. After that—well, that is why we need a guide.” He smiled. “Take heart, Davon. The rain makes one uncomfortable, but things are not as bleak as they appear.”
He stopped, head cocked as he peered outside. The rain had let up, and the glistening foliage glowed softly in misty golden light.
Charles’ smile widened. “You see? The sun shines once again. Things don’t look quite as hopeless, eh?”
Davon chuckled as Charles threw off his blanket and rolled it up. “I suppose not, but—” He broke off, frowning.
“You fear for the men whose cries you heard,” Charles said gently. “I don’t take your vision lightly. I agree, we’d best hurry; but I still believe we do best traveling to Marcos’ camp. It’s not far and I know the way. And if Marcos has moved—well, I could only surmise he seeks better hunting around Dewey Hollow, which is where we’ll then go.”
Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. Davon raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Is that indeed an owl, or is someone watching?”
“In this realm ‘tis hard to tell.” Charles rose and picked up his blanket and saddlebag. “We’ll know soon.”
He stepped outside. Davon gathered his own gear and followed Charles to the horses.
For the next several hours they rode without speaking. Davon wondered if the men of his vision yet lived or whether he journeyed in vain. Already he longed for his pleasant fields and prospering herds. He dreaded San-Leyon’s dark forests, which stank now of moss and rot and felt as baneful and foreboding as those of Barren-Fel. But San-Leyon faced grave danger, as did Hans Ogilvie, trusted friend and ally who would have gladly laid down his own life—and perhaps already had—to save his friends.
Davon drew an uneven breath. The attack at Greene’s Willow Inn had left him shaken and wary, as did the thought that the surviving assassins might be stalking them even now.
Charles raised a hand and reined in. “Listen!”
Davon stopped his horse and straightened, his right hand instinctively grasping his sword. He had noticed the usual animal sounds as they traveled. Now birdsong and squirrel chatter reverberated continually from tree to tree, seemingly from every quarter.
“These are not animal sounds,” Charles said, his voice hushed.
Fern fronds near the trail waved aside. Suddenly the glade exploded with droves of Little People. Spears raised and arrows ready, they poured out of the undergrowth and blocked the trail.
“Hold!” Charles raised his hands, fingers spread to show he posed no threat and Davon, catching Charles’ silent signal, released his sword’s hilt and did the same.
The Little People resembled the woodsmen in dress and manner, but stood no taller than four feet at most. Despite their diminutive size, however, they had more than once proven themselves formidable warriors. The fierceness of their stares alone intimidated many foes.
The tallest of them, a wizened gnome with piercing eyes and yellowed teeth, stepped forward, brandishing an axe. “Who are you?”
“Charles Bordner of Valhalea and Davon Marchant of Liedor,” Charles returned. “We fought alongside Arronmyl in Barren-Fel and, together with two of his men, infiltrated Rissling.”
The gnome cocked his head, regarding them suspiciously. “At Rissling, you say? I think I know. . .yes. . .yes, I have seen you. But—” He jabbed his axe toward Davon—“I’ve not seen you.”
“Davon joined his brother at Castle Ryadok and together they drove the witch-king into hiding. When finally he reemerged, Davon’s brother returned to the castle alone to slay the witch, while Davon accompanied me and Arronmyl’s host into Barren-Fel.” Charles bobbed his head in Davon’s direction. “Davon also discovered the secret to killing Baugonril.”
“Ah.” The gnome studied them a moment, then turned and babbled something to the group, who lowered their weapons.
Charles and Davon lowered their hands. Davon kept a wary eye on the group for, in his mind, the attitudes of San-Leyon’s denizens toward outsiders resembled that of the Rauths. Such volatility could prove disastrous.
“I am Myan.” The scowl had disappeared, yet the gnome’s bushy brows and weathered face still made him look fierce. “We wish you no harm but extend no welcome. Our herds have left and Marcos, who rules this realm, left to hunt and has not returned these six weeks. We fear evil has befallen him.”
“Do you know where he went?” Davon asked. “Might he have entered Barren-Fel?”
Myan nodded, slowly at first and then more vigorously. “Benno told us that, should they find no game in our forests, they would proceed to Barren-Fel.”
Davon caught his breath. It all makes sense! Images from his vision flashed across his mind: The precipice overlooking Gonor Canyon, the anguished cries, the sensations of drowning and being encased in mud, and then. . .
“Have any of you heard of the weeping hill?” he asked. “Do you know where it is?”
The Little People exchanged bewildered glances before fixing their collective stare upon Davon. “It lies west of Gonor Canyon, many miles from here,” Myan told him. “How do you know of it? Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know for sure, but believe we may find Marcos there—and if so, we’ve no time to lose.”
“How would you know this, unless you witnessed the harm befalling him?” Myan demanded.
“I did not witness—” Davon began, but Charles cut him off.
“Davon possesses Arganian gifts by which he glimpsed snatches of recent events,” Charles told them. “He received no clear vision, but did see the weeping hill. If Marcos is there, he needs our help, and quickly.”
