by Peter Plasse
“It is,” he said. “Provided she is the one.”
“She has to be,” said Diana. “She has to be … ”
The next day they were headed east.
They made their way by dead reckoning, staying mostly off of the main trails. It was extremely tough going and they ended up sleeping for several days in a row under windblowns, holding on to each other and wrapped tightly in their deerskin cloaks. At least food was not a problem; they had plenty, albeit cold. Moreover, Jared’s skill with the wild herbs and spices of the forest floor provided enough taste to make the simple meals not only nourishing, but somewhat pleasant.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” he asked, chewing on a piece of meat that he followed with a handful of wild nuts. He took a large drink of water from the waterskin and refastened it to his pack, awaiting her answer. She finished her own long chew of the tough venison and said, “At the rate we’re moving, it will take us at least a month to make Belcourt. Maybe six weeks. Maybe eight.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Not good.”
“We need horses, that much is apparent,” said Diana. “Any suggestions?”
“Nearest place that sells them?”
“And where do you figure that might be?”
“You know you are pretty demanding,” he said with a small smile. “I say we pick up a trail, stay on it, scout forward, and find a town that might have a horse or two to spare.”
“Done.”
“You made a promise,” said Jacqueline as she and Cinnamon sat, being surveyed by the pack of eight below them. On a tip from Stefen, who had known of the others’ return when they were still quite far out, they had taken refuge back in the treetops to await their appearance in camp. For while the four below them had given their word that they would not harm them, there was no way to know if the other four would do the same. So they sat in the trees and waited while the group conferred.
What they could not know was that the Wolves, who communicated not only by spoken word but by a simple form of telepathy, had already discussed at some length the potential significance of their presence in the Agden Forest, as well as the likely role they might have in the unfolding of Prophecy. Seven of the eight were convinced that this young girl, if not the actual girl in the prophecy, was without question involved in it in some way. If not for this, they would surely never be considering what they were considering.
The current discussion being held was whether or not they might want to literally adopt them and make them a part of the great family of Agden Wolves. Half of them remembered that this was the way the prophecy said it needed to be, although none could remember any specifics. The other half did not.
But before they could ever make a decision on such a course of action, all wanted to know, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the code by which they lived, the code by which the Wolves lived, had always lived, and would always live, was honor. Honoring the life of another Wolf was simply the way it was, the life of any one individual being no more or less important than the life of any other. And everything was shared equally, from the labor effort required by the pack to survive, to the spoils of the hunt.
For any one Wolf to “have” more than another was a notion that just didn’t apply.
It was a hard life, but a good life, with pack celebrations of a successful life that happened all the time, but only because they all held the common belief that honor was the most important principle of all.
Hence, all the Wolves talked to the two of them, one at a time. It took hours, as Jacqueline and Cinnamon listened carefully to all the questions they were asked. They answered them all honestly while they nibbled on wild nuts, dead moles, and such.
In the end, they were made a part of the pack.
Only Stefen dissented. To him, they were merely food, nothing more, nothing less. It had never been done before. A Human taken into the Agden Forest family of Wolves as though she were one of them, and a cat no less. More than once he told them he thought they were all out of their minds.
The rest believed that these displaced visitors to their forest were part of something important, something vital, something that might change the very future of the planet itself according to Prophecy, and rather than stand in the way, they chose to help them the best way they could, which was to make them one of their own.
It was an amazing transformation. Their senses of hearing, eyesight, and smell all suddenly became hyper-acute. Their physical strength was tripled. They would soon learn the same of their endurance. And they both found that they could call up any of the pack members around them by merely thinking of them and asking to be heard.
Jacqueline would later remember thinking, “This is a million times better than ‘I.M.’”
Rolan stood and walked off the cramp. “Too much sitting,” he thought. “Not enough doing.” Borok entered his tent, saluting in the usual way. “My King,” he said. “I have assembled the messengers and reviewed their assignments with them. Do you wish to speak to them as well?”
“I do.”
“Very well.”
In the tent next to his, Rolan studied the group of a dozen: Seven Humans, three Dwarves, and two Elves.
“You have your orders,” he said. “It is not my intention to review these yet again. I am sure that they were explained to you in clear enough terms. Retake The Gate with whatever forces the commanders deem necessary, and feed the survivors. Deploy the rest to the east without delay for our march on Vultura. Do not get caught. Any questions?”
The messengers scrambled to do their duty.
As he was getting on his mount, one muttered to another, “Do you realize that we got our riding orders from the King himself?”
“Amazing,” said the other, shaking his head in disbelief.
“For Ravenwild!”
“For Ravenwild!”
Then, away they rode like they were being chased by demons from the underworld.
Sliphen lingered for a while outside of the “Happy Troll.” It was an offbeat drinking establishment in a dark corner of Ghasten. This seedy bar, known to be frequented by criminals, malcontents, and other undesirables, caused him to think twice about setting foot in the place, but he pushed back his fear. The message he carried was too important to not deliver. He wondered why a general in his Emperor’s army would ever bother to hang out in such a spot; with all of the resources he now had at his disposal, why he didn't stay at home in his mansion and drink to his heart’s content. The only way he could figure it was that some old habits die hard.
