“You think they’ll be back?” Brannon asked him.
“Let’s not find out. Willow, can you carry Sir Eldrick for a while? I don’t think we can go at his pace.”
Sir Eldrick looked up at him from his crooked angle and kicked Murland’s shin feebly. “You got any whiskey, whippersnapper?”
“That’s the last thing you need,” said Murland.
“There be whiskey in the west,” said Gibrig, eyeing Murland sternly. “How ‘bout ye ride on Willow’s back? We can get ye there faster that way.”
“Willow?”
“The ogre,” said Gibrig.
“Come on Sir Eldrick, let’s go for a ride,” said Willow, scooping him up and tossing him onto her back. She hooked his feet under her arms and nodded to Murland.
They took off at a steady trot. It had been a long road since King’s Crossing, and although they had ridden on mounts for much of the journey, they were now in the best shape of their lives—with the exception of Sir Eldrick, of course.
The trail through the spires never changed, but was the same foggy maze of vine-covered monoliths as when they started out. If it had not been for the compass, they would have indeed gotten hopelessly lost. For without the sun or stars to guide the way, the land became a one-dimensional flat thing with no sense of direction or the passing of time. Day and night were the only thing that changed in the Horrible Hills, and even they melded into each other almost unnoticeably. The fog had a way of illuminating the moonlight more than usual, and made it seem nearly as bright as the sun.
A depression hung in the air as well, just as unavoidable and encroaching as the endless fog. To help alleviate the gloomy mood, the companions encouraged each other to sing songs and tell tales as they traveled, which had been a suggestion of a much younger Sir Eldrick.
Willow told tales of her mud-pie-eating victories, and she had many stories indeed. When Brannon became sick of listening to her, he would play his flute, masterfully manipulating the wooden shaft to produce some of the sweetest sounds that had ever echoed through the Horrible Hills. But the music, like the moods of those who heard it, only rose fleetingly, and was soon lost to the gloom.
“The lady elf is good with that wooden shaft, eh?” said Sir Eldrick from atop Willow’s shoulders. Being that she was over seven feet tall, he seemed a king upon his exotic steed.
Willow chuckled, and Gibrig scowled at him.
“Yeah, yeah, that isn’t nice,” said Sir Eldrick and stuck out his tongue.
They had taken the fae blade away from him soon after setting out, for when he unsheathed it, he nearly took Willow’s arm. He had grazed it, and they had been forced to stop and tend to the wound. They took that time to attend to their other injuries, for Murland’s leg was beginning to throb painfully, and he was concerned about an infection from the dirty troll blades.
With supplies given to them from Princess Chastity, they had cleaned and dressed their wounds and headed back out for another leg before the sun went down.
That leg came to an end hours after sunset. Murland stopped after climbing a particularly steep ravine and took a pause at the top. Everyone sat, and it was silently decided. This was camp for the night.
There was no kind of wood to burn in the endless hills, only dead vines and the thick moss that seemed to grow on everything. But with a little help from the oil that they had gotten from the princess, and Murland’s magic, they got it going, and they piled on the dried, husky vines that littered the gullies. The stink was almost unbearable if you were unlucky enough to be downwind, but fortunately there was little wind here, and what gusts blew through the spires caused an eerie moaning sound, “like spirits searching for their killers,” as Gibrig had put it.
The only food in abundance was the snails that clung to the sides of the spires, feeding off the algae that grew beneath the draping vines. Willow popped these into her mouth by the handfuls, shells and all, and ate them raw. Brannon, however, nearly wretched when he saw this, and insisted that his be cooked in a pot. Murland tried them both ways, and tended to agree with Brannon that they were better cooked, but Sir Eldrick, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind raw snails at all. He sat beside Willow, popping them into his mouth as though it were a game, and just as Gibrig had warned him, he puked them up.
Willow laughed, telling him to never try to keep up with a hungry ogre.
