by D. A. Adams
“He fled west, hiding in the mountains but trying to reconnect with us. Once, a party went after him, but they all turned on each other like rabid animals. He drove several mad before the elders learned to block him.”
“Can’t you break his hold?” Crushaw asked.
“If I were closer, maybe,” Kwarck returned, looking down. “But he’s strong, and time has fueled his madness. Elves are not meant to live alone, and his one desire is to return to the Koorleine Forest.”
“We don’t tell the young much about him until they are old enough not to think they can best him,” Stahloor added.
“Roskin is not prepared for this,” Sylva mumbled.
“No, he’s not,” Kwarck agreed.
“You must go to him,” Crushaw said.
Kwarck looked at the old man. In his heart, he knew Crushaw spoke the truth, but for the first time since he had escaped from the Great Empire, he felt true fear. The memory of what Lorac had done, especially to his own children, lingered fresh. More than once, he had felt the elf gnawing at his mind, trying to take him, and Kwarck knew how powerful he was. Even if he could reach them, he didn’t think he could defeat the Dark One.
“You owe me,” Crushaw said, his voice rigid.
“You’re right,” Kwarck responded, thinking of the life he had cost the old man. “I’ll leave before first light.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sylva said.
“No, I go alone. All of you must follow our plan.”
“Kwarck’s right,” Crushaw said. “We have little time left to train.”
“The nomads know what to do with the harvest,” Kwarck said. “And they’ll serve you as long as you need. If I don’t return, my home is yours, Crushaw.”
“You cannot fail,” Sylva said. “Save my son.”
Kwarck promised her he would do his best and said his good byes to all before heading for his house. He went to Alysea’s room and knocked lightly. She opened the door, her young face contorted with fear.
“Promise me,” he said sternly. “You will make no effort to sense Lorac.”
“I promise.”
“If you feel a strange presence, tell your father at once.”
She nodded.
“You are a healer. Follow that path.”
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“It’s my fault Roskin is in trouble. I have to help.”
Alysea hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you for giving Suvene a home.”
“He has a good heart, rare for an orc. Watch over him and Crushaw.”
“I will. Please, come back.”
“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep, but I will try.”
With that, he turned and went to his own room. He gathered a small bow and quiver of arrows, a blanket for bedding, and as many flasks of herbs and ointments as he could fit in his backpack. For more than twenty-five decades, he had dedicated his life to living harmoniously and had healed hundreds of people of all races. For over seven decades, he had drawn strength from this land and had learned much about the balance of nature. He didn’t want to leave this life he had built, but if not for him, Roskin wouldn’t be under Lorac’s influence, so he would march as swiftly as his legs would carry him.
***
Bordorn awoke to the smell of fish frying. He sat up and saw Roskin at the fire, sprinkling fresh herbs over the skillet. The other two still slept, so Bordorn rose quietly and moved closer to his oldest friend.
“I woke early and caught these in the stream,” Roskin said, flipping one of the fillets. “And I found these herbs along the bank. Thought I’d surprise you all with a fresh breakfast.”
“You okay, Pepper Beard?”
“Yeah. Why?” Roskin asked, turning another.
“You were acting pretty odd last night.”
“Really?”
“Like you had a fever or something.”
“I feel great. Haven’t slept that sound my whole life.”
“I’ll rouse the others so we can get going.”
Roskin nodded at him and smiled. Bordorn wasn’t sure which was more odd, how Roskin had acted the previous night or how he was acting now, but he woke the guide and Krondious and told them about the fish. They rose from their blankets, and Roskin served each a plate. Bordorn tasted the fresh meat and couldn’t believe how delicious it tasted.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” he asked.
“Just picked it up, I guess,” Roskin said before taking a bite.
“Well, I have to say,” the guide said. “This is delicious.”
“Ma’am, you and I got off to a bad start. Please, forgive my rudeness. I was impatient and took it out on you.”
