Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Trap?” called Arik, reining to a halt.

  “Yes,” answered Rith. “There is a song called ‘Kalador’s Doom’ which tells of such. Slowly his way curved downward, gradually becoming too steep to traverse. Without realizing that it was a fatal way, he continued onward until he tumbled to his doom. I deem that this is the same. See, the walls have been smoothed so as to provide no handholds, nothing to catch onto. And the way continues to curve farther downward, so subtley as to be nearly unnoticeable.”

  “Damn! Damn!” cursed Lyssa, peering at the way ahead. “Rith, you’re right, for from what I can see the way goes on getting steeper.”

  “Arda’s balls,” spat Kane, “the walls are too close for the horses to turn ’round; we’re going to have to back out of here.”

  “What about the mules?” snapped Arton. “I don’t think these stubborn brutes even know how to back, or if they do they resist it mightily. Corks in a bottle, that’s what they are.”

  “Seven hells,” growled Arik, “we’ll just have to drag them hindwards.”

  Struggling and cursing, at last the Foxes reached the archway once again, Arton limping for he had been kicked by the mule he had gotten behind and hauled backward by its tail. When they had come to the flat, Kane had attempted to heal him, but discovered that the power of the arch dampened his spells entirely.

  As the storm whelmed upon the Foxes, Arik stared at the remaining choices. “Anyone have any suggestions?”

  Kane peered through the blowing snow at the far right way—the path alongside the abyss—and shuddered. “If we go there and have to back up . . . surely we’ll fall to our doom. Seven hells, mayhap all these ways are traps.”

  Arton shook his head. “Not true, Kane, if we are to believe the saga. I mean, at least one path is safe, else Galamor and Kitter would not have made it across.”

  Lyssa spread her hands wide. “You assume, Arton, that Galamor and Kitter actually came this way.”

  “Regardless,” growled Arik, “we came this way, and now we must either go on or go back. As I asked before, does anyone have a suggestion as to which path to take?” Arik’s gaze swept across the other Foxes. Rith frowned and stroked her chin in deep reflection, as if chasing an elusive thought, but she said nothing. Lyssa turned up her hands. Ky and Arton both shrugged. “All right, then,” said Arik, “let us use the intelligent approach.” He spat into the palm of his cupped hand and then slapped two fingers down into the saliva. A fair gob of spittle flew toward the large, dark hole. Lyssa groaned but began rummaging through a saddlebag for her small brass and crystal lantern.

  “Wait,” declared Rith, suddenly coming to life, “I think I have it—or at least a glimmer of an idea. Specious, perhaps; slender, no doubt; yet it seems to be the only thing which faintly might be a clue, the only thing we might put our trust in.”

  “Better than spit, I hope,” said Ky.

  “Perhaps,” replied the black bard.

  “What is it?” growled Arton.

  Rith looked at the thief. “The saga speaks of it, and you yourself once repeated it, Arton—the way Galamor and Kitter took to freedom was sinister.”

  Arik’s eyes lit up. “Sinister! By Arda, yes!”

  Arton threw up his hands. “What? What by the seven hells are you talking about?”

  Arik grinned a great grin. “Rith has the answer, or so I believe. Sinister. Leftward. Do you not see?”

  Arton, his eyes wide, looked at Rith. She grinned and nodded. “Huah!” declared the thief. “How simple.”

  Rith held up a cautioning hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions, for didn’t I say it was a slender hope at best?”

  “Slender it may be,” replied Arton, “but it’s the best we have.”

  All eyes turned to the low, jagged hole to the left, its dark mouth moaning in the wind, a groan matched by Lyssa as she stared at the gaping black maw.

  It was well into the nighttide when the Foxes reached the plains below. They were weary, for the way down had been no less arduous than the way up. Even so, after they had emerged from the low, jagged, wind-filled cavern, Lyssa’s power to find the trail returned, and she had led them along a faint silvery line downward, a line which only she could see. The path terminated at another set of ruins, much like the tumbled-down wizard’s hold they had left behind. The moment they stepped from the silvery way the diminishing storm had stopped and the skies slowly began to clear. They cared for the animals and took a quick meal. Then all fell into slumber but the one on watch.

