by R. E. Fisher
Still taking his time, he wandered back toward the camp while trying to work out a way to handle the situation. He knew in his mind that the odds were that he wouldn’t be getting home anytime soon, and Laz’s comment about the divorce had cut him. Realizing that he normally wouldn’t say something like that, Ollie began to think that he was focusing on it too much. He had always known that Laz was one of those “make the best of it” people. Hell, no matter what bad things might happen in Laz’s life, it wouldn’t bother him for too long. He wanted to talk about their situation, but whenever he tried to bring it up, Laz just looked at him or got angry for bringing it up. Accepting his situation was the only choice remaining for him.
Arriving at the edge of the clearing where the old campsite had been, Ollie noticed that the stench of the balnatharp still hung in the air. He made his way around the polluted clearing and walked the remaining few hundred yards to the relocated campsite. He marched past Dumas, who was lying on his stomach, conversing with Trillian and Sterling. He picked up his saddlebags and bedroll, carrying them to the edge of the clearing where the group had tethered the horses. He walked over to the appaloosa stallion he had bought and patted the horse on his neck. “Little Joe” lifted his head, reaching over to nibble on Ollie’s hand; Ollie reached up and scratched the horse between his ears. After petting the horse, he reached down and picked up the saddle, lifting it over the horse’s back and setting it down gently. He reached under the horse’s stomach to cinch the saddle, and the horse stepped away from him.
“What is it, Dumas? It’s not like you can sneak up on anyone, you know,” Ollie said as he stepped toward Little Joe, grabbed the strap, and continued to tighten the saddle without looking at Dumas.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going back to the city.”
“Can I ask why?”
“No,” Ollie answered as he turned to Dumas, who was sitting on his haunches staring at the outworlder.
“Your concerns will be the same whether you’re here or there.”
“How do you know what my concerns are?” Ollie asked.
“Do you think I wouldn’t like to go back?”
“Back where?”
“Back to being human,” Dumas stated.
Dumas’s answer caused Ollie to pause, as he realized he didn’t know how Dumas had come to be.
Continuing his answer, Dumas said, “I miss being human, Ollie. I wonder how often you’ve thought of things from my perspective since you met me.”
“Quite often, to tell you the truth, Dumas.”
“And what did you come up with?”
Ollie stopped and thought for a moment, looking at the rich, dark red fur that covered his tutor. The deep black eyes were staring at him, showing no hint of the humanity within them that Dumas still had an abundance of. Ollie walked over and stood in front of his friend. “I don’t have any idea how old you are and I don’t know if you had any family when whatever happened to you happened. But I’ve got a feeling that your transition cost you dearly.”
“It did. You face a similar problem. But you have something I didn’t,” the bear growled quietly.
Ollie looked at the bear, listening.
“Let me tell you what happened to me. I had joined a band of outlaws, as their way of life appealed to me for various reasons. And if you are going to live outside the king’s laws while preying on his citizens, you had better have your own cleric, because there is no going into the city for aid. We had one—a good one, too; he was close to his god and was always preaching to us to believe in his god. We laughed at first, but soon we saw that he really could heal some of our most grievous injuries with little effort. He loved to laugh and drink with us, but oh, how he loved to fight, too!” Dumas paused. “Up until his arrival, we only had a druid around; quite frankly, he was a bit boring, and not nearly as gifted at healing. But we were friends nonetheless. He was called Casic.” He paused momentarily before continuing. “One day, the King’s Guard caught up with us. We had gotten careless after stealing several wagons of mead, wine, and ale. Very careless!” He tried to smile and continued. “Well, when the captain of the patrol demanded our surrender, we laughed and responded as we were wont to do, by trying to escape, but we weren’t expecting the numbers that they had. They had us surrounded, and in the struggle to escape, I was mortally wounded—and so was that cleric. I awoke in pain with a spear stuck through my side, lying in a clearing that was littered with bodies. The druid was telling me I was going to die, as he could do nothing for me at that point, and the cleric was dead. He asked me if I wanted him to perform the reincarnation spell he had been learning for years. He couldn’t guarantee anything, but it offered a small hope, so I agreed. And then I died. He performed the spell, and behold, here I am,” Dumas finished, still looking to his student. “You have a chance of getting home, but I’m locked in this body for the rest of my life.”
