The Doom of Fallowhearth

by Robbie MacNiven

  “The clan girl will not be harmed,” Damhán said firmly. “But if it would help you to focus on more important matters, pathfinder, I will send Seneschal Abelard with you. He and a detachment of his men-at-arms can aid your hunt, and you can rest assured that he isn’t here brutalizing your newly adopted human child.”

  Logan worried that the sarcasm dripping from Damhán’s voice would push Durik over the edge, but the orc nodded before speaking.

  “And what about Captain Kloin?”

  “I think the seneschal will be all the help we need,” Logan interrupted quickly, glaring at Kloin, who grinned back at him. The last thing he wanted was to go into Blind Muir with a man like Kloin for company.

  “The captain will remain here as custodian of the castle until your return,” Damhán said. “Under my supervision.”

  “My lady, this is irregular,” Abelard said. He was starting to go red in the face. Logan wondered what he was more unhappy about, his temporary ousting or the thought of having to traverse Blind Muir Forest with a trio of old adventurers. “My task is to safeguard Fallowhearth! The town is clearly threatened, if it falls under attack I will be needed here. To leave now would be a dereliction of my duty.”

  “Your duty is to Baroness Adelynn, by whose grace you yet hold your post as warden of this citadel,” Damhán answered. “Make no mistake, Abelard, she is watching events here closely. She is keenly aware of your lethargy when it comes to the matter of her missing daughter. A month has gone by, and you have failed to turn up any tangible leads. You should be thankful you still hold the title of seneschal.”

  The adviser’s words chilled Abelard’s anger. He bowed.

  “I will take six of my best men, my lady.”

  “No horses,” Durik said. “They will be ill-suited to a deep wood like Blind Muir.”

  “You wish us to walk?” Abelard demanded. “By the time we’ve departed we’ll be lucky to reach the edge of the forest by nightfall!”

  “Then pack for more than a day,” Durik said simply. Damhán nodded.

  “The pathfinder is right. In my experience, the dead need no sleep. It may take you some time to catch up with them.”

  • • •

  They set out from the town a little after midday. They weren’t the only ones. To Logan it looked as though the greater part of those who’d not yet left had decided that enough was enough. The road south was scattered with individuals and small groups, most of them struggling in the mud with what looked like their worldly possessions. They looked at Logan and the rest of the party with a mixture of fear and disgust. One old woman spat in front of Abelard, and Durik had to ward him off from striking her.

  “You are all cursed,” the crone hissed, shaking her walking stave. “Fallowhearth is doomed!”

  “Charming,” Logan muttered.

  Durik led them off the main road – itself little more than a strip of dirt churned up by the recent rains – and along the narrow track that led through the fields to the south-west. The open farmland was bleak, the fields lately harvested and empty of livestock. Ahead, the shadow of Blind Muir loomed, a dark, dense expanse that grew steadily nearer as the afternoon wore on. Every step Logan took closer to it increased his desire to go in the opposite direction. The shadows beneath the boughs seemed to leer at him, as though mocking his approach. That’s right, you old fool, a little closer. If Durik had told him in Highmont that they’d be venturing into some cursed-looking woodland, he’d have turned around and ridden back to Sixspan there and then.

  He pushed on, silently wishing he had a stave like the old woman’s. The mud was dragging at his heels, and the cold air was making him wheeze. He accepted Ulma’s arm. Durik was already carrying his pack.

  “Still craving adventure, rogue?” Ulma asked him casually as they walked. He managed to laugh.

  “You always forget the drudgery,” he said. “We must have walked a thousand miles or more back then.”

  “You used to make fun of my short legs,” Ulma said ruefully. “And I used to make fun of you when you couldn’t walk for half a day without needing to rest.”

  “I think it’s a bit less than half a day now,” Logan admitted. “Help me catch up with Durik.”

  He didn’t add “so we can get away from Abelard.” The surly seneschal and his men-at-arms were following behind the trio, a dire presence that was making Logan nervous. He pushed on with Ulma. Durik was striding ahead, inexhaustible. He nodded to the other two as they caught up.

