Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “And the Blight is insufficient reason?”

  “Good Dryad, as it stands with my people–”

  “They’d surely not accept the word of a Lurk!” she finished for him, muttering several choice imprecations under her breath.

  Zephyr bowed his head stiffly. “True. Mylliandawn will require additional proofs if the Unicorns are to be drawn into this matter, for her complacence in matters of the external world is stifling. Until then–”

  “If the outlander’s conjecture is correct,” the Lurk interposed, “such proofs shall be discovered at Elliadora’s Well.” There was such an air of piratical cunning in his tone that Kevin looked up, startled. He seemed extremely well-informed! “If at the Well you are able to determine the source of this Blight, that would surely constitute reason sufficient to convene the Council–and what better place to host such a conclave, than at Elliadora’s Well itself?”

  “Neutral ground?”

  “Indeed, noble Zephyr.”

  “Brilliant! Simply brilliant!”

  “Moreover,” agreed the Lurk, looking pleased at this praise, “it is central ground to all the concerned races, for both geographical and historical reasons. Who would dare foment trouble at the Sacred Well? How better to stimulate curiosity in those traditionally, shall we say, less inclined to attend the Council? And should good Kevin’s intuition prove accurate–may the Forest our Mother be protected–then these proofs will be self-evident and unanswerable. The Blight must be stopped!”

  “Aye, by the Hills!”

  As Alliathiune, Zephyr and Snatcher debated the merits of this idea, Kevin was left to contemplate the nasty suspicion that no matter how he tried to deflect the focus from one Kevin Albert Jenkins, it somehow returned to him like a devious itch that refuses to accept that it has been amply scratched. Why had he ever put his hand into that sack? What had possessed him to explore the cellar in the first place? Disaster piled upon disaster. Goodness, life could have been much simpler if only he had ignored that letter! He could have been pining in the Library and rattling with pills. He would not be muddy, wet, and shivering in the middle of some misbegotten swamp talking to a green-haired vixen, a shapeless oaf, and an overgrown horse!

  But no sooner had these vexations crossed Kevin’s mind, than he felt wretched and heartless for thinking of his companions in such terms. Zephyr had been unflaggingly kind to him. The Lurk’s ghastly appearance belied a dynamic intelligence, as well as a touching concern for a land in which he dwelt in what must be its worst part. And Alliathiune could be very personable, save when she opened her mouth in anger–or when she was merging herself with a tree! It was all her fault originally, anyway. She had somehow wrenched him through to Feynard via his dreams. She had compelled him to undertake this crazy, dangerous journey. She had slapped him at their very first meeting!

  That he could blame someone else made it in some obscure fashion, acceptable, and his despondency lightened.

  “It’s decided, then!” Zephyr said brightly.

  “What’s decided?”

  “We’ll travel on to Elliadora’s Well making all possible speed. Snatcher has offered to guide us to the eastern border of Mistral Bog.”

  “Which is not far by the secret paths,” he growled, doing the Lurk equivalent of popping one’s knuckles, which sounded exactly like bones snapping. Zephyr jumped a good two feet backwards before catching himself with an annoyed harrumph. “From there, the terrain rises swiftly towards Yalkê-na-Têk–the–ah …”

  “The ‘Troll’s Teeth’ is an appropriate translation, I believe.”

  “My pardon, good Zephyr. I bow to your linguistic prowess. Yes, it is broken and difficult terrain through which Küshar Ravine cuts like a jagged wound, but I will set you upon Lyredin’s Way, which leads up to–” and here he made an unintelligible gargle deep in his throat “–also called the Bridge of Storms by the Fauns, which may be the only sure way of crossing Küshar Ravine and gaining the Barlindran River beyond. I would suggest that Elliadora’s Well lies three to four lighttimes journey beyond, but only the foolish and unwise traveller would proceed forgoing due caution in that perilous country. Even the Fauns venture no farther than the Bridge. One wonders if they guard less against eastward passage, than against what dangers might rise from the dark mass of the Old Forest. The Fauns are not easily affrighted, as you know.”

  The Unicorn nickered uneasily. “Are there no rumours of the Old Forest that reach your ears, good Lurk?”

