Disenchanted

by Kroese, Robert

  He would have to head southwest along the edge of the Dagspaal Mountains, cross a tributary of the Ytrisk River, and then continue south to the Twyllic Forest. But first he needed to get out of sight — it wouldn’t do to be spotted by one of his men in this condition. Rather than taking the road south to the Brobdingdon Bridge, which joined Ytrisk and Skaal, he made his way into the foothills to the east. The way was challenging but not overly arduous, and by staying in the valleys he could avoid being seen by any sharp-eyed border sentries on either side of the river. Also, it was a relief to be facing away from the sun, which seemed to be about ten times as bright as usual. Even though the sky was mostly overcast, the glare off the rocks was nearly blinding; and whenever sunlight struck his bare skin, it burned like a branding iron. He would be greatly relieved when the sun went down.

  As he headed farther toward the mountains, the river became less formidable; he knew of several places only a few hours’ hike from the bridge where one could ford the stream without too much trouble. He came to the first of these just before sundown. The river was about twenty paces across here, and the water flowed over a smooth rock face in an unruffled torrent maybe a foot deep. The current moved quickly, but by walking carefully one could cross without being swept downstream. Having removed his boots, Boric took a step and was shocked at the sensation of the water on his foot. His gaping wounds still caused him no pain, but the cold water gripped his foot like a vise. He dimly recalled that wraiths were supposed to have an aversion to water, and now he knew why. Something about the touch of water on his skin brought into stark relief the unnatural contrast between his living spirit and his dead flesh. He crossed the river as quickly as he dared.

  Once across, he began to head back to the southwest. The sun was setting now, and as long as he stayed well away from the bridge — which was guarded on either side by Ytriskian and Skaal soldiers — it was unlikely that he would be seen. He followed the river’s edge for several miles, giving wide berth to the bridge, on which torches glowed brightly in the night. The evening air was cold, but whereas the water had given him chills, the air was oddly unaffecting. He also appeared to be immune to hunger or fatigue — his body trudged on at the goading of the spirit, heedless to its former needs. Rather than offering him comfort, however, the lack of physical cravings only served to redouble Boric’s determination to rid himself of this ghoulish form as quickly as possible. Although he still retained human form at this point, he knew that his transformation to wraith was far from complete. Eventually his flesh would fall away and not long after that, any last vestige of humanity. Like most people he had never seen a wraith, but he had heard the stories. At first a wraith might try to hold on to its former life, haunting familiar venues and going through the motions of its former life, but eventually it would forget about petty human concerns — forget, in fact, that it was once human itself. Boric’s greatest worry was that he would be unable to break the curse before that happened, and that he would forget that he had once dreamed of joining the other great warriors in the Hall of Avandoor. Having lost his motivation, he would wander aimlessly forever throughout the land of Dis.

  Already changes were occurring within him, almost unnoticed. He realized, for instance, that he had for several hours been walking in near complete darkness without once stumbling on the uneven ground. The sun had long set but the moon had not yet arisen; by all rights he shouldn’t be able to see his own feet. But another boon of his status as one of the walking dead seemed to be the ability to see almost perfectly in darkness. He could only assume this was the trade-off for his intolerance for sunlight; even now, the idea of the red-orange disk creeping over the horizon struck fear into his heart. If mere water caused him pain, what of full sunlight? He quickened his pace, determined to reach the massive sheltering oaks of the Twyllic Forest before sunrise.

  Fortunately, dawn in Ytrisk was a long, gray, drawn-out affair, owing to the foreboding presence of the Dagspaal Mountains to the east. When the sky first began to lighten, Boric knew that he had another good hour before the sun would be visible. And that was propitious, for he had only just turned southward across the plain toward the forest, some five miles distant. There would be no cover between the river and the edge of the woods.

  Several times he attempted to break into a run, but the jarring motion was disconcerting — he literally felt as if he was about to fall out of his own skin. As long as he moved slowly and deliberately, the body and spirit remained in sync and he still felt almost human.

  The sun peeked over the zenith of the mountains while the first trees were still several hundred yards off. The glare struck his irises like twin spears. His exposed skin felt like it was on fire. Evidently he was not entirely beyond the realm of pain.