The guide accepted his apology, and all four ate their fish slowly, savoring each bite. When they finished, they packed the campsite, doused the fire, and soldiered on. Roskin walked beside the guide, asking her about the area’s history and her life. Bordorn walked between them and Krondious, watching his friend closely. With all that had happened in Kehldeon, he already felt on guard, but with Roskin acting so peculiar, he was certain nothing good would come of this task. Part of him wanted to turn them all around and abandon the quest, but they needed the troops, and he knew Roskin wouldn’t turn back.
For five more days, they marched without incident, and Roskin showed no more signs of the fever. If anything, he was more pleasant and well-mannered than Bordorn had ever seen, offering to cook each meal and filling their waterskins when they ran low. By afternoon of the fifth day, they reached the base of Mount Delkhun, and the guide showed them the trail leading southwest to where the problem existed. She explained that she would go no further and wished them luck. Roskin handed her five gold coins for her trouble, and she stared at the money with wonder.
“Well, I sure was wrong about you,” she said, stuffing the coins in her pocket. “Please, be careful. There’s real danger up there.”
“You be careful heading home,” Roskin said. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”
She shook their hands and turned east, marching steadily without looking back. Bordorn looked up the trail she had pointed out, but the way it curved, he couldn’t see more than a few hundreds yards. Roskin moved beside him and asked if he were ready.
“What do you think’s up there?” Bordorn asked.
“Shadow and rumor, my friend. Nothing more.”
“All the same,” Krondious chimed in. “We should arm ourselves.”
“Are you two scared of dragons,” Roskin chuckled, fastening his swords to his waist. Once they were secure, he slid his axes into the slits on his backpack.
“I’m not scared of anything,” Krondious snapped, hoisting his double axe over his shoulder. “But I ain’t getting caught unarmed, either.”
Bordorn strapped on his sword before slipping his shield onto his left arm. When he was finished adjusting the straps, the three of them began up the trail. The first thing Bordorn noticed was all the terraces on this slope had been long abandoned. Any built of wood were completely gone, rotted into soil, leaving only odd shapes on the terrain. The stone ones remained but in varying degrees of ruin. Most of the walls had collapsed outward from decades of neglect and were overgrown with trees and underbrush. As much as the functional terraces had filled Bordorn with pride, these filled him with sadness and a deep longing to restore them.
The trail climbed steeply and was overgrown with raspberries. The sharp thorns scratched their exposed skin, and each hacked at the stalks with their blades as they went. Roskin led the way, followed by Bordorn, and then Krondious, who guided the uneasy horse. After a mile, they were soaked with sweat and stopped in a small clearing to catch their breath and rest their legs. As he took a drink from his waterskin, Bordorn noticed that no sounds came from the forest. He looked at Roskin, who seemed relaxed and nonchalant, and then at Krondious, who appeared uneasy.
“The last time I heard a forest this quiet,” Krondious muttered. “I got jumped by rock wolves.�
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“We probably startled everything,” Roskin said, shrugging.
“Let’s stay alert,” Bordorn said, stroking his beard.
They resumed the hike, and Bordorn spotted honeysuckle on the ground. Reminded of his adolescence in the valley, he reached out and plucked a blossom from a vine and sucked the nectar from the flower.
“What’s that?” Roskin asked.
“Honeysuckle.” Bordorn said. “Try it.”
“Ha, that’s pretty good,” Roskin said, dropping the blossom and plucking another.
They kept marching, and Roskin and Bordorn occasionally plucked a flower and drank the nectar. After a few minutes, Krondious spoke:
“I spent several years in the forest, and something’s odd about this honeysuckle.”
“What’s that?” Bordorn asked, looking at the vines on the ground. They appeared normal.
“They usually grow up, wrapping around trees and strangling them, but these all sprawl along the ground. Not a single one is climbing anything.”
“Hmmm, that is odd,” Bordorn said.
“Look at these,” Roskin said, pointing to an area several feet ahead.