  “Rumours aplenty! Truth? That is scarce.” He cracked another knuckle, which made Zephyr exclaim crossly. Alliathiune giggled. “Suffice to say,” said he, oblivious to their reactions, “that there are signs of strife and turmoil deep within the Old Forest. Creatures whelped in the stinking depths of Shäyol itself are on the move, rising from their aeons of slumber–and the Fauns cast nervous eyes eastward. Perhaps, at the root of these troubles, we shall find this conniving apprentice. Until then, I humbly suggest that we continue our journey. This part of Mistral Bog is more unfriendly than most, and though I misdoubt not the competence of your tame X’gäthi, nought but ill stands to be gained through delay. I shall return anon.”

  And the Lurk vanished with astonishing facility into the surrounding reed-beds, making even the X’gäthi warriors blink and mutter amongst themselves in their guttural tongue. Kevin was glad he was not the only one who considered it worrying how a ten-foot monster could have tracked them undetected through Mistral Bog!

  “Thank you for rescuing me, Alliathiune,” Kevin said stiffly, scratching like a mole digging a new burrow. His arms itched ferociously.

  The Dryad pinned him with a glare that could have stunned a charging rhinoceros. “Don’t you dare wander off like that again, good outlander. You endangered the lives of your companions through your incaution. And I am not willing to waste my magic saving your worthless hide when there are far more important issues at stake.”

  Kevin’s shoulders slumped and his tongue became thick with unvoiced apologies. What could he reply? He was a useless burden to their cause, relying entirely upon his companions. It was a miracle they had trusted him thus far–a confidence in his word and abilities that he neither deserved nor desired. Already they must regret including him in this expedition to Elliadora’s Well. What would they say when he was proved wrong? His mind miserably dredged up all the flimsy assumptions upon which he had built his suppositions regarding the Blight’s probable source, and set about demolishing them one by one.

  Sunk in this self-critical inner dialogue, he hardly even noticed Snatcher’s return with his carryall–but he did catch sight of the immense ironbound club the Lurk had hefted over his left shoulder, the shaft of which was as thick as his thigh. It had a knob at the business end which was furnished with a dozen six-inch spikes of bright metal, several of which were encrusted with dried blood and other nasty remnants of whatever creature the Lurk had recently brained. The sight of it turned his stomach. Kevin dolefully dropped to his knees in the mud to expel the remains of his breakfast.

  * * * *

  Having spent the remainder of that afternoon trailing after Snatcher, with two X’gäthi on hand to guard against misstep or arrest any incipient desire to wander from the path, Kevin had strength remaining only to wrap himself in his cloak and collapse in the general direction of his bedroll. A thousand fire ants crawled over the exposed skin of his arms, neck and ankles. But he had been too proud–or too stubborn–to request any help. He had inconvenienced them enough for one lighttime. Just leave him to his misery.

  It was Zephyr who discovered him lying there, semiconscious, when they passed around a simple dinner of waycrust and fruit. Snatcher had already downed five flatfish that he had foraged for on the way. An offer of several more to Zephyr and Alliathiune–both vegetarians–was refused with shudders, but the X’gäthi bared their sharp-pointed teeth in glee. Snatcher had been instructing several of their number en route and they had developed between them the kind of acceptance and
rapport of highly experienced and knowledgeable individuals.

  The Unicorn nudged him gently with his muzzle. “Kevin?”

  The words came to his ears as from a great distance

  “What’s wrong?” growled the Lurk, looking up. His bulk and shape made him look exactly like a huge boulder in the dim twilight. “Is the outlander not eating?”

  “Worse, he’s not moving!”

  Alliathiune made a clucking noise in the back of her throat. “Again?”

  “Perhaps he’s ill,” said Zephyr, touching his horn to Kevin’s head. “Nay–ah, there’s a fever! Good Lurk, know you of some affliction common to Humans in Mistral Bog?”

  The sound of his movement was as shadows cast by moonlight, and then the Lurk crouched beside Kevin. An immense paw engulfed his head, but without the faint distaste that had accompanied the Unicorn’s ministrations.