  “Enjoying the walk?” Logan asked with sarcastic brightness.

  “It is good for the limbs,” Durik said noncommittally.

  “Not when you’re my age.”

  “I’m older than you.”

  “Not when you’re not the pinnacle of mature, orcish perfection,” Logan rephrased. Durik bared his tusks in a grin. The rogue lowered his voice.

  “I saw Dezra,” he murmured. “Last night. While the dead walked.”

  “Where?” Durik asked, displaying no surprise.

  “In my room. Standing right there by my bed. I thought it was a dream.”

  “It does sound like something you’d dream about, little rogue.”

  “I’m not joking,” he said, glancing back again at Abelard and his men-at-arms. “I hadn’t thought about her for years, and that’s Kellos’s honest truth! But the moment I received your letter, there’s hardly been a day where she hasn’t been in my thoughts. And now she’s in my dreams too.”

  “That’s hardly surprising,” Ulma spoke up beside him. “I think about her too. You’d expect it, with the rest of us united again. As you said, it’s just like old times.”

  “There’s something more to it, I’m telling you,” Logan said. “It felt… wrong.”

  “I bet it did,” Ulma smirked.

  Logan sighed, changing tack. Gods, he’d forgotten how frustrating these two could be, especially when they had their heads turned by some life-or-death quest.

  “Is no one pausing to consider why someone would go to the effort of resurrecting half of Fallowhearth’s dead in one night? As far as we know, not a single person in the town was harmed. They even left that mad tomb-keeper alive. They could’ve massacred everyone sleeping outside of the castle last night and more than tripled their own numbers in the process, but they didn’t.”

  “So why does a necromancer want just a couple of hundred undead rather than a thousand?” Ulma followed up. “It isn’t as though they’re trying to be subtle either, or they wouldn’t have raised them from a yard in the middle of the town. It’s like they want us to follow them.”

  “I agree,” Durik said. “We could well be walking into a trap.”

  “Dare I ask why, then?” Logan said.

  “To spring it, of course.”

  • • •

  The sun was a low, reddish orb by the time they approached the northern edges of Blind Muir. Night already seemed to have fallen beneath the boughs of the forest, the gloom spreading out across the fields and towards the town. Fallowhearth was little more than the distant spikes of the castle’s turrets and the two competing spires of the shrines of Nordros and Kellos, soon to be swallowed up by the darkness.

  “I will not venture into that place at night,” Abelard said as they came to a halt where the track ended, a few hundred yards short of the tree line. “If we had ridden here, we could have been in and out already!”

  “The sun sets early at this time of the year in Forthyn,” Durik pointed out. “Regardless of how quickly we got here, we would likely have had to set up a camp on the forest’s edge. I doubt we will find either Lady Kathryn or the necromancer in a single afternoon.”

  Abelard grumbled, but agreed to pitch camp in the dead ground between the furthest fields and the forest’s northern bounds. Durik led the men-at-arms as they gathered brushwood for fires and lean-tos. Logan sat down gra
tefully on an old, mossy stump, groaning at the pain in his joints.

  “Drink this,” Ulma said, pulling a small flask from her smock. Logan eyed it suspiciously.

  “Is it going to burn me up from the inside, or make me sprout a second head?”

  “One head and one mouth are more than enough to deal with,” Ulma said, shaking the flask, making its contents slosh. Logan took it and sniffed it gingerly. The fiery scents of Dunwarr brandy almost scorched his nose off.

  “So, it will burn me up from the inside,” he said with a grin, and knocked his head back. The fiery sensation of the brandy seared down his throat and worked its way steadily out to his limbs. Ulma took it off him before he could drain half the flask.

  Twilight turned to darkness. The moons were out, dueling dark, scudding clouds across the sky. It was cold.

  The party had built their lean-tos near the last ditch beside the pathway, the shelters composed of undergrowth, old brushwood and the tall grass that grew in the fallow land between the fields and the forest. Logan was sharing one with Ulma, who was already snoring with her flask clutched in one hand. He considered stealing it, but good sense prevailed – the powerful dwarf brew had already given him a thumping headache to go with his loosened limbs.