“Then we take you there.” Myan began shouting orders. The Little People milled about, chattering. Some of them funneled onto the trail while others bounded into the trees. The forest resounded with squirrel chatter and bird calls as the company raced ahead.
Myan waved for Charles and Davon to follow. “We go to our village for horses,” he said, “and then we take you to weeping hill.”
Charles nodded to Davon and they fell in behind the host. Neither noticed the lower branches of a small tree parting behind them.
Cold, wet, and wracked with pain, Marcos awoke. He tried to move, but found himself entombed in slime. Grit coated his tongue and teeth, but every effort to spit or swallow only drew more into his mouth. He tried to turn his head, but gagged on a watery flood of ooze. Shocked into consciousness, he tried to wrench free, or at least raise his head to where he could take a proper breath.
Where am I?
Vague images played through his mind: The clash with the Rauths; the remainder of his bedraggled band escaping by the skin of their teeth to a heartless river that swept them, not to safety but into the bowels of an inky abyss. He did not remember falling; only the sensation of hanging in space, a deafening roar that set his head throbbing as blackness engulfed him, and then the brutal impact that knocked him unconscious as his flailing body slammed into the waters on the canyon floor.
I eluded Nedra’s arrows but she buried me alive in
mud, fated for madness while dying a slow and miserable death. Where in this cursed hole am I and how much earth separates me from the world above? Is this truly my doom? Have I no hope? Dear God in heaven, help me, I implore thee!
Marcos squirmed and writhed until he found a position that placed his mouth barely above the goo surrounding him. With great effort, he calmed himself and methodically tried to work his arms free. But the mud only held him more firmly and weighed heavier on his chest, making his labored breathing even more difficult.
“Benno! Royce!” The muck in his throat nearly choked him but he prayed someone heard. Muffled noises came from somewhere. If he could just clear his throat and draw enough air for one good shout. . .
Muddy water sloshed into his mouth and nose. Marcos spluttered and coughed, but now his panicked attempts to breathe only drowned him. Cruel fate! His fevered brain conjured pictures of himself mired down, immobile and helpless while Nedra, a teasing smile on her face, hovered over him, mocking as she dangled a rope a mere hairsbreadth beyond his reach.
Something hard and heavy scraped down along his cheek. Marcos choked out a strangled cry. Fingers clawed at his face and throat and then along the side of his head. He heard voices and the sucks and gasps of feet slogging through mud. Hands dug around his shoulders, gripped him under the arms and lifted him up. Marcos nearly wept as his legs pulled free.
His rescuers dragged him down a hill onto level ground and laid him down. Water splashed in his face. Someone washed the mud away. As his ears cleared Marcos heard the familiar voices of the Little People, and a moan of indescribable relief escaped his lips.
“Marcos!” Someone shook his shoulder. “Marcos!”
Marcos moaned again and opened his eyes. A bearded gray-haired gnome with a leathery face and bushy brows peered back. “Myan,” Marcos whispered, “you don’t know how happy—how did you find me?”
Myan bobbed his head to the right. Marcos rolled his head that direction and caught his breath, gaping in disbelief at a tall, sandy-haired man emerging from a group of Little People attending two of his comrades. With great effort he raised himself on one elbow. “I know you! You’re one of the Nimbians who rode with Charles Bordner. You’re—”
“Davon Marchant. Just lie still. I will administer some medicine. We brought clean clothes, and when you are able there is a pool yonder where you can bathe.”
Marcos glanced around. He lay in the middle of a large glen rimmed by forest to the south, east, and north. To the west, a low grassy mound glistened with streams trickling into a narrow wash at its base before flowing several feet to form a broad pond. Halfway up, a large patch of ground had broken loose and slid down the side, burying the grass under several inches of mud.
“Is Bordner here?”
“He’s over yonder, tending to Benno and Royce.” Davon poured some white granules and water into a tin cup, stirred the mixture, and offered it to Marcos. “Drink this and then lie down.”
Marcos ignored the cup. “The river swept us into the canyon, yet it seems you found me near the surface. How could that be?”
“Apparently the Lost River or one of its forks has seeped into this hill. At some point it broke through, washing out several feet of soil and nearly burying you and your companions. The exit has since collapsed.” Davon paused. “I can only surmise that Providence intervened and spared you.”
“Who of my comrades remain?”
“Benno and Royce. We found two others dead.”
Marcos fell onto his back again. “Seven killed by Rauths and two by the river. I took eleven men on a simple quest to find food and led nine to their deaths!” His voice rose. “If Providence indeed intervened, why did she not save all of us? Why did she not slay our enemies or at least deliver us from their hands?” Anguish twisted his rugged face. “My beloved sister has become a traitor and murderess, starving her own people and commanding the Rauths to slay us. She put this arrow through my shoulder and would have put one through my heart, given the opportunity.”
“I am sorry.” Davon regarded Marcos sympathetically. “The serpent has resurfaced once more. My confederates have reunited against him.”
“Not all of them,” Marcos croaked. Anguish filled his face. He turned to Davon. “I don’t know what befell Hans but I fear for him.”
“I know,” Davon returned quietly. He cleared his throat and again offered the cup to Marcos. “Please, drink this.”