They woke the next morning and headed out during what Murland thought to be dawn. It was hard to tell when the sun took to the sky, harder than usual, and Murland realized that it must have been a full moon the night before.
“How much farther do you think we have?” Brannon asked, and Murland pulled out the map of Fallacetine that he had taken from Sir Eldrick so that he would stop wiping his nose on it.
“Well, the Horrible Hills are said to be two hundred miles long. We went in here,” he said, pointing. “I’d say another week or so and we’ll reach the Long Sand.”
Brannon scoffed and stuffed his bedroll in his pack. “Great, out of one sticky, foggy mess, into a boiling wasteland. I don’t even know why I’m eager to get there.”
“Because it is one step closer to Bad Mountain,” said Murland, putting a hand on the elf’s shoulder.
Brannon forced a smile and gave a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, one step closer.”
He turned from Murland and walked off by himself, and Murland thought to follow, thought to talk to him. He knew that the depression of the place was getting to the elf, but he just didn’t know what to say.
“Let him go,” said Willow. “He’ll be alright.”
“A moody bitch, she is, eh?” said Sir Eldrick as he shoved snails into his mouth.
Gibrig slapped the snails out of his hand, surprising everyone. “He ain’t a she, he’s a he, alright? Stop calling him a girl, that’s…well, ye just sound ignorant.”
Murland looked to Willow. She shrugged.
Everyone but Willow and Sir Eldrick seemed to be affected by the sadness of the hills. Indeed, nothing really seemed to bother Willow at all, and Murland admired her for it. The others, namely Brannon, treated her as though she were simple, but not Murland. He had realized after knowing her for a few days that there was more going on in her head than most people thought.
“Fine,” said Sir Eldrick. “You’re a dwarf, and the elf lass is a man. And I’m the Duke of Dingle!” He leapt up and dropped his pants, shaking his old withered sex in front of them all.
Willow nearly choked on a snail, and Murland couldn’t help but laugh.
“Put that thing away before a troll takes a bite out of it,” said Murland.
“Or an elf!” said Sir Eldrick, cackling. He danced around lewdly, shaking his bare backside at them all.
“Please,” said Brannon as he returned from the other side of the spire. “I wasn’t interested in your old ass when you were handsome.”
“Why’s everybody being so godsdarned mean to each other?” said Gibrig, throwing down his pack and stomping a foot.
“It’s alright, brother,” said Murland. “It’s all in good fun. Say, you want to take Packy out for a ride? Do a little patrol for us? The air is nice up higher, and flying through the fog is like a dream.”
“Ye mean it?” said Gibrig, hopeful.
“Yeah, no problem. Packy don’t mind, do you boy?” The backpack, which had been lying on its side in a crook in the ravine, suddenly perked, and rose into the air and spun a circle.
“See, he’s excited too.”
Gibrig was beside himself with delight, and it warmed Murland’s heart to see it. The dwarf shouldered the pack, and Murland showed him how to pull on the straps to steer. “Pull the right strap to go right, left to go left, both down to go down, and both up to go up. And if you’re feeling ambitious, push them both in different directions to spin and twist.”
“Don’t lose your lunch!” said Willow cheerfully.
Gibrig was the picture of nervousness, but he tightened the straps and smiled at Murland before ru
nning to the top of the ravine and leaping out of sight.
Everyone waited, and waited, and Murland pictured Gibrig face down in the stones on the other side. But then the dwarf and backpack suddenly emerged and flew into the sky, Gibrig hooting with delight.
“You’re a good friend,” said Brannon. “And a good leader.”
He walked off west, and Murland followed, realizing that Brannon had just complimented him, and thinking that something was indeed off about the elf.
***
Brannon walked ahead of the group, not wanting to have to talk to or be looked at by anyone. He didn’t deserve their attention. He didn’t deserve their friendship. He was conspiring to let them die so that he might live, and now he was alone in that conspiracy, for there was little resemblance of the young Sir Eldrick in the old. His guilt had been growing for weeks, ever since being saved by Gibrig in the den of the cyclopes. He owed every one of them his life now, for in one way or another, they had each saved him.