On the edge of the pass, a cluster of vines sprouted from the earth. Each base was as thick as Krondious’s arms, and for dozens of feet in each direction, the brown stalks spread along the ground like long tentacles. In all his years in the valley, Bordorn had never seen such a menacing cluster of honeysuckle. The horse bristled behind him, and Krondious tried to soothe it. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw one of the vines move.
“Stop!” Krondious called.
Bordorn turned to see if the Kiredurk was talking to them or the horse, and as he did, something grabbed his ankle, yanking him from his feet. He thudded against the ground, the breath knocked from him, but suddenly lifted high into the air. His sword slipped from his hand and tumbled to the ground, clattering as it bounced on loose stones. Spinning through the air, he attempted to get his bearings, but whatever had grabbed his ankle was wrapping around his legs and twisting him around as it did. He tried to call out, but no sound came.
***
Roskin turned in time to see Bordorn jerked to the ground and flung into the air. He drew Grussard’s blade and started for his friend, but a second vine wrapped around his legs and tripped him. He hacked at the strange bark, but another vine caught his arm, and before he could react, the vines completely ensnared his body, trapping him against the ground. Through a small opening, he saw Bordorn was also completely wrapped by the thick vines, and Krondious stood between them, hacking at other tentacles with his great axe. The battle was short-lived, however, for the tentacles quickly lifted the white beard as they had Bordorn. Suddenly, the coldness from before filled him.
Welcome, son of Sylva.
“Who are you?” Roskin called.
As if appearing from the forest, a Koorleine elf knelt before him. His blond hair fell to his waist, and his face was the most beautiful Roskin had ever seen. Twin short swords hung on each of his hips, their craftsmanship similar to the daggers Crushaw carried. The elf’s blue eyes pierced through Roskin, and he stopped struggling.
I’m your friend.
Behind the elf, Bordorn and Krondious screamed as they fought against the vines, and Roskin felt torn between wanting to help them and needing to stare at the elf’s face.
I want you to take me home.
“Get me out of this thing,” Roskin said.
Of course.
The elf touched the vines, and at his contact, they uncoiled from Roskin and lay still on the forest floor. He struggled to his feet and sheathed his sword. The elf rose in front of him and smiled.
I’ve waited a long time to meet you, son of Sylva.
“Please, help my friends,” Roskin said.
The plant is hungry.
“I need them,” Roskin pleaded.
“As you wish,” Lorac spoke, and to Roskin, his voice sounded like his oldest friend’s.
Lorac touched each vine, and as before, they slackened and lay still. Bordorn and Krondious scrambled to their feet and rushed to Roskin.
“Are you okay,” Krondious asked, holding his axe.
“I’m fine. Are both of you?”
“Yes,” Bordorn said, locating his sword on the ground.
Krondious nodded, eyeing the elf.
Tell them to put away their weapons.
“You don’t need those,” Roskin said, pointing at the blades.
“The guide warned us about him,” Bordorn said.
“He just saved our lives. Put away your sword.”
“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lorac,” the elf said. “And for too long, I’ve missed my home in the Koorleine Forest.”
Take me there, son of Sylva.
Yes.
Roskin was startled by the voice that came from his own mind. Lorac smiled at him again.
You’ve been taught little about your elfish skills. I will teach you who you really are.
“Where’s the horse?” Bordorn asked.
“It must’ve run off when I dropped the bridle,” Krondious said, looking down the trail.
Call it with your mind.
Roskin thought about the horse and asked it to come back. A vision came of it turning around and starting back up the trail. He told the others not to worry, that the horse was safe. Bordorn and Krondious looked at him and then each other. Roskin turned to Lorac and asked if he was ready to travel.
“More than you’ll ever know,” the elf said. “Please, lead the way.”
Roskin started down the path with Lorac right behind him. Bordorn and Krondious trailed a few feet behind, and Roskin could sense their uneasiness. He wanted to assure them that all was well, for the dark fear that had so often warned of danger offered no feeling against Lorac, but he didn’t know how to explain. Being half-dwarf and half-elf, he couldn’t understand the tension between the two races, but somehow it existed, especially since the Great Empire had driven the wild elves from the Loorish Forest and had conquered the eastern half of the Ghaldeon lands. Each race seemed to resent the other for the defeats more than they blamed the humans. To Roskin, the guide’s warning about Lorac had more to do with that animosity than anything the elf could’ve done.