  When Arton’s turn came, Ky yawned and said, “Try to keep your clothes on.”

  Three days later found them crossing the plains. Overhead the sun shone brightly down. A gentle breeze blew up from the south and the noontide was warm. In the near distance they could see the fringes of an ancient forest—the Wythwood, no more than five miles away. On toward this shaggy weald they rode, the horses plodding a leisurely pace. And as they crossed the grassland, Rith strummed her lute and sang one ballad after another.

  “Lord,” rumbled Kane, turning to Ky, “it’s days like this that make up for all the storms and blizzards.”

  The syldari nodded abstractly. “I wonder if he is yet alive.”

  “Who?”

  “Pon Barius.”

  “Oh.” Kane looked at the forest. “I just hope we find him. The Wythwood is a wide place, you know.”

  Ky giggled and gestured ahead. “As any fool can plainly see—”

  “—’cause I can see.” Kane finished the saying for her, a great grin on his face.

  “Hoy!” called Arton from the rear. “Something follows.”

  The Foxes swiveled about. In the distance behind, some two miles back, they could see a darkness, like a great flattened ebony sphere, an obsidian ovoid, down on the plains. It was black as night, and seemed to be moving . . . toward them.

  Ky frowned, then uttered a word. She gasped. “Arda, it’s drakka on demonsteeds.” Then she shouted, “Arik! It’s drakka on demonsteeds! They pursue!”

  Arik wheeled his horse rightward. “Drakka?”

  “Yes,” called Ky. “Englobed in darkness. In the daylight. My darksight sees them within.”

  “Damn,” gritted Rith, “so that’s how they run under Arda’s sun—clasped in jet night they are.”

  “How many?” called Arik.

  “Fifteen, twenty, it’s hard to tell,” replied Ky, shading her eyes. “Too many is the answer.”

  “Right,” barked Arik. “Then I say we run for it and hope to lose them in the woods.”

  At these words Lyssa spurred forward, and so did they all, Black Foxes galloping toward the refuge of the trees, protesting mules in their wake. And as they ran, helms were donned and shields made ready and weapons were loosened in their sheaths. Thundering forward, the Foxes formed up defensively: Lyssa in the fore, Arton in the aft, Rith and Ky in the center, with Arik on the left flank and Kane on the right. While on the plains behind, a deadly darkness raced after them, made eerily silent by the distance.

  The sun had progressed less than a hand span when the Black Foxes came to the eaves of the Wythwood. As they plunged inward, Lyssa reined to one side, calling out, “Go on! I’ll erase our spoor!”

  Into the wood they hammered, Lyssa bringing up the rear. She paused a moment frowning in concentration, then followed the deep tracks of their passage across the loam. And lo! when she rode upon the soft churned earth she left unsullied ground behind.

  And still in the distance the darkness came after.

  Hidden by the woods, Arik veered rightward to avoid running in a more or less straight line. Slowed by the trees, he led the others a mile or so into the forest then waited for Lyssa to catch up.

  When the ranger came riding among them—”See if you can find a trail to follow so we can make better time and lose these drakka altogether.”

  Lyssa nodded, and as she frowned in concentration, Rith said, “If they have a powerful enough caster among them, they will follow us regardles
s.”

  Arik sighed. “I know, Rith. But we can always hope.”

  Behind them bugles blatted and Kane hefted his spear. “I think they follow even now,” he rumbled.

  At that moment Lyssa gasped, her eyes flying wide. “Arda!” she exclaimed.

  “What is it?” Ky cried as she swiftly drew her black main gauche and looked about for oncoming foe, but only silent trees met her gaze.

  “Lord,” breathed Lyssa, “there’s a great silver path just ahead. Wider than any I’ve ever seen.”

  “Silver path?” barked Arton.

  “Some kind of enchanted way,” replied Lyssa.

  Again bugles sounded, closer.

  “This silver way,” said Arik, “it could be a trap.”

  Once more the bugles sounded, closer still.

  “I think we’ve no time to debate the choices,” cried Lyssa, spurring forward. “Follow me.”