  He bade goodnight to Durik, who seemed content to sleep in his pelts by the small fire they had built, then crawled in beside Ulma with his cloak. The ground had been spread with uprooted grass, but it was still cold and hard. Logan turned half a dozen times before sleep finally began to creep over him, feeling more miserable and wretched than he had at any point since leaving Sixspan. Never again, he vowed. Like he hadn’t said that before. As he dozed off, he distinctly heard the sound of a horse’s whinny.

  “Damn it, Ishbel,” he murmured softly. Then he started. Ishbel wasn’t with them. She was back in the stables at Fallowhearth. They hadn’t brought a single horse.

  Cursing to himself, he clambered stiffly out of the lean-to and onto his feet. The little camp was quiet. Durik had been awake when Logan had bedded down, but he looked asleep now. Logan cast around for the two men-at-arms Abelard had left as sentries, eyes straining against the darkness encroaching on the dying campfire. He was about to go and wake Durik when he heard a snort come from the end of the track leading back to Fallowhearth.

  He hadn’t imagined it. There was a horse out there somewhere. And if there was a horse, damned sure there was a rider. He bit his lower lip, thinking. He couldn’t ignore that, but he was also damned sure that if he woke Durik or Ulma, they’d investigate and find it had been nothing at all. More jibes and snide comments relating to senility would follow, and Logan had endured more than enough of that in the past week. Pride truly was a monstrous burden.

  He went back into his lean-to and dragged his cloak and belt out. There was only one thing for it, and he consoled himself with the fact that he wasn’t exactly unused to creeping around in the dark. After fastening the belt and throwing the cloak over one shoulder, he crept past the shelters housing Abelard and his snoring men-at-arms. The darkness beyond the edge of the encampment seemed absolute, despite the silver lining provided by the moons. He swallowed and edged forward, boots sinking into the mud of the track.

  Wind gusted, abrupt and sudden, making him snatch at his cloak. He took a moment to try and calm down, his heart hammering. Something moved in the shadows past the edge of the nearest field. Something pale.

  “Dezra?” he murmured.

  “Sleep,” hissed a voice, like the rattle of dry autumn leaves in the wind. Logan stumbled, his headache redoubling.

  “Yes,” he mumbled, rubbing his scalp. “Sleep.” He turned and wandered slowly back to the fire, dropping his cloak and slumping down into the dirt next to it.

  • • •

  Durik woke with his knife out. He snarled, tusks bared as he struggled to free himself from his pelts.

  Something had woken him, he was sure of it. Just what “it” was, he didn’t know. He brought his free hand up to his scalp, cringing. His head was throbbing.

  He looked around. The fire was low, almost dead. Logan was slumped beside it, out of his shelter, his cloak abandoned. Durik retrieved the discarded garment from the dirt and placed it over him, followed by his pelt for good measure. In this cold he doubted the old man would otherwise survive.

  He paused and looked around the camp. The sentries were missing, but that wasn’t the most unsettling thing. The worst part was that Durik couldn’t remember falling asleep.

  He turned in a semi-circle, eyes traveling past the lean-tos and into the outer dark. There was something out there, something moving between the fire and the edge of the forest. His keen eyesight picked out what looked like moonlight gleaming off a silver torc.

  His skin prickled.

  “Carys,” he hissed, trying not to shout.

  There was no response. Nothing stirred. He glanced back at the forms of Abelard and his men-at-arms, undisturbed beneath their shelters. If Carys had somehow made it out of Fallowhearth then the last thing he wanted to do was alert them. It made sense that she would seek shelter in Blind Muir – she could easily evade anyone coming after her. But that forest was no place for a young girl on her own, regardless of whether she was a clan chief’s daughter or not. Durik knew well enough the stories of its northern borders, of cannibal cults and ancient predatory creatures woven from dark sorceries. He couldn’t abandon her out there.