  “Hmm … odd.” Snatcher’s luminous eyes lidded over. “His kind are prone to such fevers, yet I sense no sickness–kê! I lie. He suffers an ill reaction to the sap of the glüalla plant.”

  Thick digits tugged Kevin’s cloak aside; he saw Zephyr’s eyes bulge.

  “By the Hills!”

  “Indeed. Why did he not complain before?”

  Struck by the same thought, they both glanced at Alliathiune.

  “Right, blame me! Who stumbled into the glüalla? Who endangered all our lives this lighttime? Who cannot be trusted, even for an instant, to follow a safe path?”

  “Who saved us from the Black Wolves?”

  Answering back to her was like blowing pure oxygen on a flame. Alliathiune flared, “That was an accident! He would be the first to admit it. It’s just another pathetic excuse not to aid us against the Blight! Well, I’m not having any of it. He’s got what he deserved, the lying little toad!”

  Kevin groaned and tried to roll over, but the Lurk’s palm covered his torso. Something unspeakably vile poured down his throat.

  In tones of starchy reproof, Zephyr commented, “You have been riding him roughshod from the first, good Dryad! What have you against him?”

  “Ask yourself who had the outlander chained like a beast in his own dwelling, noble Zephyr?”

  “That was an order–”

  “Orders nothing!” she stormed back at once. “If you hadn’t dragged him along on this journey, he would still have been languishing back in Thaharria-brin-Tomal bleating that he hadn’t moved from the same room in the same house for over twenty years, and couldn’t possibly totter five steps on his scrawny legs when he has patently walked all lighttime! He’s the most unconvincing excuse for an intelligent creature I have ever met, bar none. If he whines about his imaginary allergies one more time I’ll slap his other cheek so hard his teeth will rattle in his head!”

  Kevin’s stomach made a sound like a drainpipe emptying, cutting off further argument.

  “What are you doing to him?”

  The Lurk spread his vast paws. “Administering a restorative dear to my people,” said he, with a peaceable grin. “Indeed, the outlander is already much recovered.”

  On the contrary, Kevin felt as though Snatcher had fed him a burning snake. His eyes bulged and hot beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, running in rivulets down his flushed face. His throat convulsed as though seeking to part company with the rest of his neck, and when he spoke his voice was an incredulous rasp.

  “What was that stuff?”

  “A simple curative, a–”

  “For creatures ten times his size, no doubt!” shrilled Zephyr, rushing to Kevin’s side like an anxious parent to a fallen child. “If you have damaged him …”

  “Peace, noble Unicorn!”

  Kevin gasped, “Only a potion that revolting could cure–the itching is gone!”

  “What was it?” Alliathiune and Zephyr chorused.

  “A curative derived from the oily liver of the giant spiny toad,” replied Snatcher. “The toad is regarded as a great delicacy by my people, and has many medicinal applications useful to Lurks and other creatures. The liver is rendered in a cauldron over a slow fire for three lighttimes and three darktimes, before being decanted and treated by a secret process to concentrate it tenfold. It is particularly efficacious as an antidote to bites and stings.”

  This story, to Kevin’s mind, explained a few things–particularly if it was derived from a toad’s liver! But he could barely even remember now how his arms had been itching. They were still red and puffy, but the urge to strip the skin off with his fingernails was no longer overpowering. He, at least, was grateful.

  Zephyr was not. Drawing himself up to his fullest height, he neighed, “And you gave him toad oil undiluted?”

  “You’d rather he died?”

  Kevin wiped his mouth. “Excuse me, but–”

  “Shush, Kevin! Good Snatcher, I would rather you consulted me before applying such drastic remedies to a mere Human. They are notoriously frail creatures!”

  Something indefinably sad flickered across the Lurk’s eyes. “As you command, noble one-horn. I shall obey.”

  And a strained silence descended upon their gathering.

  Kevin broke it by vomiting so violently that an X’gäthi three feet away had to dodge.

  “Oh, perfect,” sniffed the Unicorn. “I despise swamps, and you just added to this one.”

