by A. J. Cronin
The two look back down to see that the snow, like a living creature, is slowly rising up and over the slain until it covers them completely. The duo’s eyes snap back to the woman, who smiles, liking that the men are impressed with her handiwork. Gawain looks her over, trying to judge whether or not she is friend or foe. Alastor, however, looks at her as one mesmerized. The closer he looks, the farther he falls. Her skin is at first pale, but on closer inspection it shimmers as if covered by a thin layer of pure, clear ice. Alastor’s eyes eventually find their way to hers, and the two lock their gaze for a momentary eternity.
“Who are you?” Gawain suddenly bursts out.
Alastor breaks himself away from the woman and looks to the King.
“She is a Fairy,” he tells Gawain.
Gawain’s eyes open in slight shock and disbelief. The woman smiles.
“I should apologize,” she begins, “the tempest was not meant for you, but rather those that had been pursuing you.”
“What do you mean?” asks Gawain.
“Men, compatriots to the ones you just felled, have been skulking around these forests, intending to kill you and your companion. Something I could not allow.”
“So you set a trap for them, with that little one as the bait and us the snare,” Alastor observes with a smirk.
The Fairy woman smiles and nods in affirmation.
“You said you could not allow us to be killed. What did you mean by that?” Gawain asks her.
“To die at the hands of brigands would not serve any purpose now, would it?”
“The way you speak of us implies you know who we are, Fairy.”
“Oh, I know of you quite well. Gawain, King of Essain, haunted by shadowy wraiths in your future yet facing them with tenacious determination.” She then turns to face Alastor. Her deep blue eyes softening. “And Alastor, tragedy incarnate. A man whose path even gods cannot see.”
Gawain’s eyes dart from the Fairy to Alastor and back, sensing some inkling that this is not their first meeting. Gawain ignores this and thinks back to the matter at hand.
“So you know who we are, and you helped us, for reasons unknown, but we - “
“Must continue to Judeheim?” the Fairy interrupts.
“Yes.”
“You will find that Judeheim is... changed.”
“Then my dreams were true,” Gawain says as one utterly defeated.
The Fairy smiles.
“Dreams can be fickle, Gawain. They are like echoes in a cave, or ripples upon water; a mere sign of something greater. In dreams, there are no absolutes. This is something you should always keep in mind.”
“Then the city - the people - they are not lost?”
“It depends. In your dreams, you see a result, not a cause. Do you not?”
Gawain becomes lost in memory. Alastor and the Fairy look at one another, as though having some silent conversation.
“What would you do?” Gawain asks Alastor without facing him.
Alastor thinks for a moment, then answers.
“If one believes that the innocent are in despair now, one should act. Consequences will come later and be dealt with as they arise.”
Gawain takes Alastor’s words to heart and becomes galvanized by them.
“Yes. Wiser words have seldom been spoken, friend.”
“Quite,” the Fairy adds with the tone of one impressed.
Gawain smiles triumphantly, nobly.
“I thank you for your aid, fair one,” Gawain says with a bow, “but we should take our leave if we are to aid Judeheim.”
“Avoid the road,” the Fairy says. “Alastor knows the animal trails through the western forest. Follow it and you will be in Judeheim long before dawn.”
“What if there are more of those men?” Alastor asks.
“I will do what I can, as will you,” she says with a wide, sly grin.
Gawain taps Alastor’s shoulder with his fist, signaling their time to leave. Alastor begins to follow after him, but is drawn to look back. He glances back just in time to see the Fairy raise her hand in farewell and fade into the mist.
“Until we next meet,” he whispers.
He runs with all speed after Gawain, who has already covered a great distance back. Once reunited, Gawain motions for Alastor to take the lead. With weapons still in hand they rush headlong into the western forest, bounding over obstacles and driven as though a dreadful evil were upon their heels. Gawain keeps pace with Alastor rather effortlessly, even with sword and shield still in hand.