After he had worked up the requisite courage, he took a deep breath and walked in. He immediately wished he hadn’t. As soon as he had entered through the swinging doors, an enormous Troll that towered over him by at least a head approached him.
“State your business,” he demanded. Sliphen noticed he was fingering a long dagger that was stuck crudely in his belt, showing pretty much the entire length of the deadly blade.
“I have an important message for the general,” he said.
“And what might that message be?”
He decided that now was not the time to appear meek. “Stand aside!” he barked at the Troll in front of him. “In the name of the Emperor himself. He will have your head on a pike before the sun sets if you delay me one more second. I will speak with the General, and I will speak with him now, fool.”
The huge Troll curled his lips into a lethal sneer. “Fool, is it? You take quite a chance, little one. Wait here.”
Sliphen ignored the order, instead following the Troll across the main drinking room, through a doorway, down a short hall, and into a small back room where the general sat alone at a small table with a tall, half-empty glass of spirits in front of him.
The voice beckoned her forward for a while, then faded away.
She noticed the temperature had become warm all of a sudden, and she removed her buckskin wraps, securing them to her pack. Emerging from the thick mist, enormous trees and all sorts of dense sh
rubbery now surrounded her. High overhead, great nests of some large bird were scattered all about.
Still, despite the impenetrable forest growth all about her, there was a clearly marked trail.
On she walked, the forest soon far behind her, and what she now looked upon was a vast flatland from high up on a hill. The trail descended into it, and a clear-water stream appeared as she rounded a bend. She stopped, knelt, and put her hand in it. It was as cold as ice water. She took a long, refreshing drink and stood. On down the path she continued.
In a few minutes she found she had company. But, she noted, they clearly did not appear to be of this world. They were translucent, flitting shapes of dark and tatter that flew on gossamer wings, their diaphanous forms drifting in and out of shadow in a ghost-like way. For a while they did not seem to make a sound as they floated out of the surrounding plant growth to escort her along. And they made no signs of approaching her, merely drifting along beside her on either side of the trail. On she walked. Then she began to hear … or did she imagine it … tiny voices calling to her. No, there they were again. What were they saying? Bits and pieces.
Near the center of the valley she saw, off in the distance, a small house set high in a solitary tree.
There came a point when the trail forked, with the obvious continuation to the treehouse off to her left. Her guides drifted around in such a fashion that she was unquestionably being told which way to go.
Standing underneath it she noticed a stout ladder nailed in place that went all the way to the base of the structure. Up she went, finding that the ladder provided her with a sturdy, stable, safe climb, at the end of which she entered the underside of the house by a trap door that opened inward on its own.
Inside was a cozy two-level home. The room in which she found herself was a sitting room of some sort. There was a long table that sat low to the floor with brightly colored cushions spilled all around it. At the head of the table floated another of the wraith-like creatures. It beckoned her to sit.
A soft voice, which she had to struggle to hear, said, “Welcome to my home, Stephanie Doreen Strong. I thank you for coming. I am the Dukkar. It is said that I rule here in the Enchanted Northland... from sea to sea. Then again, people say a lot of things, don’t they?
“There is much you need to know of this land, but that is for another time. For now, you will have good food and juices to revive you and a warm, comfortable bed in which to sleep. You will have the opportunity to bathe and enjoy a brief respite from the rigors of your trip across time to our world.
“Then you will learn, girl. Then you will learn.
“Please make yourself at home. It is time for me to sleep.” The creature disappeared.
Doreen sat, bewildered for a few moments at this altogether crazy turn of events. She had expected this entire journey to this enchanted place would be one struggle after another in the freezing cold, and here she was about to enjoy a brief little vacation in a thoroughly delightful, moreover warm, setting. She was also confused at this strange name that the Dukkar had called her, but was too tired and too hungry to give it much thought.
She sat and ate from a large bowl of fresh fruits that were on the table. Taking her time, she savored every bite and must have eaten half the bowlful when her nose directed her to some roast, and crisp potatoes, together with a delicious dipping sauce. She washed it all down with glass after glass of the sweetest, most delicious nectar she had ever tasted that she poured from a large, frosted glass bottle into a matching glass of pure crystal. There was a cake, from which she sampled a small slice since she was so full of all that she had eaten.
Then she slept. Too exhausted to bathe, she figured it would be alright if she waited until she woke up. She bet it would be a warm bath. She drifted off.
In her dreams she saw a family of five cutting down a Christmas tree. All were smiling the happiest of smiles and cheered loudly when it fell to the ground. Then, in the way of dreams, they were suddenly all inside a log home opening presents as she watched through a window. Another young girl appeared outside, walking up the driveway and carrying presents up to the house. Off to her left was a small lake. There was a beaver swimming around in it. There were beaver pups. She tore her eyes from the beauty of the scene and tried to concentrate on the face of the girl carrying the presents. She couldn’t make it out.
