Beyond the Wide Wall

by Ploof, Michael James

  “Be that as it may, my sensitive friend, that is our path, and that ‘somethin’ not nice’ best get out of the way, for the Champions of the Dragon march forth!” Sir Eldrick said it boastfully and loud, but his words did not echo; they rose quick and flat and disappeared into the thickness of the breathing forest.

  His words and confidence did give the friends strength, however, and on his lead, they moved into the passageway with heads held high.

  Murland rode on the pack horse that the general had offered them, for the canopy was too thick to successfully scout from the air. With one hand on his new dagger and the other on the reins, he followed Gibrig and Brannon, trying to keep an eye on both sides of the road at once.

  The forest beyond the trees lining the road was thick and rich with dark green moss. The only things left untouched were the large multicolored mushrooms, some of the caps of which grew as wide as a knight’s shield. No animals scurried in those woods, no birds erupted from the treetops at the champions’ arrival, and not one chipmunk chittered the urgent song of warning. The deliberateness of time showed in the slow aging of the forest and the green glowing salsify flowers that floated on the still air, their umbrella-like plumose crowns of hair above long, slender one-seeded fruit.

  Murland was enchanted by the mystical forest, and soon his fears were replaced by the wistfulness of magic and mystery. Could it be that the forest was not so evil and foreboding? He wondered. For how could the dead inhabit such a wonderful forest?

  “Guard yourselves from the enchantments of the forest,” Sir Eldrick warned, and his voice, though soft and even, was grating to the blissful stupor that Murland found himself in. He shook it off, glancing over at Willow and noticing that she too seemed lazy and listless.

  “The dangers of the forest are not always monsters hiding in the shadows. There is a quiet danger here, one that leads men off the road and into the wood forever. Trust me, you are best to be on guard for even pleasant feelings.”

  Murland shifted uncomfortably on the back of the pack horse and, realizing that he had loosened his grip on his dagger, tightened it again.

  He listened closely to the long silence of the forest, and again those faint murmurs, those quick snickers of laughter, deep and menacing, came to him. The canopy of trees covering the straight and narrow road seemed never to end, and Murland wondered if indeed it ever did. Had they been turned around somehow? Had they gotten trapped in some sort of illusion? The road unfolded before him like a dream, continuing through the lines of identical trees, the end of which seemed always just up ahead, where faint light glowed in a clearing. But they never seemed to get closer.

  Murland was about to say something when thunder suddenly shattered the long silence and shook the ground beneath them. The horses were startled and fought against their bits, stomping at the ground in agitation.

  “Sounds like a storm caught up to us,” said Sir Eldrick. “No matter, these trees will shelter us from the worst of the rain, I imagine.”

  Murland thought he saw the trees beyond the shadows moving. He swallowed hard, eyes darting left and right, left and right.

  Thunder crashed again, and Murland’s horse nearly threw him off. He struggled to get control of the beast as the sound came again, but it was no thunder, he suddenly and sickly realized. Something huge, something terrible and unspeakable was crashing through the woods right at them.

  “Whoa!” Sir Eldrick told his horse, fighting like all of them to keep the beast from fleeing.

  The rumbling crash sounded louder and louder, and suddenly stopped. There was a great creaking noise, like a hundred tree branches all twisting against each other at the same time, and a scream caught in Murland’s throat as two large round eyes gazed down on him from above.

  “Monster!” Gibrig cried.

  “You there, do not come any closer!” Sir Eldrick ordered, unsheathing his mystical, fairy blade.

  “Hhmmrrr?” came a deep, rumbling voice that shook the drooping, moss-covered leaves of the bent trees.

  “What is that?” Brannon demanded. “What in the gods is that?”

  “Whaaat aaam I?” came the thick, slow voice. “Hhmmrr.”

  There was another crash of trees and broken branches, and a figure fifty feet tall stepped onto the road. Murland stared, mouth agape, for before them stood a creature shaped like a giant man, but who appeared to be a tree. His legs were like strong old pines, with long, crooked, rooted toes. His torso and chest were thick like one of Halala’s native sequoias, and his arms, long and slender, were white like birch trees. His beard was a tangle of long roots, and his wild hair was long and mossy green, with leaves and twigs sprinkled throughout. Two emerald-green eyes studied the companions above a crooked nose shaped like a tree knot.