  He once again began to run, realizing that the agony of full sunlight might well incapacitate him completely. He had to reach the tree line before the sun was fully above the horizon. Despite the jarring sensation, he did not pop out of his own corpse; it seemed that he was starting to get the hang of this dual existence. He shivered at the thought. Pulling his cloak tightly against him, he ran desperately to the edge of the woods.

  His ordeal wasn’t over when he reached the trees: the insidious rays, nearly level with the horizon, shot through the foliage, bathing the forest in swaths of glaring red. It was so bright that even through closed lids it felt like the light was drilling right through his eyes and pounding on the back of his skull. Dizzy and nauseous, feeling like his whole being was on fire, Boric stumbled blindly through the woods until he tripped over a log that reached nearly to his knees. He stayed down, pressing himself into the cool, dark cavity behind the rotting wood, waiting for the sun to climb high enough that its rays would be mostly blocked by the canopy of foliage above him.

  So this is what it’s like to be a wraith, he thought. Cowering behind a fallen tree, waiting for the sunrise to pass. He hadn’t been this scared since he had faced the Ogre of Chathain, some twenty years earlier.

  FOUR

  After parting ways with Brand, the mysterious stranger, Boric followed the ogre Skoorn’s trail from town to town for several days, eventually ending up in a village on the border of Ytrisk and Skaal. The name of the village was Plik.

  Plik was a typical border town, built on a marginally habitable plateau in the mountains between the two kingdoms. Plik’s existence depended entirely on a willingness on each kingdom’s part to overlook the black market trading on which its citizens subsisted. It was a place where spies, robbers, and merchants mingled freely. Justice was for sale and love could be rented by the hour.

  Boric found himself in a tavern called the Velvet Gosling, nursing a beer and soaking in gossip about the ogre. Word had reached town that two infants had been plucked from their cribs the previous evening in a nearby town, and the men of the village were talking about hunting the ogre down. So far, it amounted only to talk.

  “It’s only a matter of time before the ogre hits Plik,” said one man. “If that lazy bastard Toric isn’t going to do anything about it, we need to take matters into our own hands.” He downed a flagon of beer to punctuate his point. The man was built like a tree stump. Massive, blackened hands hung from arms roped with muscle, and his dirty blond hair was pulled back in a braid behind his head. A blacksmith, no doubt. And an insolent blacksmith at that, thought Boric. A few leagues closer to Brobdingdon no one would dare refer to the king as “that lazy bastard.” But things were different down here, halfway between Brobdingdon and Skaal City. Plik’s allegiances swung back and forth between Skaal and Ytrisk like a sheet blowing in the wind.

  “I hear the Skaal have sent an expedition into the hills to find the ogre,” said another man. This one was fat, bald, and pink-cheeked and wore a finely tailored shirt and pants. A merchant of some sort.

  “Ha!” bellowed the blacksmith. “Men from the same litter as those they sent against the Ytriskians at Fort Behrn last spring, no doubt. The ogre broke fast with the infants of Plik an
d will dine on the whelps of Skaal!”

  Some disapproving mutters arose from the group. “Perhaps you should watch your tongue, Daman,” said the merchant.

  “An ogre plucks our children from their nurseries while they sleep and you take offense at mere talk!” spat the blacksmith.

  Another man, who had been sitting alone in a corner, strode forward. He was tall and sturdily built, and wore a cloak with a hood that obscured his features.

  “Seems that there is plenty of talk to be had,” said the man. “What is needed is action.”

  “And what action do you propose, stranger?” asked the merchant.

  “I propose to hunt down this ogre and kill him,” said the man, flipping back his hood. He was a young man with soft features and curly blond hair. Boric thought he seemed familiar, but couldn’t place him.

  “And who might you be, little boy?” asked the blacksmith.

  “My name is Corbet. Crown Prince of Skaal.”

  Could it be? thought Boric. He had met Corbet some five years earlier, when they were both just children. He remembered Corbet being something of a spoiled brat.

