Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure

by Dennis L McKiernan

She grinned at him and reached under her yellow rainsuit jacket and fished out another cigarillo.

  Solemnly she handed it to him.

  Just as solemnly he lit them both.

  43

  Kalagar

  (Itheria)

  With Arik leading and three Black Foxes and Trendel trailing after, south they rode then west, fleeing from Horax’s tower. And as they ran among the trees the hue and cry within the fortress walls faded in the distance. They galloped across the island of hill country and swiftly came to the swamp, and just as they reined back their steeds, a luminous mist caught up with them and coalesced into Lyssa’s form.

  Into the bog she led them, mosquitoes and gnats whining about in a blood-hungry swarm. They batted and swatted and slapped at the bugs for a half mile or so, then paused on a bit of high ground. Kane passed around a vial of pungent reetha juice and they dabbed it on themselves and on the six horses and two mules. Then only the maddest of the blood-mad insects attempted to penetrate the fumes to bite.

  But nothing stopped the leeches, and whenever the Foxes came to a patch of dry land they would pause long enough to scrape the blood-suckers free.

  As before, when insects flew about Lyssa, attracted to her light like moths to a flame, they would circle once or twice, then fall into the mire, their minuscule life forces drained by her presence, though she gained virtually no sustenance from their incompatible loss.

  Orbis passed overhead and sank into the west, and just before dawn they found a large hummock covered with sharp-bladed sawgrass, where they stopped to make camp.

  “Lyssa, you must draw life force,” said Kane, looking east, “before dayrise.”

  Lyssa shook her head.

  “Were they human?” asked Rith, surprised. “They did not seem so.”

  signaled Lyssa.

  “Horax the Bastard,” hissed Ky, tears welling again. Her shoulders slumped. “I loved Arton like an uncle. And Pon Barius?—he reminded me of my own grandsire.”

  Dawn broke across the Drasp, and with the coming of the sun, Lyssa vanished.

  They tended the horses and mules, currying and feeding them rations of grain. Then the Foxes and Trendel settled down to a meal of their own.

  Arik cast a glance at their new companion. “You handled yourself well back there.” Arik tilted his head toward the direction of the distant tower, ten or twelve miles arear.

  “I had a good swordmaster,” replied Trendel, biting off a mouthful of jerky and chewing slowly. “Actually a good axemaster, too,” he added, talking ’round his mouthful.

  “Trendel is a seer,” said Ky.

  “Oh?” Arik raised an eyebrow. “Then how came you to be in Horax’s prison? Did you not foresee your own fate?”

  Trendel shook his head. “Peering into the future—especially one’s own future—is no small feat. A tricky business at best and highly unreliable, for the very act of looking oft changes the way ahead. Besides, the dubious information gained is usually not worth the cost. —But as to how I landed in Horax’s cell, I don’t know at the moment, yet after this meal and a nap I will discover the reason.”

  Ky tilted her head. “Cast that past-vision spell?”

  Trendel nodded.

  Ky turned to the others. “He couldn’t do it in Horax’s dungeon. It was null, you know. Takes away your magical talents. —That’s what gave you all such splitting headaches when you came running in.”

  Kane and Rith nodded, but Arik looked at her wide-eyed. “Wait a moment. That can’t be right. I got a splitting headache in there and I have absolutely no magical talent.”

  Now it was Ky’s turn to be wide-eyed. “That’s right! You did get a headache. —But hold on a moment . . . you must have talent, else the cell wouldn’t have hurt you.”

  Rith looked at the warrior. “My, my, Arik, what have you been keeping from us all these years?”

  Slowly Arik shook his head. “Beats the seven hells out of me,” he replied.

  Kane growled. “One of these days we’re going to go on a venture where there are no enigmas to resolve. Just plain old combat, and not much of that.”

  “Against pitiful foe, I hope, and in a comfortable place,” added Rith, waving at the Drasp. “I’ve had enough of fighting and slogging.”