  Among hoary oaks and tall maples and spreading elms they ran, Lyssa galloping toward the silver way her eyes alone could see, the remaining Foxes thundering after.

  Through a wall of trees they burst and onto a wide dirt road. Leftward it ran, into the Wythwood, but it ran to the right not at all. Haling her reins leftward, along this way Lyssa fled, the others in her wake. And lo! the galloping steeds sped through the forest faster than any horse could possibly run, faster than an eagle could fly.

  “Arda,” cried Arik as the trees flashed by, “what is happening?”

  “This road, this road, this very road,” called Rith following, “’tis magic beyond comprehension.”

  Arik looked back at the bard, and his eyes widened, for beyond her, beyond Ky and Kane, beyond Arton coming last, the dirt road simply vanished behind them as they ran. Arik turned and faced forward once more, no longer asking questions, though his mind was filled with them, but merely accepting instead.

  On into the woods they raced, miles vanishing in the twinkle of an eye, but at last they came to the very end of the incredible road, to a grassy clearing encircled by massive oak trees. And in the center of the sward stood an oak tree beyond all others, its huge girth nearly a hundred feet ’round, its massive limbs reaching out across the whole of the glade, its top beyond seeing through the leaves above.

  “Bless me,” breathed Arton. “I think we’ve come to Wythwood’s very heart.”

  “That’s not all we’ve come to,” said Arik, pointing.

  Ensconced down among huge, gnarled roots and snuggled up against the immense bole sat a modest, thatch-roofed cottage, a thin tendril of smoke rising from its chimney.

  The cottage was larger on the inside than was possible, and in a small bedroom off the kitchen they found supine on a cot an ancient, white-haired syldari who did not move or speak. His dark eyes were open and unblinking, his gaze fixed and unseeing, and his wheezing breath was shallow and rapid and rattling in his chest. In his right hand he held a white carven staff.

  “Pon Barius?” breathed Ky.

  Kane stepped to the side of the bunk and lay his hands on the timeworn elder, then he turned to the other Foxes. “Whether or not he is Pon Barius, this wasted syldari is dying.”

  22

  Alarm

  (Coburn Facility)

  Timothy leaned forward and keyed his microphone. “Tell me, Avery, how close is virtual time to real? Are the Black Foxes nearly in sync with what we are seeing on the holo?”

  In the holovid, the Black Foxes were just entering a cottage in a forest.

  “No, Doctor Rendell. Virtual time is running faster than real. The fact of the matter is, in virtual reality the Black Foxes are already gone from the Wythwood.”

  “My, my,” exclaimed Greyson into his own mike, “already gone you say?”

  “Yes, Doctor Greyson,” replied Avery. “But they are on a journey now and soon the holo will be in sync with the adventure.”

  “Fast forward, eh?” Greyson chuckled.

  “Yes, Doctor Greyson. But if you wish I could jump ahead and show you what they are doing now.”

  “No, no, Avery,” protested Alya Ramanni into her microphone, “I don’t want to know. Why, that would be just like reading ahead in an exciting book. I don’t want to know what’s in the final chapter until I have traveled through the entire story to get there.”

  Timothy grinned. “You and I are of a like mind, Alya. I never could understand the mentality of a person who skips ahead—sometimes to the very end. And I do have a friend who always reads the final chapter first.”

  Greyson cleared his throat. “Perhaps those who skip ahead simply cannot stand the suspense; they can’t wait; they have to know right now! how things turn out.”

  “But then they miss the sense of the story and lose the impact of the climactic scenes,” said Alya.

  “I take it, then, Doctor Ramanni,” said Avery, “you would rather that I let virtual and real time come into sync naturally.”

  “Yes, Avery,” she replied. “Continue as you have been, slipping into fast forward when nothing important is happening—travel and sleep and the like.”

  Silence fell and after a moment Timothy stood and stretched. “I think I’ll go and see what Toni and the others are deciding to do about the storm.” He turned toward the door yet did not step forward, but instead pulled up the left sleeve of his shirt and examined his tingling skin in puzzlement.