  “My lord!” cried the men, falling to their knees. “Forgive us,” said the merchant. “We didn’t know it was you. We heard that the Skaal had sent men…”

  “Hmph,” said the prince. “A token detachment of soldiers traveling from town to town, hoping to scare the ogre back to Ytriskian territory with sheer drunken bluster. They’ll never find the ogre, which is lucky for them, because the ogre would tear them to pieces. An operation like this requires some sophistication…and a knowledge of the local terrain. To your feet, gentlemen.”

  “I know this area like the back of my hand, m’lord!” exclaimed the merchant excitedly, as they got to their feet. Then, belatedly realizing what he was volunteering for, he added, “Perhaps I could draw you a map?”

  “Nay, friend,” bellowed the blacksmith, slapping the merchant on the back. “You’ll be our guide. And I shall be Prince Corbet’s second in command. We’ll find this brute and cut out his liver, by Varnoth!” With this, he hoisted his flagon, raining beer on several nearby patrons.

  “Pardon my friend,” said the merchant. “He’s had quite a lot to drink this evening. He doesn’t know what he is saying.”

  “Quite all right,” said the prince. “I admire his enthusiasm. You know, I had intended to hunt the ogre alone, but I do need someone who knows the area. I won’t argue if you insist on accompanying me.”

  The merchant smiled weakly.

  At this, Boric finished his beer and walked over to the men. “I will,” he said.

  “You’ll what, Messenger?” demanded Corbet.

  “Argue,” said Boric. “You can’t take these men into the mountains to hunt an ogre. You’ll get them killed. But any fool would know that, so I can only assume you plan to use them as bait. Send your ‘guides’ on ahead to be devoured by the monster and then sneak up behind him with your rib-sticker there.”

  The merchant’s pink cheeks went a few shades paler. The blacksmith seemed confused as to what was transpiring.

  “I’ll not brook this sort of insolence from a mere messenger!” Corbet growled, hand on the hilt of his sword. “On your knees, lad!”

  “What you don’t seem to realize,” Boric went on, “is that while ogres can’t see very well, their sense of smell is better than a hunting dog’s. That ogre will smell your perfumed soaps a mile away, m’lord. Your only hope to escape is if he is overcome by nausea at your scent.”

  “Let’s see if you can remain on your feet when your head is no longer attached to your neck!” exclaimed Corbet, making to draw his sword.

  “Wait!” shouted the proprietor of the tavern, who had been watching the proceedings with detached interest. “Please, not inside!”

  Corbet scowled, but said, “Outside, then, Messenger.”

  Boric nodded curtly and grabbed his pack from under the table where he had been sitting. He had tied the sword that Brand had given him, Brakslaagt, to the side of the pack. His own sword hung in a scabbard at his side.

  He and Corbet went outside, and he gave a silver coin to a young boy in the street to watch his pack. “There’ll be another for you if everything’s still there when I’m done schooling this prince,” Boric told the boy, who nodded and smiled at him.

  The two princes drew their swords. Boric’s was a simple broadsword of good quality; he had left his own sword at Kra’al Brobdingdon because with its Ytriskian markings and jewels it would have given him away as a member of the court. Corbet’s sword, he noted, was a work of understated beauty — cold blue steel that almost seemed to glow in the night. There was no question: this sword was the brother of Brakslaagt.

  Boric regarded the prince. Corbet was a year older than he, but his features were still slathered in a layer of baby fat. Or maybe middle age had come early for the prince. Corbet’s father, King Celiac, was a giant of a man, both in height and in girth, and his offspring evinced the same tendency toward heft. Celiac was a gruff man with leathery skin that was scarred from countless battles, though; this prince’s flesh was smooth and puffy. He moved nimbly enough, his sword cutting gracefully through the air as he limbered his muscles, but his poise and general affect was that of a boy prancing around the arena with a toy sword. Boric wondered if he had ever faced a real opponent. One of the hazards of being the eldest son in the royal family was that your opponents tended to let you win.

