by Marc Secchia
But why the blazes did it have to hurt so much?
Above him the trail meandered interminably until it disappeared amongst the jumbled boulders. He tried not to think of the yawning gulf that lay between him and Mistral Bog, lost in the mists several hundred yards below his current elevation. Heights were not his forte. If he focussed on the solid rocks underfoot, the sickness should disappear.
He was so focussed, and in so much pain, that he nearly stumbled right on past where the others had paused to allow him to catch up.
“Good Kevin!” said Alliathiune, grasping his arm. “Sit and rest awhile.”
His smile was like that of the last finisher in a marathon. “Those are the sweetest words e’er you spoke, my dear Dryad.”
“I am not your dear anything!”
“Sorry–I forgot. Again.” Sinking to the ground, he groaned and scratched furiously at his legs. “Gracious me, is it possible one person can itch so severely?”
“Common or not in your culture, in the Hills that is an inappropriate form of address and I will not have you–”
“I hear you,” he whispered. He would draw blood at this rate.
“I’m sorry,” she added, quite unexpectedly. “It’s just that I’m feeling nervous out here in the open. I didn’t mean to shout.”
Kevin stared at her in frank, open-mouthed amazement. “Excuse me?”
Alliathiune shrugged, and held out a chunk of waycrust. “You look famished and footsore. I break this waycrust to share with you, good Kevin. May our Mother Forest sustain you, keep you, and shelter you beneath her boughs all the lighttimes of your life.”
Their fingers touched. Startled at how gentle and sincere she sounded, he fumbled the waycrust and dropped it. Both moved to pick it up; they bumped heads.
Kevin’s attempted blessing stuttered amid Alliathiune’ chuckles. At length, she explained, “We creatures of the deep Forest dislike open spaces. I would much prefer a shaded glen to these barren hills. It might sound silly, but I keep wanting to duck beneath the nearest boulder.”
“Had you no difficulty with Mistral Bog?”
“No–perhaps the mists give the impression of being closed in.”
“That feeling and I are well acquainted. Without four walls around and a ceiling overhead, I do tend to feel rather exposed. But I’m improving, don’t you think?”
Her long, measuring glance made him feel utterly transparent. “I believe so, good Kevin. I do detect a pinch more colour in your cheeks, and you appear to grow stronger daily. It is not for nought we say the Forest is Mother to all–perhaps her climate is beneficent to your kind.”
Kevin wished he could make sense of Alliathiune’s moods. If only she would be constant from one day to the next, he could learn how to deal with her! But she changed like the weather.
“Perhaps,” he muttered dryly, “I am simply being forced to cope, where before I was pampered and cosseted, my every need met by the service of others.”
“How cynical you are!” she chuckled, laying her hand upon his arm. Kevin managed to not quite leap away, acutely conscious of that touch. “Will you try some sweet and juicy loganberries, which Snatcher picked on the way? They’re delicious.”
Alliathiune tossed several of her berries for a family of small, flightless fowl–which she called periks–which had gathered to her as animals always did. Even up here, in the Faunlands, the Dryad continued to do her daily work. Kevin scowled inwardly. Did she never grow weary? He saw a large antelope hovering at the edge of the firelight. No doubt she’d be off to greet it in just a moment–if the X’gäthi did not turn it into dinner first!
“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” rumbled the Lurk. “Are you scratching once more, good Kevin? I shall offer–”
“Toad oil?” he guessed, drawing a giggle from the Dryad.
“Watered down to a fifth part, this time!” called Zephyr, trotting down the trail towards them. His hearing was as keen as a deer’s.
Snatcher stretched, making his joints creak and pop like the rigging of a ship under the strain. “I have not forgotten–”
“Would you kindly refrain from that?” Zephyr huffed. “It makes my hide crawl! Honestly, good Lurk, is it not bad for your bones?”
“You are a physician?” he inquired, decanting a paltry measure of his toad oil into another flask, a tiny silver one with a stylised stopper shaped like a bird’s claw. “Mayhap we might agreeably spend some lighttimes comparing Lurk anatomy and physiology to that of the other races?”