A couple hundred yards down the trail, he spotted the horse walking to him. All the uneasiness of before had vanished, and it came straight to Roskin and nuzzled its head against his hand. He stroked its ear and told the other dwarves to look. They came forward and petted the horse as Roskin returned his weapons to the pack on its back. He motioned for them to do the same, and Krondious hesitated but followed the suggestion. Bordorn, however, said he would carry his sword and shield.
“Suit yourself,” Roskin said, handing Krondious the bridle. “Let’s get moving.”
They marched steadily until twilight and then found a suitable place to camp. As they prepared supper, they spoke little to each other, and Bordorn sat away from the others, eyeing them as he picked at his food. Roskin ignored his friend’s jealousy, for that was what bothered the dwarf –-jealousy that Lorac had come to Roskin instead of him. The coldness filled him, and he wrapped a blanket around himself and curled up close to the fire again.
He slept soundly again that night and woke early. Lorac was already up, staring east and smiling. Roskin watched him, hoping the elf would show him something new that day. He wanted to learn more about his elfish skills, something the old hermit had been too selfish to teach. Kwarck had wanted to keep him dependent on him, but Lorac would teach him to use his powers.
We must march. Wake the others.
Roskin obeyed without question. Krondious grumbled as he shook him, but Bordorn jumped at his touch, reaching for his sword before recognizing his face. Roskin warned him to settle down, and the Ghaldeon apologized for being startled. Bordorn and Krondious started to build a fire, but Roskin stopped them, explaining the need to hurry. He handed each dried meats from his pack, and they
groused about missing the fresh fish and herbs. Roskin ignored them, gathered his belongings, and packed them on the horse.
Within minutes, they were on the move, Roskin again leading with Lorac right behind him and the dwarves trailing. They marched nearly as hard as Roskin had driven them from his kingdom, barely stopping for lunch and continuing until late in the evening. The dwarves fell asleep right after supper, and they started early again the next morning. For four days, they continued this pattern, until they reached the bridge leading into Kehldeon. During the trip, Lorac had not spoken directly to any of them and had barely communicated with Roskin, other than telling him to keep moving and to hurry the others. As they started over the bridge, however, Roskin felt the coldness surge through him.
We need not dawdle here, Lorac’s stern voice rang in his mind.
We just have to meet with the king for our troops, Roskin responded.
Be quick. I must get home.
Roskin retraced their steps to the castle, and as they neared the salt and pepper colored diorite of the outer wall, Roskin froze and stared at the sight before him. Along the top of the wall, a massive gallows had been erected, and the forty-three dwarves from Horseshoe Bend hanged in the breeze, flies buzzing around their blackening skin. Roskin studied their faces, twisted and contorted in expressions of agony. Their beards had been shorn, and as they swayed on the ropes, Roskin filled with shame and horror. He turned and faced the others, unable to speak.
“What’s he done?” Krondious mumbled.
“This is madness,” Bordorn said, stepping forward. “We shouldn’t go inside.”
“I agree,” Lorac said, staring blankly at the bodies.
“He killed them all,” Roskin stammered. “I subdued them for a reason.”
“We need to get out of here before someone sees us,” Bordorn said.
“But our troops?” Roskin muttered.
“There aren’t any,” Bordorn replied. “We weren’t supposed to make it off that mountain. Come. Let’s get out of here.”
With that, Bordorn started back the way they had come, explaining they would circle around and make for Horseshoe Bend as fast as they could. Lorac still stared at the bodies, and Roskin glanced at them. Something about the way they hung there, lifeless in the breeze, reminded him of the dwarf he had killed in the leisure slave cage. He remembered grabbing the unsuspecting Tredjard and impaling him on the spikes atop the cage, all in an effort to save himself from that place. Shame filled him at the memory, and he turned from the gallows.