Unaccounted quantities of time passes. Minutes or hours, the two men would not have known, nor would they have cared; their focus sharp, the desire to reach Judeheim relentless. Alastor suddenly changes course, leading on a direct northern path. Frost and dew still cling to the foliage, a chill in the air making every breath painful yet invigorating. The sun had long ago dipped down and the moon has taken its place in the sky, softly illuminating the cold forest with its brilliant pale light.
After some miles more, they come to a small open clearing, in the center of which the remnants of a fallen watchtower lays in mute ruin. Alastor comes to a halt, leaning against the tower wall. Gawain drops to one knee. Both men heave, drawing air in large gasps.
“How far... have we... come, Alastor?”
“Far enough... to warrant a rest,” Alastor replies with much effort.
Having caught their respective breaths, the two slouch down against the wall, hanging their heads. Gawain looks up to see the night sky through a break in the clouds. He smiles at the sight of the stars.
“Tell me, Alastor: who was she?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know exactly what I am talking about.”
“Oh. Her. I told you, she is a Fairy. You know, one of those enigmatic magical types.”
“I know what she is. I asked who she is. You two seemed... familiar.”
“I have spent much time out here, and met on a few random occasions. Never enough to learn anything useful. In fact, she never spoke to me that I can remember.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Very well,” Gawain laughs and drops the matter.
The clouds gather again, closing off the view to the heavens. Alastor wraps a scarf around his face and pulls his hood over his head in response to the increasing chill. Gawain does the same.
“She must be at work again,” Gawain muses. “Whoever these men are, they are great fools at the very least.”
“Or just suicidal,” thinks Alastor as he stands, strapping his sword upon his back and adjusting his bracers. “We should continue on, lest we freeze here and now.”
“A most undesirable fate,” Gawain smirks in acknowledgment as he stands, sheathing his blade and then tightening the straps that secure his shield to his arm.
“We will continue on north, but we can go at a slower pace,” Alastor tells Gawain.
“Let us be on our way then, as every moment we tarry increases my worry.”
Alastor’s allowing of a slower pace was not merely for easing their journey; the forest north of the watchtower could not be more different than that of the south. Water and ice pool in deep ruts, steep hills whose faces are nothing more than mud walls lay in waiting. Creeper vines hang low from the trees and clog the ground. The earth is so saturated with moisture that it has receded and leaves the roots of the massive trees exposed. All these things the men must be vigilant to avoid.
The going is slow, but steady, and moves along in silence, save for the somewhat sickening sound of their boots splashing and trouncing in mud. Not even the creatures of the night stir within the woods. In the blink of an eye, the light of the moon, which had been free to shine since they left the watchtower, is blacked out, casting the forest in complete darkness.
“Alastor!” Gawain calls out, but no reply does he receive.
Gawain increases the speed of his stride, fearing the worst. The stillness of the forest makes the sound of his own panti
ng unbearable. His heartbeat like thunder in his ears. The clouds break again, allowing the light back in, but it is too late. Gawain stares off into a pitch black precipice at his feet. Before he can think of stopping, his right foot falls into the nothingness set before him.
Tumbling.
Turning.
Pain.
Gawain falls. His body cracks as he slams against rocks and the husks of fallen, decayed trees. Time ceases to exist. His vision blurs between the sight of the full moon above and the dank, cold darkness of the earth pressed in his face. With all his will, he forces his body to right itself. With all his strength, he plunges his shield into the ground in an attempt to slow his descent. He digs his boot heels into the soft mud, but it does little. He grits his teeth, exerting himself to the brink of exhaustion. Just as he begins to feel in control, the slope beneath him disappears. A yell escapes his lips unwittingly.
To fall forever becomes the thing that Gawain fears most, more than hitting the bottom, more than anything. The wind whistles as he plunges through the air. It is then that, as fast as the fall began, it ends.
Gawain lands heavily upon wet but dense earth. He opens his eyes to a world still spinning and now in triplicate. As his mind corrects, he becomes aware of a small grey speck in his vision, growing larger and larger. In his stupor, he is unable to recognize it. But then, clarity.