  “Pitiful foe or skilled, it does not matter,” said Kane. “Just as long as there are no cursed unsolvable riddles. I mean, look at what we’ve got: a leader with a magical talent which even he doesn’t know. A gem with a mysterious rune enscribed inside. A—”

  “Rune?” asked Trendel, looking at Ky. “You didn’t tell me about a rune.”

  “I forgot all about it,” said Ky. “I only saw it that once.” Ky took out her dagger and as she scratched in the soft dirt of the hummock, she said, “It looked something like this—”

  Trendel cocked his head and stared at the figure. “Well, I know quite a bit about runes and glyphs,” he said, “but this one I’ve never seen before. Besides, to decipher any magical meaning it might have, I need to do a casting on the real thing. When we recover the gem from Horax, let me take a look. Perhaps I can decipher it. It could prove to be important or trivial or have no significance at all.”

  Arik raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean to come with us?”

  Trendel took a deep breath. “Well, it seems as if you could use a hand, and I’m adequate with weapons. Too, I am a rather good seer, or so I think, and my sort of talent is quite useful. And you broke me free of imprisonment. With all that, how could I refuse to aid you? Besides, I already feel like a Black Fox, at least temporarily, though I’m not dressed for the part.” Trendel gestured at his tattered raiment.

  Arik glanced at the others, then stood and stepped to his gear. He pulled out his spare set of leathers and tossed them at Trendel. “Welcome to the Black Foxes”—he grinned—”at least temporarily.”

  Arik’s leathers were a bit large on Trendel, but all in all better garments for swamp travel than the seer’s torn silks and satins. “What? No spare boots?” he asked in mock indignation.

  “’Fraid not,” replied Arik. “We’ll just have to wait till we get to a town.”

  “Where I’ll get me a good axe, too,” said Trendel, peering at his inadequate shoes. “If we’ve any money, that is.” He turned out his empty pockets. “At the moment I seem to be totally embarrassed.”

  “Horax the Bastard probably took it all,” gritted Ky. She turned to Kane. “You know, he really is a traitorous bastard. He’s the one from the Circle of Mages who betrayed Jaytar to the demons. And he’s proud of it, too. And now he’s gone to be with the DemonQueen—to serve as her consort.”

  Arik looked at the syldari. “Perhaps, Ky, you ought to tell us what you know.”

  Ky nodded. “Well, here’s what he said . . .”

  By the time Ky finished, Kane was stomping back and forth enraged, trampling down sawgrass and cursing Horax the Bastard.

  But Arik sat coolly and considered the facts. “I would guess that Atraxia intends on invading Itheria again . . . this time she is likely to conquer all, for no longer is she opposed by the Inner Circle of Wizards.”

  Ky slowly nodded. “Pon Barius said they were all dead, all but him.”

  Rith raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps he was wrong and some yet live. He was wrong about Horax the Bastard, after all, as we found out in White Mountain, much to our woe.”

  Silence fell on the group, but at last Ky looked across at Rith. “Tell me: what happened after I lost consciousness? How did you defeat the skelga? Was there any problem getting free from White Mountain? And Arton, how did he . . . die? And what happened to Lyssa?”

  Rith looked at the others. “This is a long tale. Why don’t you get some sleep while I tell it to Ky? She and I will take the first watch.”

  “I’ll stay awake and hear it, too, if you don’t mind,” said Trendel, smili
ng at the bard.

  Rith looked at Ky then nodded.

  As Arik and Kane spread their bedrolls, Rith began: “After Kane threw the skelga which slammed you into the wall”—Ky shot an accusing glance at Kane and he turned up his hands and shrugged, then bedded down—”Horax the Bastard lifted you up to use you as a shield. And he demanded the silver dagger with its gem. . . .”

  As the day wore on, the horses and mules stood dozing or grazed on sawgrass, though how they kept from cutting themselves on the sharp blades, none could say. The Black Foxes, too, slept . . . or stood sentry duty. But as the sun neared the western horizon, all were finally awake and taking another meal.

  Rith turned to Trendel and said, “How about your story, seer? Do you yet know how you came to be in Horax the Bastard’s cell?”

  Trendel shrugged. “The last thing I can remember before waking up in the dungeon is being in bed with a lady of my acquaintance.”