It faded.
She woke up.
For a second she was completely disoriented, and then she remembered where she was and why. Her dishes had been removed. Other than that, the room was the same, except for a small tray of pastries. She reached for one and changed her mind, the sound of running water causing her to stir and walk towards it, through a doorway, and into a short hall. The first room off to the left was a bathroom in which was a large, round tub and a tiny, walled off privy, complete with a sink and running warm and cold water. The solid gold fixtures gleamed brightly as she stood there with her mouth hanging open. She was looking at herself in a large mirror. She could not remember her face ever being so dirty. Her hair was all matted and tangled, her clothes were caked with mud, as well as ripped and torn everywhere, and she saw several bloodstains scattered all over her.
After a brief stop in the privy, into the tub she went. The water flowed constantly into her bath from a never ending stream, and out through a drain. So all of the filth that covered her was washed away as she scrubbed and scrubbed. For most of the morning she lounged about in crystal clear, warm water, in which she soaked and napped, and soaked and napped, and got out feeling as refreshed as she had ever felt. She made her way back to the lounge where she snacked on fresh fruits and nuts, and a plate of tiny, frosted cupcakes, every one of which she consumed with relish.
Now toweled dry, and dressed in a new warrior’s outfit, including leather body-armor, and with her sword honed to a razor’s edge, she strolled down the hall that led away from the lounge. Bigger and bigger it became. This puzzled her, insofar as there had been no such appearance to the small house in the treetop as she had approached it.
The tunnel ended at a gigantic dome of rock, the ceiling soaring hundreds of feet above her. It was illuminated by untold numbers of lights emanating from bioforms that flickered and tossed their luminescence all about, showing off the grains and sparkles in the crystal structure of the granite.
At the far end of this massive stone cavern sat what reminded her of an altar, and she struggled to remember how or why she had thought that. Instinctively, she reached for her necklace, touching the stone. There was what appeared to be a tabernacle. She stared at it, trying to remember what it was called. What it was for. She knew it was something important but … she couldn’t remember. In her mind’s eye she tried to put faces to the ones she knew subconsciously she had once-upon-a-time gone to church with, but they would not appear.
She stopped. It was no more than a hundred yards to the altar-thing, and she wanted to pause and breathe a bit. She felt a little foolish when she suddenly thought what a shame it was that she smelled so nice, and nobody was there to smell her.
She started walking forward again, slowly now. Sensing danger, a malevolent presence, her hand instinctively reached down to check that her sword was loose in its scabbard. This feeling of impending doom descended upon her like a great weight. She smelled something horrible. Something was terribly wrong. She felt Death’s black hand wrap itself all the way around her, with menace, with a savagery unthinkable. Feeling the sheer evil within its grasp, she struggled to slow her breathing, for while she could still move freely she could also feel this sinister force squeezing her tighter and tighter. She drew her weapon; there was a noticeable hissing sound, like something that might come from the mouth of a great serpent, followed by a slight crackling noise as tiny bolts of lightning appeared at the tip of her sword overhead. She sensed the power in it grow, running down her arm like warm water, the sensation spreading through her entire body.
The surge of power and well-being that coursed throu
gh her caused the malevolent presence to recede as quickly as it had taken hold of her. And she felt, for the second time that day, washed clean.
Only this clean went to her very soul, and she felt uplifted and, suddenly, she was uplifted, and found herself rising from the floor! She somehow sensed right off what might be happening, so she willed herself forward and forward she went. Next, curiously, she willed herself back to the ground, where she centered herself until she felt perfectly normal, taking a few hesitant steps forward towards the altar-table. But as soon as she had done that, she took right off again, flying high and fast and doing loop-de-loops. Laughing with delight, she soared towards the ground with blazing speed, flying over it within inches and stirring up a wake of small dust trails. She flew and she flew, all around in the great dome. It was pure exhilaration, and she treasured every second of it.
After she had tried out her newly acquired talent to her satisfaction, she touched down about thirty feet from the stone table and knelt on her right knee with her head bowed in respect.
“Do not bow before me, Stephanie Doreen Strong. Arise and take your seat here in front of me, for I would speak to you if you would have me.”
Doreen looked for the source of the voice but couldn’t see one. Yet it sounded as though it was coming from the chiseled stone slab straight ahead. Then she spotted it. It was the same wraith-like thing that she had met in the sitting room. It was an ever-shifting, ever-changing amalgam of translucency melting away into transparency. There was no color to it, only shades of charcoal and black that faded in and out slowly. She spied the head of this otherworldly apparition, although it was so washed-out in its appearance she could never quite see all of it at once. Then, she found the eyes. It was strange in that in order to see them, she had to unfocus her own eyes a little and, suddenly, there they were. Dazzlingly blue, they were as clear and perfect a set of eyes as she had ever seen. What was stranger was that this perfect set of eyes was set in the face of this being, this life-force, this spiritual essence that she could not seem to bring into any reasonable focus. Yet, amazingly, the eyes did not seem at all out of place. It was bizzare.