“What chance? We really don’t even know how we got here.”
“You’re standing here talking to a bear. When was the last time you considered that a real possibility?” Dumas said with what equated to a grin for a bear. He rose and walked back toward the camp, stating as he left, “But the possibilities of you finding your way home are not lost; they are just misplaced for now.”
Ollie looked at his gear sitting on the ground, picked it up, and secured it to his horse. He then climbed up and sat atop it while he watched the bear shamble back toward the camp. He pulled the reins to the left and led the horse from the clearing, beginning his journey back to Noli Deron.
Chapter 17
“In thy darkest moments, in thy weakest moments, when thou cannot see, find thy own strength to do what is necessary.”
(E.Mit.1.2 - Book of Earth, Tenets of Mithureal, Chapter 1, Verse 2)
“Clean the stables, my ass!” Dmitri mumbled to himself as he picked up a bucket and shovel. He made his way into the stable and was instantly overcome by the stench—and it wasn’t all from the horses. He walked past several of the stalls, looking through the rough-hewn gates. Most of the stalls were empty, but some showed signs of being used as sleeping areas for trolls and goblins that roamed the grounds. He passed several that should be holding horses, but they, too, were empty. That was unusual, he thought. Most of the time, the stables were filled with enough horses to provide to the commanders of the Chimeran Guard. He had learned that the mercenaries floating around the keep were being used to remove those individuals that Eod didn’t want within his borders and to collect taxes from those foolish enough to want to remain. He had watched Eod as he moved throughout his keep, and he was anything but friendly. He had seen a woman visit the keep the other day—an older, attractive elvish woman—but he had been kept so busy, he hadn’t been able to find out why she had come. When he had asked, he received a look from Cousa Cali that had warned him to mind his own business. For asking that question, he had now been relegated to cleaning stables where the horses—and as he was finding out, the trolls—stayed.
Still, he was being allowed more and more freedom about the keep. He had climbed the parapets and he’d seen that the keep was located high above a large body of water rising over forty meters above its surface. As he had walked around the keep, he saw that the wall surrounding it was more than twenty meters high. Escaping wasn’t an option without a rope or a boat, which were tightly guarded. He had looked for a rope but had been unable to find one. He realized that he wasn’t Eod’s first prisoner.
He managed to locate a rickety wheelbarrow and began removing the overpowering stench-filled waste and rotted straw, leaving it cleaner than before he had begun. He had gone to the corral, and finding an old bucket, he filled it with water from the horse trough. He walked back to the stable stall and splashed the water within, attempting to rinse the stone floor clean. Dmitri repeated this process several times and realized that there was less water running into the gutter and down the center of the stables than there should have been. R
etrieving another bucket of water, he tossed it into the now clean stall, watching as it seeped past the stones along the base of the back of the stall. He had walked past that corner of the stable getting to the trough and realized that there was enough space to support a small room. He grabbed the pitchfork, and using one of the tines, he attempted to dig out one of the stones. Unable to get it open, he gave up and threw the pitchfork from the stall in frustration, where it stuck in a hitching post in the stall next to him that had almost been hidden by the fresh straw. The wall began sliding open, making too much noise for Dmitri. He ducked into the darkened opening to see what he had found. A slight sense of claustrophobia began to take hold of him.
He noticed that a now damp set of stone steps descended downward into darkness. He stepped back out of the opening, realizing that he needed a torch of some sort to proceed. Dmitri looked around the stable but found nothing. Determined to check it out, he realized that what he needed wasn’t in the stable. He climbed through the hay toward the hitching post. He pushed and pulled with no effect, until finally he grabbed the ring on the post and could spring the post away from the opening, causing the door to grind shut.