  “It’s alright,” said Sir Eldrick. “He’s an uproot. They are usually friendly.”

  “Usually?” said Brannon, eyes darting from the knight to the creature.

  “Tall and majestic uproot, hello!” said Sir Eldrick, circling before the group with his disturbed horse before reining the beast in.

  “Haaa…looo,” said the uproot, bending and peering at them as a man might an ant or a curious-looking woodland creature.

  “I am Sir Eldrick of Vhalovia. With me are the Champions of the Dragon. Brannon the Elf Prince of Halala, Murland the Wizard of Abra Tower, Willow the…Bulbous of Fire Swamp, and Gibrig the Brave of the Iron Mountains. We have been good to the forest, and mean only to pass through peacefully.”

  “Hhrruumm,” the uproot hummed, seeming to consider his words. When he spoke, his speech was slow, with long, drawn-out syllables. “You speak words of peace, yet you stink of fire.”

  “We only burned that which was already dead,” said Sir Eldrick. “I promise you.”

  “But…the nights are warm, why burn the dead?”

  “Fire keeps away evil things.”

  The uproot considered this, and finally nodded. “But evil things in this forest are few. Do you bring evil with you?”

  “None but that which we have not been able to kill within our hearts,” said Sir Eldrick. “But I can assure you, it is but a small part.”

  “Spoken like a weathered soul,” said the uproot, and he nodded at the companions. “I am Rootbeard, guardian of the forest.”

  “Well met, Rootbeard. Could you tell us where this road ends? For I have traveled it before, and it seems longer than I remember.”

  “No road ever ends, for you can simply turn around and begin again.”

  “Have we been turned around?”

  “Only your horses can say,” said Rootbeard, and he bent lower and spoke strange words to the horses.

  Sir Eldrick’s horse bucked, raising and lowering his head.

  “He says that indeed, you have been turned around for some time, for the Wall is just behind you, as you can see.”

  Murland turned around and took in a shocked breath upon seeing the Wide Wall only a few miles behind them.

  “That…that can’t be,” said Brannon, breathlessly. “Are you telling me that we have traveled all that time for nothing?”

  “Whoa,” said Willow reverently.

  “Pap is never gonna believe this,” Gibrig told them.

  “Rootbeard, would you lead us west out of this wood?” said Sir Eldrick. “For I believe that it has had enough of our smoke.”

  “Hrumph!” Rootbeard coughed. “This is true. Come, the way is not far.”

  He turned and led them down the road, parting the tall boughs with his shoulders and littering the road with leaves and twigs in his wake.

  Murland glanced over at Willow, whose big green shoulders were drooped and pensive, and he realized that she didn’t like things so much bigger than herself.

  He had his own reservations about the giant tree-man, but soon Rootbeard had led them out of the dense overbearing row of boughs and onto more open ground. The road here was just as overgrown, but there were game trails running throughout, which gave some sembl
ance of normalcy.

  “What is your destination?” Rootbeard asked over his shoulder.

  Sir Eldrick snapped the reins to ride beside the giant. “Bad Mountain,” he said, yelling up at Rootbeard.

  The uproot stopped and regarded Sir Eldrick and the others in turn. “Bad Mountain…but why?”

  “As I said, we are the Champions of the Dragon. We are headed to Bad Mountain to face the dreaded Drak’Noir.”

  “Drak’Noir,” said Rootbeard, stroking his rooted chin in thought. Then his eyes shot wide with realization and his bushy eyebrows came together. “Yes, I remember now. The wyrm with breath of flame who scorched the earth. Hrumph, hrumph! Then you are indeed friends of the forest.”

  “We are friends of all who wish to live and grow and dig their roots deep in peace,” said Sir Eldrick.

  Rootbeard seemed to like that, for he nodded and hummed musically, and the sound was like the shaking of leaves and moaning of trees in the autumn wind. It reminded Murland of apple cider and pumpkins and cool air blowing down from the mountains.