  Rith canted her head and smiled toothily. “Was she, perchance, married?”

  Trendel looked down at his hands. “Um, yes. —But I hasten to add that her husband is a pig. —Or so she said.”

  “So then . . . ?”

  “So when I woke up I was in Horax’s dungeon.”

  Ky blew out a breath. “Perhaps you ought to try that spell.”

  Trendel intertwined his fingers and sat with his head bowed. All the other Foxes remained silent. Moments passed. Then Trendel raised his head. There was a confused look in his eye and his hands trembled. “It failed,” he said, trepidation in his voice. “It failed.”

  He looked at Ky, at Rith. “I’ve never failed before.”

  “What did you . . . sense?” asked Rith.

  “A vagueness. It was as if there was virtually nothing between being in bed and then being in the dungeon.”

  “Perhaps the lady drugged you,” suggested Rith.

  “Perhaps it was her husband,” added Ky.

  “Even so, a past vision should have shown me what happened,” responded Trendel. “Instead, it is as if virtually no time at all had elapsed between being at one place and then at another.”

  “Perhaps—” Rith began, but Trendel interrupted her.

  “What day is it?”

  “Orbis eighteen,” said Rith.

  “Orbis eighteen! Luba’s teats, I’ve lost twelve days.”

  Arik standing near, stepped to Trendel’s side and squatted. “Perhaps more. This is Summer third.”

  The air whooshed from Trendel’s lungs. “And the year?”

  “Torlon twenty-seven.”

  Trendel’s eyes flew wide. Quickly he counted on his fingers. “Arda’s Wife! I’ve lost nine months.”

  Rith reached out and laid a soothing hand on Trendel’s arm. “You said you sensed a vagueness. A vagueness of what?”

  Trendel shrugged. “A shadowy premonition that I was, um, elsewhere . . . perhaps on a different plane altogether.”

  Ky shook her head. “How can that be? I mean, it’s not like someone swooped down and abducted you. You’d remember that. No, I’d say that the lady’s husband discovered that you were cuckolding him and drugged you. Perhaps he’s a confederate of Horax.”

  “Squire Foth? Ha! He’s as unlikely to be allied with Horax as I am to be allied with—with—”

  “With the Black Foxes?” asked Ky, grinning.

  Kane, saddling his horse, growled, “Arrgh! Another dretching mystery! It’s like the gods above are handing us one puzzle after another and manipulating us for who knows what ends?”

  The sun set, and as twilight followed, ghostly Lyssa appeared. With Phemis halfway across the sky and Orbis yet to rise, toward the far western marge of the Drasp started the Foxes and horses and mules, riding and walking and sloshing through the grasping, clutching mire. West they fared over sawgrassed hummocks and through pools of slime and among twisted black cypress with greyish moss dangling down; through thick stands of reeds, raising a cloud of gossamer seedlings with their tiny hooklike strands snagging, grabbing, hundreds working their way inside leathers and down, itching abominably; across flats of deep muck, the mud clinging and sucking at their feet as if trying to trap these intruders; through greyish webs of bog spiders, the poisonous arachnids dropping down on them to be swatted away; and all the while, ploppings and slitherings and distant screams sounded through the dark.

  And on this night as they were all afoot and wading across a shallow slough, they saw lights glimmering among the black cypress.

  “Will-o’-the-wisp,” hissed Rith. “Like the one that slew Arton.”

  Mounting up they rode splashing through the mire, and soon the creature was left behind.

  Just before dawn, Lyssa took a small bit of life force from each of them, and then vanished with the coming of day.

  The next night was much the same, except they saw no will-o’-the-wisp creature.

  They reached the edge of the Drasp just after midnight on the following eve. And after they had ridden a mile or so out onto solid ground, they stopped and dismounted to stretch their legs and to feed the horses and mules and to scrape away the last of the leeches.

  “Arda, I’ve never been so happy to be on dry land,” said Trendel.

  A murmur of agreement muttered among the Foxes.

  Arik turned to Lyssa, standing apart. “Do you know where the Kalagar Forest is?”