The world becomes right.
A boulder.
Gawain quickly raises his shield arm and covers his face not a moment too soon. The weight of the boulder smashes his arm violently into his face. The shield cracks and splits in two, the boulder resting in the crater that the shield has become. His arm becomes a throbbing ache. Gawain pushes off the boulder, which rolls to the ground with a thud. The King lowers his arm, draws a deep breath, and closes his eyes. He opens them again to discover a figure standing over him. Gawain’s sword hand immediately moves out of instinct to his belt.
“Relax, Gawain.”
The voice is that of Alastor. He stands with arm extended and hand open. A sigh of relief escapes from the King. He takes Alastor’s hand, and Alastor pulls him up to his feet. Gawain examines his shield, as does Alastor. Gawain unbuckles the shield, holding it in both hands like a fine painting. Aside from being split in two, part of it has broken from when he thrust it in the ground on his journey down the slope.
“Looks useless to me,” Alastor says callously, “which means it is dead weight. Throw it aside.”
Gawain does not argue, as Alastor’s words are, unfortunately, true. He throws the shield down, becoming distinctly more aware of the throbbing pain in his arm. Alastor walks off, examining their surroundings.
They are in a massive trench, twenty feet wide, running from west to east. Gawain stands shoulder to shoulder with Alastor, the two staring up. The walls of the trench are made of stone with a sheer face standing at least fifty feet high. Down the center of the trench, a small stream, barely two feet across, flows from the west.
“We are most definitely not climbing out of here,” Gawain speaks up.
“Too true.”
Gawain examines the trench closer.
“I thought you were an expert ranger, knowing every path and pitfall in this forest?”
“As did I,” Alastor says with a depressed sigh.
“One would come to the conclusion then that this should have been well known to you.”
“It was not here when last I was in this place,” Alastor replies softly as his mind works.
“What could this be then? Part of a dam, or a sewer perhaps?”
“No, the nearest body of water is Sariph Lake, and a sewer system this far from the city leading off into the forests would be useless.”
“Alastor, looking at it, I cannot help but think that it almost looks like - “
“A moat,” Alastor finishes.
Gawain looks at Alastor in disbelief.
“Judeheim has never had, nor has it ever needed a moat.”
“That would be an understatement. If this follows the circumference of the whole city, there would be enough extra room for Judeheim to double or triple its size before even coming near the moat’s edge.”
Gawain takes notice of the small flowing body of water.
“Perhaps following this water will lead us out of here?”
“It looks as though we have few alternate options.”
The two walk westward down the moat, following the flowing liquid. They go slowly out of uncertainty and distaste for the situation. For both of them, the moat’s very existence is a ample cause for caution. Gawain periodically looks down at his left arm; the lack of his shield upon it leaving him feeling inexorably exposed.
“Lisa had that shield made for me,” he says as though mourning.
“Do not grieve too much. It did serve the purpose it was intended for; it saved your life, right?”
“That it did. Still, it was a nice shield.”
As they continue on through the night, the light fog that had encapsulated much of the moat fades and the temperature begins to rise. The speed of the temperature increase causes the ice and snow in the forest to melt. It starts with a few tendrils of water snaking down, but soon becomes a constant flow of liquid pouring into the moat. A flash illuminates the sky and the moat, and is soon followed by a massive thunderclap. The men stop in their tracks, look up to the sky and to each other say in unison:
“Wonderful.”
Warm rain starts to fall.
The shoulders of both men sink, crushed by the turn of events. They continue in spite of the fact that the moat floor has soon become drowned in water, thus transmuting it into a sort of swamp. Each step forward becomes a chore, mud coming up to the knee and loath to release its grip as they attempt the next onward push. In restrained annoyance they slog forward.
Time, once passing unnoticed, now comes to a mocking halt.
Minutes become hours, hours become eternity.