  Boric did not have that problem. His older brothers, Yoric and Goric, had been beating the shit out of him for as long as he could remember — first individually and then, as Boric grew, collaboratively. Even now, both brothers were still bigger than he, but he had learned how to use their size against them. The best combat tutors were reserved for Yoric and Goric, but Boric could beat either of his brothers in a fair fight — and could even give them a run for their money in a completely unfair fight. He didn’t see Corbet giving him much trouble, although it would be interesting to see how his sword performed.

  The two men squared off, testing each other’s defenses. Boric’s sword was heavier than the one he ordinarily used, but it was a good, well-balanced blade. Boric had learned early on that in sword-fighting, there were two basic temptations: one was to let the momentum of the sword carry you around, which led to overextending yourself and losing your balance. The other was to hold your sword close, trying to keep it completely under control as if it were a knife, which led to an overly defensive stance. The trick was to think of the sword as an extension of your arm, to find the balance between controlling the sword and letting the sword control you. Corbet clearly erred on the side of being too aggressive: he was used to opponents who paused before taking advantage of his overextension. Still, the gaps he left were small — Boric would need to time his blow just right. He sparred with Corbet for several minutes, trying to get a sense of his rhythm. Corbet was strong, too — stronger than Boric. He rained blow after blow on Boric’s sword, scattering sparks and cutting notches into the blade. Corbet’s own sword seemed unscathed. Boric chuckled.

  Ytrisk wasn’t exactly at the forefront of metallurgy but Boric knew that there were many different sorts of steel, from the malleable steel used for horseshoes and door hinges to the hard-but-brittle steel used for cooking knives. Before the rise of the Old Realm, swords had been made mostly of iron. These swords rusted easily, dulled quickly and — worst of all — were prone to bending, a trait which led to many awkward interludes in the middle of battles during which the belligerents would pause to step on their swords to straighten them out before resuming combat. The process of adding carbon to iron to make steel was for many centuries a secret of the dwarves, but when Bravnok the Great incorporated the dwarven kingdom into his empire, his smiths became privy to this knowledge. The Old Realm’s smiths even improved on the dwarves’ recipe, experimenting with the proportions of carbon and adding other ingredients to improve the blade’s resistance to rust and its ability to hold an edge
.

  As with everything, though, there were trade-offs with the different sorts of steel. A sword that never dulled, for example, was bound to be brittle. Poor Corbet had probably sparred a few times with some sycophantic servant and concluded based on his sword’s ability to hold an edge that it was a work of superior craftsmanship. Boric knew better.

  Rather than wait for an opening, Boric decided to take advantage of Corbet’s overconfidence. He let Corbet’s blade bounce off his on an undercut, setting him up to take advantage of the momentum and come down hard on Boric. Boric anticipated the swing and struck back against Corbet’s blade with all of his strength. Now we’ll see the mettle of Corbet’s steel, he thought.

  Boric’s blade shattered, sending fragments of steel in all directions.

  The recoil of the collision had brought Corbet’s sword to a halt in mid-air, a few inches from Boric’s shoulder. For a moment the two men stood stunned, the shock of the impact shooting down their arms. Then Corbet smiled. Boric’s sword had been reduced to a pommel and eight inches of steel. He was finished.

  But Boric had one advantage: an eight-inch blade is lighter and faster than a three-foot blade. Boric hurled the remnant of his sword at Corbet’s face, hilt first. The pommel struck Corbet in the forehead, knocking his head back. Boric bent his knees and kicked, throwing his body backward as Corbet swung wildly, his blade scribing a red line across Boric’s cheek. Boric turned sideways, maintaining his momentum by rolling on his side away from Corbet. Being on the ground was a tactical disadvantage, but it was the only way to get out of the range of Corbet’s sword.

  He got to his knees and scrambled away from the sound of Corbet’s advancing footsteps. This was not going as well as he had hoped.

  “You fight well for a messenger, boy,” said Corbet snidely. “It will be a shame to cut your throat.”

  Boric turned to face Corbet, who had stopped advancing to gloat. Boric got to his feet. He could at least die with some dignity. Corbet would probably spare his life if he revealed his identity, but Boric was too proud to do that. Better to die as a messenger than to save his skin by confessing to his charade. Corbet brought his sword back, poised to strike.