  She pointed westward and signaled,

  “And the gate?”

  Lyssa shrugged.

  Trendel did not understand the Fox hand code, but he could tell from Arik’s questions and Lyssa’s expressions that although she could get them to the forest, she might have trouble finding the portal. “Don’t worry, Arik. I will be able to locate the gate.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Trendel smiled. “Yes. I know what it looks like. I have seen it on the tapestries chronicling the demonwars.” He frowned a moment in concentration and murmured a word. He smiled again. “That way,” he pointed, “Two-hundred and twelve miles and a furlong or two.”

  They rode westerly at a pace the horses could readily sustain, and Lyssa had no trouble staying with them, the glimmering wraith floating across the ground some fifty paces ahead.

  On the fourth day out from the Drasp, during a driving rain, they came across the moderate town of Grencwmb, where they took rooms in the Eagle’s Nest and rested for two days. And in this time of respite, using Black Fox funds, Trendel purchased leathers and boots that fit, and a one-handed war axe and shield, as well as two throwing axes and a dagger with scabbard . . . and acting on the advice of the other Foxes, he found a smith to silver the blades. Ky, too, purchased a scabbard, this one for her black long-knife, with straps fitted to lash it to her thigh.

  And they bathed and ate warm meals. And in the greatroom of the Eagle’s Nest, Trendel sang harmony to some of Rith’s songs, though he was not trained as a bard. And the inn became fair to overflowing when the townsfolk heard that a true bard and her lover were staying there. Rith smiled at Trendel when he was named as her lover, and that night they turned rumor to truth.

  And although Lyssa kept her distance, this close to a population center it seemed she needed no sustenance from anyone, yet in truth and without willing it she drew a minuscule bit of energy from everyone in the entire town.

  Rested and fed and clean, and with replenished supplies and a new mule, the Foxes resumed their journey. They could have used their spare horse to bear part of the goods, but it was Lyssa’s mount, and they left it saddled and equipped with her gear—a token of their faith that somehow they would restore her to her own true form.

  Six more days they traveled west, the nights now chill as autumn approached. And on the evening of the seventh day they sighted the Kalagar Wood.

  “Trendel?” Arik looked at the seer.

  After a moment, Trendel said, “That way.” And he pointed slightly rightward. “A bit over forty
-one miles.”

  Lyssa looked at the way he directed, then cast a spell of her own. And as clouds gathered low on the horizon, off she moved, a point or so north of west.

  Into the forest she glided, Black Foxes following, and the dismal wood seemed darkly alive and hostile. A chill wind sprang up, lightly at first but growing stronger with each stride they took, until it whirled through the treetops and moaned in agony among thrashing limbs. Twisted branches ending in barren twigs lashed and swayed and reached out as if to snag them, brittle fingers clutching, clawing, the wood creaking and groaning. All the Foxes felt as if they were being watched by unfriendly eyes moving along the periphery, but when they looked nothing was there. And now and again they could hear wild howling on the wind. Yet Lyssa flowed onward, deeper and deeper, pressing farther into this forsaken realm.

  At times they would stop to rest the skittish horses and the unsettled mules, or to feed them a bit of grain. But the animals stamped and fretted and rolled their eyes and would have none of this, and the Foxes then moved on. And whenever they came to a stream in the woods, Kane would test it before allowing any to take a drink. Here at least the animals did take water when offered, though they tossed up their heads and peered around nervously between wary sips.

  And so, riding, walking, and resting, the Foxes and horses and mules moved deeper into the windblown writhing forest, following a glowing wraith.

  Toward morning the sky cleared and the wind died and they made camp in a tiny swale. And as the sun rose up into the sky the air became deathly still and the woods seemed to crowd around suffocatingly close, dark boles closing in. And the hot, stifling day pressed down upon them and no birds sang among the tangled branches. Foxes tossed and turned restlessly, sleeping in fits and starts, and the one on guard saw grotesque shapes standing among the baneful trees, but investigation of these forest lurkers showed each to be a twisted snag and not some malformed watching creature, or so they believed.