“A most admirable suggestion!”
“I could comment on Humans, too,” Kevin interjected. At last, his extensive reading might be put to use.
Alliathiune shook her head at Zephyr’s harrumph of agreement. “You males find pleasure in the oddest pastimes!”
“Do not discount your many skills,” advised the Unicorn, dipping his head to crop a tuft of grass near Kevin’s feet. He twitched, not fancying having his foot mistaken for a snack. “Now, good friends, I have dispatched Strike and two of the X’gäthi to scout the route ahead. Once we reach the crown of this knoll, which is not far, we shall enter Faun territory. It would be wise for us to consider precautions. Pray listen closely to Snatcher, who has travelled these parts before. I’ve asked him to take the lead.”
Kevin wondered how easy Zephyr had found it to give up his assumed leadership of the party to Snatcher. He was clearly uneasy around the Lurk, for reasons unknown. ‘Proud’ was an appellation effortlessly ascribed to the Unicorn’s character. How would he handle this decision in a crisis? But it also hinted at a humbleness, or at least pragmatism, that had not hitherto been manifest. Zephyr was so much more than his evident vanity.
“Fauns,” growled the Lurk, holding their attention with his gleaming eyes. “They are cruel and barbaric in comparison to the higher creatures of the Seventy-Seven Hills, a tribal people much influenced by superstition, and in times past, willingly bent to the warlike designs of the Dark One. If these rumours of an apprentice are true and intelligence from the Faun lands is trustworthy, then we may count on naught but the certain prospect of their enmity. In perilous times such as these, no creature would brave the Yalkê-na-Têk to gain Küshar Ravine. We shall not find our presence expected. However, that is no cause for celebration. The Bridge of Storms is a Faun stronghold and may be accessed by a single route only. Lyredin’s Way is heavily patrolled for that reason.”
“We will accordingly travel with speed and caution, taking care to scout the route ahead as best we are able. Straggling, good outlander, would serve only to mark out an early grave for yourself. Fauns also have a keen sense of smell. We will make no fires and should you wish to relieve yourself, we should bury the faeces at least one foot deep. No casual urination or scattering, good Unicorn.”
Zephyr said stiffly, “Unicorns scatter to return to the Forest what belongs to it!”
Snatcher’s smile broadened enough to display a thicket of disturbingly jagged black teeth. “I question not the ethics and mores of your kind, good Unicorn! I simply suggest that you confine your fertilisation to somewhat smaller patches of soil, in a more planned fashion.”
Kevin nearly choked with silent laughter.
“Rather than scattering it for the good outlander to step in, like the last time,” Alliathiune added helpfully, earning herself a poisonous glare from the Unicorn. Kevin quickly rearranged his amused grin.
“Anyhow,” said the Lurk, “we shall not–if you’ll excuse the pun–fall foul of this delicate matter any longer.” Kevin cackled as the Dryad nudged him. “I shall lead, behind the foremost X’gäthi scouts. Good Kevin, follow me directly. If I look around for you, I’ll expect to see you within my shadow. Fauns are generally afraid of Lurks unless they outnumber us greatly–my mere presence may be sufficient to terrify them. Unfortunately they regard Human flesh as something of a delicacy, and I shall not even mention their motives towards Dryads, good Alliathiune, for the sake of your delicate–”
&nb
sp; “I can take care of myself, thank you very much!”
Despite their disparity in size, she faced him without flinching.
A massive paw gestured flatly. “I doubt it not. After Kevin shall come three further X’gäthi, then Zephyr and Alliathiune, and then the balance of our companions.” He considered them each in turn. “No loud noises, no falling behind, muffle any weapons or metal objects you may be carrying, keep your conversation to a whisper, do not discard or drop any item and keep below the skyline. Try to step only on rock where possible. Keep alert and keep looking for the next shelter or cover that may suit one of your size–noble Zephyr, you especially.”
“Me?” As usual, the Unicorn was unduly riled. “What are you insinuating?”
The Dryad cut in, “You do not exactly blend in with the terrain, in your pristine white coat.”