But who had he saved?
His floral magic had given them some food, and it had given them an out while running from the trolls, but in the end, they still fell victim to the witch, and now Sir Eldrick was useless, and might never be the same.
“Oh Val, but I wish you were here with me,” he said to the fog.
Brannon began to weep, and once he started, he thought that he might never stop. He would fill the oceans of the world and flood the lands with all his sorrow. How he had gotten this far, he did not know.
He thought of his sister then, and wished also that he had her by his side. But what would Annallia say if she knew what he had agreed to, what he had sworn to do?
And his father…
Brannon loathed to think about the king of elves. Ever valiant, ever the hard ass, ever the walker of the straight line, Rimon was a caricature of himself, an elf so full of himself and his own righteousness that he was blind to his own hypocrisy. Still, Brannon knew that his father would object to his secret deal with Sir Eldrick and Kazimir, and the worst part was that his father would be right.
Brannon kicked a stone, which turned out to be rooted and did not move. He hopped up and down, holding his foot and swearing.
“You alright, Brannon?” Murland called from behind.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Hey Brannon!” Gibrig called out from above.
Brannon looked up into the gloom and saw Gibrig glide by with Packy. He tried to smile as he waved. The stupid perfect dwarf was having the time of his life.
He walked faster, trying to get farther ahead of the others. Soon he found himself running. He ran through the stony passes, up the ravines, and down into the chasms, where the stagnant waters pooled like the misery in the pit of his soul. He ran away from the expectations of his father, the mercy of his sister, the weakness of his helpless mother. He ran away from his love of Valkimir, the friendship of the group he intended to betray, and he ran from himself.
Brannon finally stopped when he could no longer catch his breath, which rarely happened. He knew not how long he had run, he knew not what time it was or in what direction he had gone. All he knew was that no matter how far he ran, there HE was. Trapped within himself, trapped with himself. The captor and the prisoner. The criminal and the hangman. He could run to the ends of the earth, but he would never be free of himself.
***
“Brannon!”
Murland scoured the space between the spires when he crested the rocky pass, but still he found no sign of the elf.
“What has gotten into him?” Willow asked.
“I don’t know, but we need to find him. Gib! Come down from there!” he called as the dwarf passed overhead.
Packy landed Gibrig in front of them, and the dwarf stumbled to a stop. “No sign o’ him, boss.”
Boss. Murland liked that.
“I’ll search the surrounding spires, you three keep on west. Keep calling his name. If you hear or see anything, give a call.”
Willow nodded, Gibrig gave the A-okay sign, and Sir Eldrick offered Murland the finger. “I want ice cream,” said the knight.
Murland shook his head and took off into the air with Packy. He searched the nearby spires and the ravines, zig-zagging through them and checking high and low. But there was still no sign of the elf. He made his way back to the group to make sure that he didn’t lose them as well, and when they said that they still hadn’t found anything, he pointed them west and returned to his searching.
It wasn’t until an hour before nightfall that Murland finally found Brannon. He had half expected to find him dead, or not at all. But Brannon was not dead, he was curled up in a fetal position in the crook of a rock at the base of a tall spire, and he looked to be crying.
“Brannon?”
The elf jerked upright and wiped at his eyes frantically. “Go away,” he said with a sniffle.
“What’s wrong?”
Brannon shook his head, and the tears came again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if it’s this place, what happened to Sir Eldrick, or just…just all of it.”
“This place does have a way of getting you down,” said Murland, looking to the gray sky. “But soon we’ll be through it, just like we’ve gotten through all the other challenges, together.”
“You’re a good friend, Murland,” said Brannon, forcing a smile.
“So are you.”
Brannon’s smile turned to a frown, and he looked away hauntedly. “No, I’m not,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“Aww, come on. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Everyone is worried about you. That must tell you something.”
“Yeah, it tells me that you are all good people. Unlike me.”