He looked around the stable, making sure no one had seen or heard him, and then resumed cleaning the stalls. Knowing this was an all-day job, he determined that he needed to make it back into the keep and get some candles. He increased the pace of his labor to ensure that he would have time to explore his newfound opportunity.
Dmitri wandered the dark corridors, mapping the darkened halls and intersections he found, discovering that the corridors hadn’t been used for many years. So far, all the corridors he had explored led under the barn and away from the keep in which he had been kept prisoner for so many months. He observed several carvings on some of the corners; he had learned enough of the language to determine that they were direction markers, but where they led, he hadn’t yet discovered. His latest excursion looked promising, but the darkness and eerie quiet made him uncomfortable. It reminded him too much of the deep cell he had unwillingly occupied. He was concerned that eventually one of those corridors would lead him back there, but he had to chance it if he wanted to get off this island and away from that madman.
Dmitri had become accustomed to the damp stone floor as he slowly made his way into the darkness. A slick fungus covered the stones in some areas, and a thick, muddy sludge in others. His boots were becoming wet and slippery as he traveled deeper and deeper. A musty smell filled his nostrils, much like that of rotting leaves. He pushed back his fear and pressed forward with nothing but a candle to light his way.
He pushed aside the cobwebs that were becoming thicker and thicker, moving them away from his face and pausing on occasion to mark his map and the direction he traveled. As Dmitri made his way slowly down the corridors, his mind kept going over the fact that he was on an island, and though he had been given a bit more freedom, there was no way he was going to be able to get a boat to escape. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t even seen a boat that he could steal to carry him to the far side of the lake. He had seen the same barge arrive at the small dock several times, bringing supplies to the island. He had also watched as a sloop brought the old woman, who he had later learned was named Rhoena Crescent-Moon. He knew she was important to Eod, but for what? He hadn’t been able to establish that, as he hadn’t really gained anyone’s confidence. After his “lesson” from Illissa, Daelock had assigned the blonde man who had captured him, Cousa Cali, to teach him to fight with a sword. Between Illissa’s “motivation” and Cousa’s knowledge—and a few painful months—he had learned to fight with both sword and dagger. He cared little for the sword, as it seemed slow to him, but his natural agility allowed him to learn to parry, thrust, and block with either weapon. He was proficient, but not good with the sword. He hadn’t cared for the shield or small buckler that Daelock had insisted he learn, either, but Cousa had given him an alternative that he was becoming more and more proficient with: his daggers.
As he turned a corner of the narrow hallway he was following, he paused to mark his map. A motion in the darkness caused him to tense and stop just as he started forward again. He strained, trying to see through the darkness ahead, but all he saw were cobwebs crisscrossing in a beautiful pattern at the edge of his candle’s glow. He stared at the webs as they rocked back and forth in the near-motionless breeze. He crept forward cautiously, keeping the candle above his head to keep his eyes clear of the direct flame. Concentrating on the darkness ahead of him, he jumped when pieces of flaming webbing began dropping from above—spider webs he had inadvertently set afire while holding the candle high above his head. He leapt backward in fear as the rest of the huge cobweb burned above and in front of him, like a complicated fuse. A deeper shadow crept toward him. Off balance and unable to react quickly enough, Dmitri jumped as the shadow leapt toward him. Raising his arm to prevent it from landing on his face, he felt the shadowy creature instead land on his arm and began moving upward. He slammed his arm against the wall to knock the creature loose, but it held on tightly. Gripping the candle firmly enough to keep from dropping it, he again slammed his arm against the wall, trapping the oversized insect in between. The light from the candle glinted from its multifaceted eyes. Dmitri groaned from more from disgust than from pain as he scraped his arm against the wall and dislodged the black spider, knocking it to the ground. It landed on its back. As it attempted to turn back over onto its several legs, Dmitri screamed and began stomping on it over and over until it matched all the muck already on the floor of the corridor. Shaken, he leaned against the wall, looking at what was left of the spider lying at his feet.