Snatcher nodded and added, whilst Zephyr continued to look as though he had just sucked on a lemon, “You may wish to prepare defensive magic against arrows, for the Fauns are notable archers.” He shouldered his huge club with frightening ease. “Do these things, and we shall survive unscathed. The Bridge of Storms is not far–less than two lighttimes’ journeying. The Lurks know of an approach that circumvents its gravest perils. Should all proceed to plan, we shall the evening after next be standing on the better side of Küshar Ravine, and have leisure to turn our thoughts towards the deepest parts of the Old Forest and Elliadora’s Well without fear of the Fauns.”
“Will you move a tad more slowly, so that I may keep up?”
“More caution will now be in order, good outlander.”
Zephyr nodded at the Lurk. “And you’d wish rather to be beaten over the head with that tree-trunk he’s carrying, good Kevin, than be captured by the Fauns.”
On this cheerful note, the companions set off in the order determined by Snatcher. Thus Kevin shortly found himself watching the splayed pads of the Lurk mould themselves to the trail before him with deceptive speed and stealth–for despite his bulk, scarcely a stone or twig was disturbed by his passing. It reminded him of descriptions of how elephants could move with incredible gentleness on the elastic pads of their feet. Those pads could step on a trainer’s hand without harming it, or become as hard as concrete to trample a man to death.
The Lurk was bipedal, but closer to a gorilla than to a human in the proportions of its skeletal structure–and considerably more massive than either. Upright he must top ten feet, but the stalwart breadth and bulk of his shoulders made him hunch forward, without a neck, so that his chin ran seamlessly into his chest. This impression was accentuated by the thickset arms, which hung almost to his knees and ended in massive, spatulate paws tipped with five blunt fingers each the thickness of Kevin’s wrist, and two opposing thumbs of twice that thickness again. Tendons like the hawsers of a ship anchored his musculature to that mighty frame, which was covered in its entirety by tough, wrinkled hide that, Zephyr whispered in reply to his question, was as impenetrable as any armour known on the Hills. In all, the Lurk looked capable of carving unaided through mountains.
But for all his apparent gentleness, one could not help fear that a casual Lurkish misstep would make a pancake of any of his companions. Particularly Alliathiune, or one Kevin Jenkins!
For the balance of that afternoon they toiled up and across the Troll’s Teeth, striking into a barren and inhospitable wilderness of peaks so jagged they seemed untouched by the ordinary processes of erosion and decay. In a geological sense Feynard might be younger than Earth, Kevin deduced, although his Unicorn tutor had recounted a long and proud history. He could comfortably imagine that those black granite spires were the serrated cutting edges of gigantic incisors, and he spent all night dreaming he was being chased by dark shadows with pointy teeth.
* * * *
The following morning, but a turn of the glass after they moved on with only a cold breakfast to fortify their bellies, they stumbled across a Faun lying by the roadside. An X’gäthi scout bobbed up like a Jack-in-the-box from a snarl of tangled brush to deliver his report.
“One-horn,” he nodded. “Dryad. Lurk. High Wizard.” Kevin sighed, and averted his gaze from the gore-encrusted spectacle. “Near darktime yester-lighttime we discover this one lying here near death. He rambles about some fight, about some Drakûr-ni-Kläni, about a journey their tribe takes. See, here, and here, there comes up Lyredin’s Way some ten hundreds of Fauns–heavily laden, they are. Wagon tracks, four wagons, one damaged axle. They pause here, look, three sets of tracks, this pair wearing a chain–belong to him–” he pointed disdainfully at the prone Faun “–but since removed. Perhaps they argue, or fight. They slit his belly and leave him at the roadside for carrion-eaters. They take his weapons but leave his tribe-sign, see, he is sub-leader. I watch, wait for you. Maybe you noble ones discover more than humble X’gäthi warrior.”
“Thank you for your report, good X’gäthi.” Zephyr turned to consult Alliathiune, always his right hand in such matters. “What make you of this, fair Dryad?”