  Chapter 9: Lyredin’s Way

  Snatcher, moving with uncanny precision and subtlety on his great splayed pads across the ever-treacherous muck of Mistral Bog, had by late afternoon three lighttimes later brought the travellers safely to the eastern border of his homeland. Safely, that is, save for poor Kevin, who once again had the misfortune to tangle with the local wildlife, this time in the form of a seven-foot eel that mistook his booted foot for dinner and tried to make off with it. But he was rescued once more by the brave X’gäthi, who leapt in with flashing blades to decapitate the eel. It was shared between the nine remaining warriors and the delighted Lurk, who slid a five-foot portion the thickness of Kevin’s thigh down his throat with evident delight, and then proceeded to suck the eyeballs out of the head and consume those too–at which point Kevin stopped watching for fear he would throw up again.

  The other thing that turned his stomach was the anaconda the Dryad had just let go. How did she do it? One moment a Lurk and three X’gäthi were leaping in with weapons whirring through the air, when tiny Alliathiune stopped them all with a shout and then cradled–yes, cradled–a monster anaconda’s blunt head in her hands and started talking to it! Even Snatcher appeared perplexed by this development. When the snake moseyed off, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, Alliathiune said, “She had a medical problem. She’s off to lay her eggs now. Wasn’t she a beauty?”

  “Beauty that’ll eat you for breakfast is the less to be admired,” said Zephyr.

  “A small specimen,” added the Lurk. “You should see the greater anacondas in the Deep Bogs. Those would eat a Lurk for breakfast.”

  A Lurk! Kevin willed his eyeballs to stay in their sockets.

  But then his foot caught on a hard patch of ground, and he would have fallen flat on his face but for the swift reactions of the X’gäthi nearest him. They had reached the edge of Mistral Bog.

  “Well done, all!” cried Zephyr, pawing the solid ground with instinctive relief. “We have successfully navigated Mistral Bog and completed a goodly portion of our journey to Elliadora’s Well.”

  “Is Thaharria-brin-Tomal quite near the edge of the Forest, then? I’ve been bitten to smithereens by those pesky–buzz off!”

  “Those are called nisk flies, good Kevin.”

  “Blasted irritating blood-sucking swarming pestiferous whining sleep deprivers!” he muttered, causing Alliathiune and Zephyr to exchange grins. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep, what with all those frogs croaking nineteen to the dozen–”

  “What is a ‘frog’?” asked Snatcher.

  “Never mind.” Kevin whined, “Honestly, having to sleep upon a spiky reed-bed has left
holes the size of walnuts in my back! How anyone ever lives in a swamp is beyond me. I was freezing cold and shivering all night–uh, darktime, as you Forest creatures would have it. Is anyone listening to me?”

  “Snatcher thinks swamps are delightful,” Alliathiune needled him, drawing a low thunder of approval from the Lurk.

  “My good Human,” said Zephyr, struggling to control his laughter, “to reach the outermost settlements of Driadorn is easily six times the distance we are travelling, and from there a further moon’s travel before one reaches the first Human lands. Thaharria-brin-Tomal is considered part of the Old Forest.”

  Kevin gasped. Good grief, he had completely misunderstood the maps his tutor had shown him. The Forest must be continent-sized!

  “So what’s this part called?” he asked. “The really, really Old Forest?”

  “This is Faun country,” Zephyr informed him, ignoring his joke.

  As they climbed steadily up and away from the swamp, Kevin could look back upon the swirling mists of Mistral Bog, and wonder that he had passed largely unscathed through such a forbidding territory. He was covered in muck from head to toe! Eastward lay a line of hills, rising steeply from this initial elevation toward a jumbled and broken crest, where the land had been formed in aeons past by a colossal case of geological hiccups. Amongst the jumbled boulders and jagged ravines even the trees were twisted and stunted, as though the thin earth were insufficient to support greater growth and the weather too inclement to allow any green thing to grow strong and tall. The grass, which Zephyr had paused to investigate, sheltered in tan tufts between the boulders and stones. The trail ahead was a grim and forbidding prospect.

  But beyond that–well, if Elliadora’s Well were a mountain he should have been able to see it, save for a canopy of cloud covering that part of the Forest.

  “Zephyr–you’re clean again!” he blurted out. The Unicorn was a pristine vision against the dark boulders. “How do you do that?”