“There is more,” The man continued. “We found a track that defies belief. As if a great cloven-hoofed beast moved among them. The prints sank deeply into the hard earth, where it passed the snow was melted from the ground.”
Burcott frowned in consternation, he had never heard of such thing. “Go get some rest we will be moving in a few hours.” He said dismissing the scout. He headed back to his bedroll a faint memory stirring within him.
“Do we press on then?” Jehnom asked once they were seated.
“If it is Morne, they will continue on through the night.” Burcott answered trying to grasp the memory that was evading him. “Sur’kar’s minions prefer the cover of darkness.”
“And should we stumble upon their encampment tomorrow?”
“There in lies our dilemma.” Burcott looked at the weary men around them. “We will await the dawn and should we come across an enemy encampment then we will either sneak past or drive them into hell.”
“And the Fell hounds?”
“They would never attack a group as large as us.” Burcott said with a yawn. “Our numbers grant us some measure of safety.”
The men settled in for what remained of the night. Wrapped in heavy blankets they grabbed what rest they could before the coming sunrise.
With the dawn the army was once more upon the move. A vanguard of fifty riders rode out ahead, leaving an easily followed trail for the main body to follow. An hour before midday they found a sheltered vale and waited for their comrades to arrive.
They rested for an hour and pushed forward once more. Across rolling hills they marched until the shores of the Ravenslaugh came into view.
Brown reeds and steaming pools of reeking muck intermixed with stagnant water stretched to the distant mountains on the western horizon. A foul stench reached the assembled soldiers from a half-mile away.
“The Ravenslaugh,” Burcott announced needlessly. “Let no man or animal drink from its waters. In that way lays certain madness and death.”
The Sahri stood between Jehnom and Burcott’s mounts. “A philosopher once said, True beauty can only be found in still water.” He said wincing against the foul sulfurous stench. “I wonder what he would say if he stood here among us?”
Burcott laughed. “Something enigmatic, if I know my philosophers.”
A smile crossed the youthful nomads face. “Who can truly claim to know a philosopher?”
Burcott grinned and pointed to the east. “We will draw as close to the mountains as possible and give this mire a wide berth.”
They once more resumed their march, the land rising gradually before them. Leaving the fetid mire behind they entered a rugged landscape, the blanket of snow dotted with thick clumps of dried yellow grass. On their right the wall of the Rahlcrag grew mighty. The jagged snowcapped peaks lost in the clouds above.
Ten miles more they covered before taking shelter within a lonely copse of stunted trees. The fallen leaves crunching loudly beneath their feet.
Weary from many days of marching the men collapsed within the scant shelter of the barren trees. Only a few remained awake to watch the strange play of emerald lights in the sky, flashing from the direction of the rank mire.
“Tis the witch lights of Ravenslaugh.” One of Burcott’s men told the astonished on lookers. “My Grand sire served the king in his youth and he saw them often during the Morne wars.”
“Your people have fought the Morne before?” Jehnom asked Burcott after over hearing the warrior’s remarks.
Burcott was honing the edge of his sword; he placed the sharpening stone down and wiped the blade with an oily cloth as he spoke.
“More than once, Jehnom.” He said sheathing the blade. “The Morne have always been a thorn in Trondhiem’s side. Every few decades some tribes would unite and send raiders into our lands. Though few in number, they would sneak through hidden passes in the mountains and destroy remote homesteads. The king’s men would eventually slay them, their survivors returning home to swear vengeance in their dark god’s name.”
“Your King’s never invaded their lands and eliminated the threat?”
“The land of Morne is vast, with many tribes. The ones we would seek would simply vanish and their brethren would rise up and fight to the death.” Burcott shook his head. “It would be a bloody business that neither side would win.” Burcott looked to the lights playing across the western sky. “Upon horseback the Morne are fierce warriors with great skill.