  He stepped out beyond the light of the campfire. It was like walking into the void, into a darkness far more absolute than Durik had known. For a moment, his heart quailed.

  Gritting his tusks and keeping his knife unsheathed, he set off towards the forest.

  • • •

  Ulma’s grip on Logan’s shoulders woke him. He blinked and groaned, opening his eyes groggily. “We have to stop waking up like this,” he moaned.

  “They’re gone,” was all Ulma said, letting go of him.

  “Who’s gone?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows. “And why does my throat feel like a rat’s crawled down it and died?”

  “Everyone’s bloody gone!” Ulma shouted, her voice startlingly loud in the dark. That finally brought focus.

  He was lying by the glowing embers of the fire – though he was sure he’d crawled into his shelter before falling sleep. It was still night time. Darkness had crept up to embrace them – the only light was the red glow from the fire’s remnants. Even the moons seemed to have gone out.

  All that was worrying, but couldn’t compare to the fact that all the lean-tos appeared to be empty. Ulma had stamped over to one and overturned the brushwood, exposing its abandoned inside.

  “No Abelard,” she said, standing on the edge of darkness. “His men are all gone too.”

  “And no Durik,” Logan added. “He was sitting by the fire when I fell asleep.”

  “You’ve got his pelt,” Ulma pointed out. Logan realized she was right – it was laid out over his cloak. He set it to one side and fastened the cloak around his shoulders.

  “I don’t remember leaving our shelter,” he said. “How much of that damned brandy did you give me?”

  “This isn’t the brandy, you idiot,” the dwarf snapped. She fumbled beneath the pack laid out beside their shelter and drew out a stubby little torch which she thrust into the fire. After a few tense seconds it took, new flames flaring up around the torch’s head.

  “We have to find them,” she said, her face thrown into light and shadow, her braids blazing like gold shot through with silver. Logan grimaced. Ulma was clearly worried, and on the rare occasions when that happened he’d learned it was best to pay attention.

  “But where would they have gone?” he asked, struggling to rise. Ulma helped him up.

  “Doesn’t take a tracker to work that one out,” she said, holding her torch down towards the ground. The patch of dirt it illuminated beyond
the smoldering camp fire was stamped with footprints. Logan felt his heart quail.

  They all pointed towards Blind Muir Forest.

  Chapter Eleven

  Even with Ulma’s torch, the darkness was so absolute it was difficult to tell where Blind Muir began. Thick underbrush, thorns and overgrown stumps eventually began to include boughs and branches, the flickering red glow picking out gnarled bark and raggedy autumnal leaves.

  They lost the tracks from the camp almost immediately. Logan nearly stopped, overcome with panic.

  “We can’t go back,” Ulma said, gripping his arm firmly. “They wouldn’t have just wandered in here of their own will.”

  “We could wait until dawn,” Logan tried.

  “We both know it’ll be too late by then,” Ulma said. “Besides, it doesn’t look as if dawn is coming.”

  They advanced into the forest, Logan drawing his sword. It was painfully slow going. He quickly lost count of the number of times he hurt his lower legs on trunks, stumbled over roots and was snagged by thorns. All the while Ulma steadied him, but he got the distinct impression the doughty dwarf didn’t have a plan beyond pressing deeper into the forest.

  “Do we know where we’re going?” he asked eventually.

  “I was following you,” Ulma said dryly. Logan came to a halt.

  “We could be going in circles,” he hissed. “This is madness!”

  A cry interrupted him, distant but unmistakably human.

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” he said grimly.

  “This way,” Ulma said, pointing her torch. They set off again, Logan doing his best to hurry. He was sure he could feel blood trickling down his shin from an encounter with an irontree root.

  Another shout pierced the forest, closer this time. Logan’s eyes roved amongst the surrounding trees, each one a looming, gaunt shade that seemed to creak with mirth as they struggled past. A wind gusted through the branches, making them rustle and clatter like dry bones in a tomb. The torch guttered, and for a terrifying moment he thought the wind was going to snatch its light away. The flame returned, though, maintaining that small, precious sphere of light around them.