  They followed Rootbeard for nearly an hour, and he brought them far from the dark forest and into a glade lined with pine and swarming with small, luminescent bugs.

  “Oh, my, gods,” said Brannon, and everyone looked to where the elf’s eyes had frozen. There, across a shallow pond half covered in lily pads, stood a white unicorn, drinking from the edge of the shore.

  Murland grinned for no better reason than because he had to. The majestic creature glanced up at them as it drank, but there was no fear in those dark eyes, only cautious regard. Murland looked closer at the bugs zipping this way and that across the surface of the pond and realized, to his delight, that they were not bugs, but the tiniest of sprites.

  Willow laughed and put out her finger for one to land on. A little yellow sprite landed on her green finger and laughed gleefully when Willow spoke the strange language of the fae.

  “You have found friends in the woodland creatures. This is good,” said Rootbeard. “Then I will leave you here. You are in good hands with the little fae.”

  “Will we ever see you again?” Gibrig asked, quite enamored with the idea of being led by a friendly giant.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Only the tallest of oaks know such things. If I find one, I shall ask for you, young dwarf-man.”

  “Goodbye Rootbeard!” Gibrig called after him, teary-eyed.

  “Thank you for leading us out of the never-ending wood!” Sir Eldrick added.

  The others thanked him in their own way, and everyone eventually turned their attention to Willow, who was now covered in thousands of little sprites.

  “They say they know of a wonderful place where we might find rest,” said Willow, giggling as she was slowly dragged along by the army of tiny fae.

  Sir Eldrick unsheathed his blade, holding it aloft in all its glowing splendor. “This is a gift to me from none other than the queen of Faeland. Lead us to harm, and she shall not go easy on you.”

  The little sprites all gave a collective shriek and changed direction with Willow.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sir Eldrick, sheathing his enchanted blade. “Come, they will not lead us into danger.”

  The group was led along the stream down a grassy path lined with elderberries and lemon grass, which lent a sweet aroma to the heretofore musky glade. To their right, a muddy bog echoed with the love songs of frogs, which the sprites were careful to keep a safe distance from. To the left, a steep hillside rose, covered in thorny bushes and vines.

  The path led to a waterfall, shimmering in the sunlight like a beacon in the darkness. Murland, Brannon, and Gibrig found themselves spurring their horses to hurry on.

  “What did I say?” said Sir Eldrick, scowling back at them when his horse was bumped. “Keep your heads! Do not rush into anything here.”

  Sobered, the companions fell back into a neat line.

  “Wait here,” said Sir Eldrick, and he followed Willow to the water, demanding that the sprites let her go. He waded out into the water with his glowing sword and checked behind the crashing waterfall. He emerged out the other side a few seconds later, shook out his wet hair, and returned to the group.

  “The way seems clear. But be on guard.”

  The companions needed to hear no more, for as soon as Sir Eldrick had spoken, they were off their horses and running to the water, laughing and pushing each other like siblings.

  Sir Eldrick couldn’t help but smile with them.

  Chapter 4

  Lufetarg Daed: The City of the Dead

  After a long swim and a good meal, the companions fell soundly asleep beside the babbling brook, a stone’s throw away from the waterfall. To their right were the shallows in which they had gone swimming. Sir Eldrick needed only worry about the dark tangle of trees to the left, the way they had come. But despite his warnings to the others, he felt safe here. He fell asleep during his watch, something that he hadn’t done in his entire career.

  He awoke in the morning, alert and concerned for what might have happened. He was regretfully aware that he had fallen asleep at his post, and he leapt to his feet, whirling around and studying the surroundings.

  The sprites had all gone. It was morning. The forest was silent and still.

  “Wake up,” he told the others. When only Murland stirred, he kicked Brannon, Willow, and Gibrig in their backsides. “Wake up,” he repeated.

  They came to with yawns and grumbles and happy smiles. Sir Eldrick silenced them all with a harsh shush and a finger pointed to the sky. He cupped his ear, pointed at the woods to their left, and put that same finger to his lips.

  “He means for us all to be quiet,” said Gibrig.