“It is in siege warfare that their skill is lacking.” Burcott continued. “For this very reason they have failed in all their attacks upon Timosh. To beat the Morne it is best to draw them to you, and do so on rugged ground where their Horses cannot be utilized with any effectiveness.”
Somewhere in the dark a man screamed, a blood-chilling cry that sent the camp into motion. Weapons were drawn and companies formed, each becoming part of a large ring defending their bivouac in its center.
“Jehnom,” Burcott called the Taur Di to his side. “How fare your mounts in the darkness?”
“Better than horses.” The Taur Di said looking out upon the darkened landscape; nothing moved in the gloom that he could see.
In the camps center the horses began to snort and tear at the ground with their hooves.
“They’ve caught the scent of something not to their liking.” Burcott muttered looking over his shoulder at the disturbed mounts. “Take twenty riders and check our perimeter.” He said looking back at the forest warrior. “If anything is amiss sound your horns and rejoin us.”
Jehnom bowed and disappeared into the darkness gathering his men about him.
The Taur Di riders rushed out of the camp, their stags moving as silently as shadows on the snow clad landscape, surefooted in the gloom.
Long minutes passed as the Taur Di circled outward in a growing spiral. The riders cautiously searching the landscape for any concealed threats.
They had not traveled far when they suddenly stopped. One rider rushed back while the others sat watching the surrounding landscape.
The rider rode to Burcott and brought his mount to a stop. “It is one of the Ahmed.” He announced in a thick accent that took Burcott a moment to understand. “He has been badly mauled by some beasts, Fell hound by the looks of the tracks.”
Burcott cursed. “What was he doing beyond the picket line?”
“Relieving himself.” The warrior answered.
Burcott slammed his sword into its scabbard. “He felt it necessary to leave camp to do so?” Burcott asked looking to the Sahri. “We have dug a latrine, why not use it?”
“Among my people there are many taboos.” The Sahri answered. “One of which is privacy when performing such acts. Perhaps he was uncomfortable being near so many men.”
Burcott chewed his lip allowing his anger to cool. “Uncomfortable or not, no one is to leave our camps once the watch is set. A full bladder is not worth losing your life.”
“It is a hard lesson.” The Sahri said genuinely upset by the loss of one of his men. “But we will adapt.”
The Sahri called out to his captains and spoke softly to them in his native tongue. “If you will forgive me,” He said turning once more to Burcott. “We must see to our fallen brother.”
The Sahri wrapped his scarf about his head and walked into the darkness. The entire army of Ahmed followed their leader. They kneeled upon the ground and placed their foreheads against the earth in prayer while the kin of the slain man washed his body and wrapped him in the silken cloth of his tent.
One by one the men stepped forward and placed a small stone upon the body. A cairn of rock slowly took shape, the final resting place for the warrior.
The Sahri was the last to place a stone upon the cairn. He wept openly as he did so. Once more the warriors bowed and turned their backs on the grave. Removing their scarves they returned to the campsite in silence.
Burcott looked on the Sahri and wondered how the young man would hold up when his men died by th
e hundreds.
Throughout the remainder of the night dark furtive shapes stalked about the camp, feral eyes searching for a weakness that would allow the hounds to claim more victims.
Chapter Fourteen
Into darkness plunged Casius, the wind roaring in his ears as he fell. He cried out in anguish as fire burned within him. His mind was under assault; a powerful force tore at his sanity striving to rend him from his body.
His conscious mind fled as images of terrible destruction and death overwhelmed his thoughts. Even as the darkness swallowed him, he was unaware of the brilliant argent light flaring upon his right hand.
Mighty powers warred within his mind tearing at his very soul for dominance. Casius clung tightly to the sword, his only anchor to the world. He screamed as his body impacted scalding water. Far beneath its surface he plunged, sinking lower into blackness.
It would be so easy to relax and sink into the abyss he thought, a simple thing to be free of the pain. “Fight it!” a familiar voice in his mind cried. “Swim!” It commanded him.