He knelt to get a closer look at it, realizing that it had once been more than three times the size of his outstretched hand. He brought the candle closer, shedding more light on the crumpled, dead thing and saw the white of its fangs. As moisture glistened on one that hadn’t been buried in the muck, it suddenly dawned on Dmitri that it might have been poisonous. He looked at his arm in the dim candlelight and saw that the coarse fabric of his shirt was torn where it had been gnawing at him with its needle-like teeth. He brought the candle flame close to his arm so he could see if he had been bitten. In his haste, he brought it so close that it caused a fray of thread to burst into flame, seemingly melting away as it burned. He blew it out like a birthday candle and looked at the skin of his arm. He saw that there was no puncture wound, but there was a small dot that was already turning red with inflammation—either from its poison or from its thrashing. Unsure, he stood and began following his map to leave. He looked at the paper in his other hand but saw that it had become crinkled and torn during his struggles, and that the charcoal he had been using was now smeared. He began to panic.
He placed the map against the wall and began attempting to smooth it out, the perspiration from his hands causing the charcoal to smear even further. He flipped it over, its drawn surface facing the rough stone. He worked as fast as he could, holding the candle away and trying to be as careful as possible—but he wasn’t careful enough. The fragile paper began tearing even more during his effort to clean it up. He stopped, not wanting to damage his map any further, fearing that he could be lost underground.
He turned the map over in his hand as his fear heightened. He noticed that several of the intersections that he had drawn were smeared beyond recognition or missing within the tears in the paper that he had caused. No, not me, he thought. It is that damned spider’s fault! He stomped violently on the spider’s corpse once more, cursing as he did so. He needed to get out of there, he realized. His panic and fear increased with each moment that passed. He turned around and rushed down the corridor as fast as he could, following the damaged map and trusting the rest to his memory.
The panic Dmitri was now feeling was real. He realized he would be missed if he didn’t manage to get out of what he was beginning to feel was his tomb. The map was falling apart in his hands, no matter how careful he was with it. His fear was unconscious
ly causing him to ball his hands into fists, heedless that one of them held his only way out of the darkness. He was lost now, and he knew it. He rushed down the dark corridors, being careful with his precious candle. Its light was now the only thing standing between him and his recent nightmares of Baba Yaga. He hurriedly turned a corner and fell down a small, short ramp, the candle winking out in the muck he now lay in. He reached through the muck to locate his lost candle, crawling around in the pitch-black and mud until finally he found it. The wick was soaking wet and covered with mud, he assumed. He spent the better part of the next ten minutes attempting to light it with the flint and steel he carried. The weak blue light of the sparks flashed eerily in the darkness.
The darkness became intense as his fear turned to panic. He climbed to his knees, reaching for the wall he had rolled against and struggling to his feet. He was unable to see but was unwilling to stop, his fear and despair driving him. Dmitri didn’t remember seeing any ramp like the one he had stumbled down since entering the lower chambers of the keep. He climbed the ramp slowly, feeling along the wall as he proceeded. His hand came to the corner at the intersection above the ramp, and in his haste and fear, he failed to realize he was going away from the direction he had come. Following the wall, his feet made sickening squishing noises that reminded him of his first fateful crime of long ago. Unable to overcome his panic, he rushed onward, ever deeper. His breathing was becoming a chore, and it was sounding loud and cracked. He tried to swallow and calm down, but his mouth was so dry that there was nothing to swallow. The cobwebs were beginning to cover him again as his face tore through them in his haste. Their resilience only served to add to his terrified state. He stopped, again attempting to compose himself, realizing that he would never find his way out of there if he kept panicking. He leaned back against the wall he had held onto and put his hands to his face. The darkness was so complete that his muck-covered hands touched his cheeks before had expected them to, startling him.