  Sir Eldrick rolled his eyes and glared at the dwarf.

  They all listened.

  A song, sung loud and happily, broke through the trees and bathed the glade in joyous glee.

  “Hully Gully, Betty and Dupree, Big Boy Pete and Darling Corey, Do you wanna dance, dancing in the streets?”

  “What is that?” Murland asked, but Sir Eldrick only quieted him with a hiss.

  They waited, and the song continued, and soon a small figure danced out of the path and toward camp. Another figure came, and then another, and the companions were mystified to find small, colorful bears dancing their way. The bears skipped, hand in hand, singing their song and grinning their soft-toothed grins.

  “Cream puff war, lost sailor, me and my uncle, maybe you know. Mission in the rain, pain in my heart, Parchman Farm, tomorrow is a long time…”

  “Ho, there!” said Sir Eldrick in his most commanding voice.

  The little colorful bears just kept on dancing and singing, taking the hands of the companions and spinning merry circles around them.

  “Look on yonder’s wall, man of peace, you don’t have to ask, when I paint a masterpiece.”

  “What are they jabbering on about?” Brannon asked, trying not to be whisked away by the light-footed celebrators.

  “I don’t know. It is some kind of riddle, or a rhyme,” said Sir Eldrick. “I do not feel that they are a threat, however, let us see where they lead.”

  The companions happily agreed, quite eager to learn anything more about the merry folk.

  The song went on and on and repeated, and just when the companions began to think that maybe the strange bears were leading them nowhere, they came to a hillside looking out over a ruined city, one with smoke rising from smoldering fires and figures dancing merrily among the ruins and overgrown passageways.

  “Sir Eldrick?” Brannon said evenly.

  “Yes, I have heard of this city. But this makes no sense…If I am correct, this is the long-lost city of Lufetarg Daed. Legend speaks of it as the birth place of human music, poetry, mysticism, and the various arts. But I do not know how we got here. And I cannot ensure that we haven’t been snared by some…enchantment.”

  “You feel any magix about?” Willow asked Murland.

  “I…uh,” Murland
began, but then he extended his magical senses, the way he had been taught by Professor Bumblemoore. “YES!” he suddenly needed to blurt, for the magical energy of the place hit him all at once. “It is all around us, running through us. It is us and we are it.”

  Willow leaned in toward Brannon and said behind her hand, “I think someone’s been sampling the local moss. If ya know what I mean.”

  Brannon offered her a small scowl and dismissively went back to observing his surroundings.

  “Be on your guard,” said Sir Eldrick, following the bears down the side of the hill leading to the city.

  Murland and the others followed him eagerly, for a strange song was rising on the wind and blowing in from the bonfire at the center of the ruined city square. He noticed that none of the crumbling buildings were inhabited, indeed, most of their bricks had been gathered and used to make strange sculptures, mostly of animals and magical creatures, which sat in the streets illuminated by the gathered pixies nesting in and about the lifelike works. Tents littered the small city’s streets, and humans, elves, dwarves, ogres, trolls, centaurs, and other sentient creatures began to come out, laughing and pointing merrily at the approaching companions.

  “How can this be?” Brannon asked Sir Eldrick. “They are...they look…they don’t look dead at all.”

  “They ain’t the dead,” said Gibrig pleasantly, but then his face dropped and he looked to Sir Eldrick. “Are they?”

  A horn sounded somewhere in the city, its pitch at first deep but then rising higher, until it ended with a long chirrup, like a sparrow’s morning song. The many races gathered around in a circle, and Sir Eldrick couldn’t help but grin at the flamboyant and free nature of their attire. They wore the most colorful of clothes, loose-fitting and blowing in the pleasant spring breeze. There were many long dresses, worn by both males and females of the group, which was a few hundred strong. They carried no weapons that Sir Eldrick could see, rather, they were adorned in beaded necklaces and handcrafted earrings, nose-rings, lip rings, and strangely enough, brow rings. Many of the humans, elves, dwarves, and namely the ogres, wore their hair uncombed, which had led to unruly knots of tangled hair that had been dyed a variety of colors. Braids too adorned their long locks.