Casius could not disobey his father. He kicked his feet and broke the surface. Gasping for air he slid the sword into its sheath. Coughing up gouts of foul tasting water he swam in the darkness until his feet touched the slimy bottom.
He was blind, he could only move towards what sounded like water lapping upon a shore. Staggering free of the hot liquid he fell face down upon the rounded stones of the bank. His body aching, both burning hot and freezing cold at the same time.
He shivered violently and retched until his stomach was empty. In the darkness he cried, for Marcos and Suni. He wept for all those that he had lost. He was defeated; and could see no future for him now. Their quest had failed and now Sur’kar’s victory was all but assured.
Long he lay in the darkness listening to the gentle lapping of the water. Colors danced before his eyes in the inky black and he began to lose consciousness.
Hours later he staggers to his feet, no longer thinking. His mind a roiling mixture of emotion, the water had poisoned him and was slowly eroding what remained of his mind. Somewhere deep down, a small fragment of him yet remained but it was locked in lamentation and unaware.
The walls of the cavern slowly came into focus, illuminated by the heat they gave off. Shuffling along he enters a tunnel through which the water slowly flowed. Knee deep in the black liquid he sloshed for hours, lost and bewildered. His thoughts filled with burning hatred and rage.
The pain of his burns forgotten, the pulsing light of Marcos’s ring upon his hand a mere distraction in his madness. Across Slime covered boulders he crawled growing weaker by the hour as hot poison raced through his veins.
Casius no longer knew who or what he was but in his delirium he became aware of a power growing within him. His burns no longer pained him and his vision improved in the total darkness. Now he could even see the pale blue glow of living creatures within the tunnels. Spiders, crickets, and even strange eel like fish that survived in the scalding waters through which he floundered.
For three days he wandered the labyrinth, through pits dark and dire, past boiling pools of mud and seeping flows of cooling lava. He had become a creature of the dark driven by some unknown purpose.
The darkness ahead brightened and suddenly he was free of the stone prison. He stumbled out onto a low plateau in the Vurgwall. A roaring waterfall tumbled over the cliff at his side. Squinting against the suns glare he wandered the cliffs edge until he found a suitable way down.
He came down from the heights and looked out upon the fog-shrouded waters of a great marsh. The sight of so many living things filled him with hatred and rage. Power coursed through his veins and the ground buckled and steamed beneath his feet.
His eyes burned with fire and he screamed at the sky. A primal roar that silenced the bird calls from the swamp. His cry of anger turned to anguish as the ring upon his hand flared to life once more. Casius stumbled and collapsed upon the ground the possessing spirit broken, his own mind becoming aware of his surroundings.
He wearily sat up and looked at the swamp, a pang of despair filled him and fresh tears streaked his face. He knew where he was and the thought of traversing the dark mire alone frightened him.
Laying his hand on his hip he was surprised to find Aethir safe within its stained sheath. The blade was quiescent but he could feel a strange sense of power coursing through him. He looked to his hand and could see Marcos’s ring upon his finger. Once the band had merely appeared to be gold but now he could see faint tendrils of fire reaching out from it, swirling in the air as they passed through him and faded as if they were nothing more than smoke.
He was hungry and thirsty, but he knew to drink the water was dangerous. He had been given a reprieve from the madness and did not desire to tempt that fate once again.
Coming to his feet he walked out into the mire heading along what solid ground he could find, journeying slowly northeastward.
Near nightfall he walked onto a dry patch of earth and came across a giant flightless bird. The creature bolted and disappeared into the fog, leaving behind a nest with four eggs the size of his fist.
Casius did not hesitate he ate his fill and settled into the nest for the night. It was cramped but dry and though the air was bitterly cold he felt it not.
Casius awakened with a start during the night as something massive stalked past his resting spot. Even with his newly acquired sight he could only see a short way and the thing that shook the earth with its passage was beyond his perception. Trees cracked and fell to earth as the leviathan lumbered past.