“Brannon, what’s on your mind? Why do you think you’re such a bad person?”
“I…” Brannon began, but then pursed his colored lips shut. “I’m just no good, that’s all.”
Murland let out a slow sigh. “Well, come on, let’s get back to the others. It’s time to make camp anyway.”
Brannon nodded, and together they flew with Packy back through the spires. Murland thought that maybe flying would cheer the elf up, but Brannon remained solemn all through dinner and didn’t speak all night.
Chapter 28
The Sands of Time
After five more days of never-ending gray clouds and foggy bogs, the companions finally saw sunlight. They had been marching along at their usual pace, heads down and spirits lower, when the sunlight suddenly blinded them.
“It be a miracle!” said a delighted Gibrig.
Murland covered his eyes and looked west. There, about a mile away, he spotted the last of the tall green spires. Beyond, golden sand sparkled in the sun.
“Is it real?” Brannon asked. He was looking quite ragged, and had lost his sense of fashion completely. He had been quiet and sullen for the last five days, and it was good to see hope on his face.
“I believe it is,” said Murland, grinning.
“Wonder what kind of foods they got there,” said Willow, rubbing her hands together and trudging past them.
“Come on, everyone,” said Murland. “Not too much farther now.”
An hour later, they passed the last spire. But when they emerged from the lush green of the hills to the burning gold of the desert, they stopped dead.
“Kazimir?” said Murland, surprised to see the wizard sitting on a lounge chair in the sand, nude but for a thin loincloth and drinking some sort of pink concoction with a tiny umbrella in it.
“Ah, the fearless Champions of the Dragon. It is about time you all showed up!” said Kazimir, sitting up and taking off his blue-tinted spectacles.
They all rushed over to him, and Gibrig began hurriedly reciting all the things that had happened to them since last they met.
“The long-lost princess of Magestra?” said Kazimir. “You don’t say. But what in the blazes happened to him?” He pointed at Sir Eldrick.
“I shit my pants,” said Sir Eldrick, looking quite miser
able.
Kazimir arched an eyebrow.
“He was turned old by the witch of the Horrible Hills, Gurtzarg,” said Murland.
“Gurtzarg!” said Kazimir, shooting to his feet. He looked at them all in turn. “And you all survived her? How?”
“Murland dueled with her,” said Willow proudly. “And he killed her.”
“I didn’t kill her…”
“You defeated Gurtzarg?” said Kazimir, shocked.
“Well…yes,” said Murland, slightly perturbed that it was such a surprise to the High Wizard. “But, well, she kind of killed herself.”
“Explain.”
“We were attacked by trolls and fell into a spire. And then we found the witch waiting for us inside a cavern with hundreds of trolls. She wanted the wand of Kazam, you see, and I didn’t want to give it to her. She hit Sir Eldrick with a spell when he charged her, and then I went after her.”
“You went after her?” said Kazimir, amused.
“Yeah, and we both got in our shots. But then I saw that Sir Eldrick was getting old right before our eyes. The witch told me that unless I gave her the wand, Sir Eldrick would die. She promised to undo her spell, you see, so I…so I gave it to her.”
“You gave it to her?” Kazimir cried, pulling at his hair.
Murland nodded. “But then she went back on her promise, and she tried to kill me. But the spell did no damage. It just bounced off me and hit her…and then she exploded.”
“That is quite a tale.”
“But I don’t understand how I defeated her. Why did the spell ricochet?”
Kazimir pointed at Murland’s hand. “I would guess that happened when you fixed the wand, didn’t it?”
“Yeah…”
The High Wizard nodded. “Now I understand. You see, when you were injured fixing the wand, you created a sort of blood bond with it. Your sacrifice of blood bonded your soul to it, and it can never be used to cause you harm.”
“Wow,” said Willow.
“Wow indeed,” said Murland. “Looks like I got lucky.”
Beyond the Wide Wall: Humorous Fantasy (Epic Fallacy Book 2) Page 20