Marcos hesitated, then grunted and took the cup. Putting it to his lips, he began to drink.
A shrill scream broke the silence. Marcos stopped in mid-gulp. “Mountain lion!”
Charles pushed his way through the throng and stood near Marcos, peering toward the south.
The scream rose again. A half-bestial, half-human bellow followed, and then the sound of rapidly retreating hoofbeats. One of the women of the Little People raced into the camp, gesticulating and jabbering in her native tongue. The others gathered around her, their curiosity changing to consternation as she babbled her story.
“What are they saying?” Davon asked Marcos.
Myan answered first. “She has seen the Red Horse.” He drew a quavering breath. “Before this, it appeared only in Barren-Fel. Now it has come to San-Leyon.”
“Did she see it fully? Had it a rider?”
Myan called to the woman, conveying Davon’s inquiry in the gnomes’ language. She answered back, and Myan shook his head. “She saw only its arse and tail.”
“Then we cannot be sure she saw the Red Horse.”
The words died on Davon’s lips as approaching hoofbeats drummed the ground. Behind the trees rimming the glen’s south side branches snapped and popped. The company heard a man’s enraged roar and then a scream so tortured they froze with fear. Breathless and fearful, weapons at the ready, they stared at the forest.
Abruptly the scream stilled. A man’s deep baritone spat a barrage of slurred curses. Seconds later the cougar’s bloody carcass sailed over the treetops and slammed to the ground a few feet from Marcos.
“Merciful heaven!” Marcos stared at the carcass, then at Davon, then back at the carcass. A full-grown male, the big cat easily weighed two hundred pounds. But something—he could not fathom what—must have seized those powerful jaws and ripped them apart, tearing the beast’s neck all the way to the shoulders.
Dumbstruck, Davon could only gape; but amid his confusion he sensed himself under scrutiny and turned.
Myan glowered up at him and growled, “Do you still doubt the woman?” He jabbed a gnarled forefinger toward the carcass. “Know this for a surety, Nimbian: The Red Horse has cursed our land and all that beheld this.”
CHAPTER SIX
Angyar frowned as he studied a greenish paste in the cup before him. A few feet away, Aron and Jovah bent over tin pots, methodically crushing rhododendron pieces with the ends of thick sticks to extract the tranquilizing compound. Having recovered their horses and gathered the needed plants, they had made camp in the woods where the cumah made his kill and begun preparations for the beast’s capture.
The noonday sun filtering through the evergreens danced among the shadows and warmed the humid air. The horses grazed peacefully beneath a nearby tree. Saddles and bedrolls lay strewn about the ground a few feet away. Beads of sweat glistened on brows furrowed in concentration as the men focused on their tasks.
Aron paused and wiped his forehead. “This beast we seek: From my perspective he seemed almost supernatural. These plants yield but a mild toxin. Are you sure it will subdue him?”
Angyar nodded absently without taking his eyes off the cup. “We can’t risk killing him. I wish only to sedate him.” He glanced at his brother and smiled. “It will give us a strong ally—perhaps even a friend.” Still smiling, Angyar turned back to his cup.
Aron’s lips tightened as he pressed his stick down onto a stringy wad and twisted it hard. “A friend,” he snorted. “You don’t make friends with a demon.”
“It’s not a demon, just a
dumb beast.” Angyar dipped a needle-like dart into the mixture and held it up, studying it intently. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “The potion clings. This shall do beautifully.”
He set the cup aside and, with a sigh of satisfaction, leaned back against a rock and looked over at his companions. “Enough. Now we need a cage to contain our friend once he sleeps.” He motioned to a rocky bank in the trees behind them. “We’ll place it over there. As cumah awakens he will see familiar surroundings and hear our voices—”
“He will see only bars and smell man’s blood and then his animal instincts will awaken before the beast himself,” Aron broke in. “You saw his strength as he killed and devoured that boar. Any cage, however strongly built, he will rip apart as though it were made of stubble.”
“We drag him into the cage while he sleeps and then use the toxin to keep him quiet until he learns to trust us,” Angyar returned. “Shed your doubts, brother. I have thought this through very carefully. We shall succeed.”
Aron grunted. “I pray that we do.” He paused, shaking his head. “I cannot fathom this plan of yours, but let’s get on with it.” He rose stiffly and, with Jovah and Angyar close behind, picked up an axe and headed for a nearby tree.
For most of the afternoon they toiled. Jovah, the youngest and most agile, shinnied up the tree trunks and cut off straight branches as thick as a man’s arm which Aron and Angyar trimmed and nailed together into a 6’ x 8’ cage near the bank. Next they wrapped leather thongs around the intersected pieces to reinforce the nails, covered the bottom branches with dirt, and fashioned a door on one end.
By late afternoon they had finished. Angyar studied their handiwork and nodded approval. “Well done, lads. Now we are ready to engage cumah.” He paused. “I believe we have enough juice to take him down and cage him, maybe subdue him for a day. I don’t know how long its effects will last, so once we have caught him you must make more while I try to tame him.”
Jovah raised an eyebrow. “And if he can’t be tamed?”