Casius remained awake long after the sounds of its passage had faded into the distance. Only when the buzzing of insects and chirping of frogs had resumed did he once more fall asleep.
While he slumbered the waters of the mire glowed a brilliant emerald green color. The figure of a young woman watched him from afar, the spirit could sense the power lying within him and she had no desire to test it. As the sun rose she slowly faded, returning to her watery grave in the mire.
Casius awakened as the suns colors touched the dark sky. He rolled out of the nest and stretched his legs. Shaking the cobwebs from his head he began to wade northeastward once more.
For seven days he forced his way through the heart of the swamp, the normally bellicose creatures of the marsh fleeing before him in terror. It was nearing nightfall when he shambled out of the water; dirty and wet his tattered clothing caked with a thick layer of mud. He walked a few hundred feet from the waters edge and sat with his back against a small boulder, in a few moments he was asleep. Dreaming of fire and destruction.
He was bone weary and had finally freed himself of the Ravenslaugh, a trek of forty-seven miles.
Chapter Fifteen
“Ugh!” Connell said in disgust after swallowing a leathery lump of jerky. “And we wonder why the Morne have such foul dispositions.” He grimaced, eyeing the remaining strip of dried meat in his hand. “If we get them some decent food perhaps they would become more amicable.”
“I wonder what kind of meat this is?” Yoladt mused digging through the sack of supplies they had stolen from the Morne garrison.
Connell was about to take another bite but decided against it after hearing the Mahjie’s question. “Maybe it would be better if we don’t find out.” Tossing the meat aside he bit into a hard biscuit and spat out the sour dough as a wave of fiery spices assaulted his tongue. He grabbed the water skin and attempted to flush the heat from his mouth.
Yoladt laughed, for he had had the same experience a few moments earlier.
“What is this made from?” Connell asked sniffing the bread. “Fire thorn root?”
“I believe it is seasoned with Caer peppers.” Yoladt answered. “It grows well in arid lands. My people use it in our cooking as well.” Yoladt smiled biting into a biscuit.
Connell set the bag aside. “Leathery meat and flaming bread, I’ll do without for now.”
“It will improve as yo
ur hunger grows.” Yoladt said finishing his biscuit. He looked through the trees to the trail beyond.
Connell stood brushing off his cloak. “The horses have rested long enough.” He commented lashing the supply sack behind his saddle.
Yoladt nodded. “Aye it would be better to keep moving than to get caught sitting still by any who may be following our track.”
They took to the trail once more, setting a quick but easy pace that would save the horses strength. After five long hours they came to a crossroads. One track headed south, while another less frequented ventured through the sickly forest bearing northward.
Connell reined his horse to a stop and patted the stallion’s neck to calm him. “That way lays the black keep of Vi’Eruk.” He said pointing south. “To go that route all but guarantees our death.” Turning his horse to the north he sets his mount off at a walk. “This trail should take us to the Un’eldur pass. A way less traveled and more suited to our needs.”
“Should lead?” Yoladt asked. “And if not?”
Connell shrugged. “Then we search it out. The pass is warded, but it is so narrow and treacherous no army can make use of it.” Connell lifted the hem of his soiled Morne cloak. “It is used by messengers and scouts, if fortune smiles upon us our ruse may see us safely through.”
“Fortune seldom smiles our way Connell.”
Connell nods his eyes full of grief. “Then perhaps we are overdue.” With a grunt he spurs his horse forward the packhorse trailing after.
Yoladt looked to the sky. “I hope your listening.” He said to the gloom above.
They rode for two hours before switching to their remounts. After several more hours Connell left the trail and led the way back into the shelter of the trees. They made camp that night beside a fast flowing stream that tumbled noisily over large moss laden stones.
Brushing the horses down with handfuls of dried grass they listened to the eerie cries of the forest denizens beginning to stir.
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