  Toni stood at the west-facing windows of the top floor executive conference room and looked out over the desert toward the city of Tucson. Great bolts of lightning hammered down to the earth, thunder rolling after. Now and again there would be a barrage, flash after flash stroking the midnight sky, continuous detonations filling the air.

  “Lord,” said Mark Perry, leaning on his hands against the walnut rail and staring out into the raging night, “it looks like a war.”

  Stein snorted but held his tongue.

  Drew Meyer turned to the technician at his side. “How much has it moved, Jim?”

  “Well, sir, it’s still walking toward us,” replied the young man. “Last I saw it was on the west side of Tucson. Now it seems to be about halfway here.”

  “I’d gauge some of the strikes to be a bit more than a mile away,” said Toni. “Five or six seconds from flash to bang.”

  “Six seconds . . . ?” Mark Perry looked at Toni in puzzlement.

  “Speed of sound,” grated Stein.

  From Perry’s expression it was clear that he still didn’t understand. “Uh . . . I must have missed that in science class.”

  “You count from when you see the flash to when you hear the boom,” said Jim. “At eleven hundred feet a second it takes just under five seconds for the sound to travel a mile.”

  “Oh.”

  Toni turned toward the physicist. “Tell me what you know about lightning, Drew.”

  Doctor Meyer ran his hand over his bald head. “It’s not my specialty, Toni. But we can always step to a netcom and ask Avery.”

  Stein snorted. “We did ask the AI. It said we were well protected.”

  In the near distance lightning stroked downward. “One turtle, two turtle, three turtle . . .” counted Mark Perry. Stein shot the lawyer a disgusted look and moved away.

  When Perry’s count reached thirteen, a rolling boom shook the windows. “Um, let’s see, I’d make that to be some, er, two or three miles away, right?”

  Jim nodded. “About three, Mister Perry.”

  Again lightning jagged, a great sputtering stroke lasting for a second or so and dancing across the city. “Wow,” breathed Perry. “Bright.”

  Toni turned to Doctor Meyer. “Do you think that was typical?”

  Drew shrugged. “I don’t know. As I said, lightning is not my specialty.” The physicist paused, then added, “But I do know that multiple strokes are common and I’ve heard that they can have as many as thirty or forty discharges in a single second. But for all I know that strike could have been rather typical or it could have been one of the so-called superbolts.”

&n
bsp; A stroke flashed nearby. “One turt—” Thunder hammered the windows of the conference room. “Holy cow!” exclaimed Perry. “That was close.”

  “Seven, eight hundred feet,” murmured Jim.

  A sharp gust of rain pelted against the windows, as if seeking to escape the storm outside.

  Perry turned to Toni Adkins. “Look, we’ve got to get the old man out of that rig. I mean, he could be—”

  “Nonsense!” barked Stein. “This building has adequate protection and an excellent backup system in case we do lose power.”

  Perry whirled on Stein. “Lose power? Who the fuck is talking about losing power? I’m talking about the safety of Arthur Coburn, and if anything happens—”

  “Toni,” snapped Stein, “are you going to let Chicken Little here dictate what—”

  “Quiet!” shouted Toni. “Both of you just shut up!” Toni turned to Doctor Meyer. “Have you an opinion?”

  Drew glanced out the window and then to his minicompad, as if seeking answers in the glowing figures. At last he said, “I understand the building is well designed—”

  “Balls!” barked Perry. “Are you going to put your trust in the claims of a contractor?”

  “I said quiet!” snapped Toni. She turned and leaned on her hands against the long walnut table, her head down in thought.

  Lightning stuttered in the distance beyond the city. At last Toni said, “I’m going to abort the test.”

  “What?” shouted Stein. “That’s utterly stupid!”

  Toni spun about and pierced Doctor Stein with her gaze. “I’ll say this once and once only: We’ve got a lot of data. We know that Avery has performed adequately up to now. We do not have all the psychological data we need to fully evaluate Avery’s mindset, but we can suspend the test and resume it at a later time, picking up exactly where we left off. Granted, it will give Avery time to consider and reconsider what he has done so far, but that’s a price I am willing to pay for the safety of—of—” She sputtered to a halt and looked wide-eyed at the others.