“A leadership squabble?” She shook her head slowly, dislodging two leaves and a twig from her green tresses. “Surely, too paltry a matter to deserve the ritual of Opening–that is, good Kevin, the slitting of a belly as punishment for a crime committed against the tribe. Fauns have such quaint customs, wouldn’t you agree?” Kevin gulped and turned his own shade of green. “They reserve this punishment for traitors. They believe that opening the belly releases the evil spirits that cause deceitful and harmful actions. Unfortunately this practice leaves slim chances of survival, particularly when your intestines are left hanging in the dirt, as his are.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Snatcher laid a heavy paw on his shoulder and waved something near his nose. “Peace, good outlander. Smell this.”
Kevin coughed and spluttered as his eyes watered uncontrollably. He squeaked, “Goodness, what …? More toad oil? Snatcher, that is revolting!”
“But it clears the head, kê?”
“More like dislocates the head from the shoulders,” he grumbled, but thanked the Lurk nevertheless.
“Furthermore,” the Dryad added, squinting up the trail as though the blazing sunshine hurt her eyes, “it leaves us no more than two or three turns behind a thousand Fauns–a dubious situation at best. Of the worst I dare not speak. Worthy X’gäthi warrior–”
“They move swiftly ahead,” the X’gäthi interjected, anticipating her question, “and leave none behind save this one. Perhaps they fear something?”
Snatcher leaned on his club, bringing his face rather nearer to Zephyr than the Unicorn evidently liked. “If I may venture an opinion, good Zephyr,” he said heavily, “this phrase ‘Drakûr-ni-Kläni’ intrigues me. The Drakûr is a creature of Lurk legend, which I believe you would translate as ‘Drake’.”
“As in duck or as in Dragon?”
“As in a lesser member of the Dragonish race, good Kevin.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
“Unless you’re frightened of ducks.”
Kevin nearly jumped out of his skin as Alliathiune poked him in the ribs. “Excuse me! I am not afraid of ducks!” Even the X’gäthi showed his sharp teeth in laughter at this less-than-threatening protestation. “If my poor knowledge of Forest lore serves,” he added, frowning fiercely at no one in particular, “I recall that after the defeat of Ozark the Dark it was discovered the Drakes had secretly supported his efforts, notably in the organisation of the Men of the North and indeed, our friends the Fauns.”
“One moon upon Feynard,” Zephyr declared, with a whinny and a toss of his mane, “and he has a better grasp of history than I, who have lived these sixty-seven Leaven seasons among the Forest’s foremost scholars! Well done, good Kevin! Now, this is the kind of intelligence we should be taking to a Council of War. I must send Strike back with a message at once.”
“And lose our greatest asset upon this accursed, treeless trail?”
The
Unicorn regarded Alliathiune narrowly. “You are right, of course. Can you find another messenger?”
She nodded at once. “If there were small birds about, I could ask them to convey such a message–but there is little life out here. Perhaps once we have crossed Küshar Ravine? Any other magic would require too much preparation, and potentially attract unwelcome attention.”
“Indeed, mine too,” said the Unicorn.
“High Wizard?”
“I’m not sure I appreciate the sarcasm, Alliathiune,” he responded. “No, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Then let us press on,” said the Dryad. “By first light on the morrow we should arrive at the Bridge of Storms.”
“Indeed.”
“And the Faun?”
Zephyr regarded Kevin as though he had gone daft. “What about the Faun? He’ll die soon, as he no doubt richly deserves.”
“You’re not going to help him?”
“Help?” the Unicorn spluttered, involuntarily baring his teeth in shock and rage. “Did you say ‘help’? My fine young friend, one less Faun is one less stinking blot on the face of this Forest, and one less murdering fiend to prey upon the weak and vulnerable. I wish that all Fauns were so left to be consumed by buzzards and kestrels at the wayside!”
Kevin shrank back from his anger. “B-But I thought …”
“But nothing, good outlander. He would only turn upon you and slit your throat in the dead of darktime. That’s what Fauns are like–foul, untrustworthy savages the lot of them! Cunning and slippery as snakes! Leave him now.”