The sound of rain and that of their own legs pushing into and pulling out of the mud become appallingly monotonous. Surely insanity would follow if not for what they saw next.
“Alastor, up ahead.”
“I see. Light is coming out from the side of the wall.”
“A tunnel?”
“Hopefully.”
They hasten their pace as much as their bodies allow, though the light has given them a degree of renewed strength. Nearing the light source, they see that it indeed comes from a tunnel; a long, cylindrical passage with a flat bottom. The walls and ceiling are doubly enforced to withstand enormous pressures.
“It is a spillway from the looks of it,” Alastor observes.
The light shimmers off of the moist walls, coming from some location further within. They enter the spillway to leave the rain behind; voices can be heard reverberating from deep within. Alastor faces Gawain, who nods, acknowledging the voices. Slowly stalking forward for fear of coming across enemies, they eventually come to a fork in the path, forward and right.
The light and voices come from the right tunnel. Alastor peaks around the corner and spies an open door. Without pausing to face him, Alastor signals for Gawain to follow as he turns the corner into the tunnel. They pass a wide slot in the right wall, and a massive round stone in the wall opposite. Clearly a device meant to block off the path when the moat is filled. The men carefully place each step, not wanting to alert whomever is in the room beyond. Alastor begins to unsheathe his blade, only to strike the pommel against the low ceiling, the sound ringing as sure as any alarm throughout the whole spillway. The voices in the room come to an abrupt halt, which would not have been unexpected. Alastor curses himself and, releasing the grip on his sword, quickly takes a dagger that hangs from his belt. The sound of heavy, iron shod boots trampling rapidly, and the unsheathing of blades from metal scabbards come from the room, followed by battle cries. From beyond the door a man emerges looking much like the ones felled earlier.
The man shouts in alert.
; Alastor puts forth a burst of speed and takes the man by surprise, shoulder ramming him and plowing through the men behind. He comes face to face with a brigand, quickly plunging his dagger into its belly whilst catching the man’s sword arm as it is swung at Alastor. The brigand yelps in pain as Alastor twists the dagger before removing it and plunging it again, into the brigand’s chest, killing him instantly. Using the sword from the man he has just felled, Alastor defends himself against two more brigands who have righted themselves, previously being knocked to the ground.
Alastor, with the skill of a master swordsman, deflects the attacks directed at him. He rotates away the blade of one with such force that it flies from the brigand’s hand, shocking two of them, who Alastor strikes down in their momentary lapse. He then wheels around to see Gawain kicking away an enemy whom he has run through, his fourth based on the numbers at the King’s feet. The two catch eyes for a moment, but Gawain’s gaze quickly changes.
“Alastor, behind you!”
The warning is too late. The last remaining brigand swings his blade and smiles at his coming victory. The blade connects. As has become the custom, awareness of time changes for Gawain. His hand outstretched toward Alastor in vain.
However, it is a loud metallic clang heard in place of the sound of metal passing through flesh.
The would be assassin looks up in shock as he realizes that his prey has a claymore strapped across his back. Alastor sneers as he meets his foe and does not hesitate to thrust the sword into him. The man falls backward with a blank stare on his face. Alastor does not bother to retrieve the blade, letting it fall with the brigand.
All enemies defeated, Gawain reunites with Alastor.
“Are you all right?” Alastor asks while examining the room.
“Just fine. You?”
“I have been better,” replies Alastor darkly.
The room is lined on one side with a row of bunk beds. On another wall, cradles for weaponry. Scattered about the room are braziers for both light and cooking, as well as tables and chairs for eating at. The tables are covered with plates of meat, but the two pass them over, as the meat looks both rancid and undercooked. At the far end of the room, to the left of where the duo had stormed in, is another door. Alastor cleans his dagger using the sheets on one of the beds, thrusting it back into its sheathe afterward. While Alastor rummages through the dead looking for clues, Gawain walks to the door. He opens it, and stares wide-eyed at the sight before him.
