Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  The Faun by the roadside was indeed a raffish-looking character, with tribal scarification patterning on his cheeks, shoulders, and upper chest, and Kevin’s eyes ran down the stalwart length of him–skipping the mess of his belly–to the shaggy loins covered in a rude leather binding and the hard, cloven hooves where his feet should have been. As they watched, the Faun shifted, groaning pitifully. His forehead was beaded with a sweat of extreme suffering. Now the dark eyes flickered open, bright, feverish, incapable of seeing the watching companions but sensing their presence.

  He croaked, “Water.”

  “Oh, by the Well!” exclaimed the Unicorn. “Hopefully this miserable creature will die the more swiftly without our attendance.”

  “Water, please.”

  The faint cry made Kevin take an involuntary step towards the Faun.

  “Don’t go near him!”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” cried Kevin, unable to stand the sight any longer. “Can’t you see he’s suffering? You begrudge a dying man one last drink?”

  “He’s a Faun!”

  “And he’s dying!”

  Zephyr stomped his hooves angrily. “Be it on your head, then, you foolish boy! But I refuse to have any part in this travesty!”

  Kevin looked to Alliathiune for support, but she refused to meet his eyes, arms folded across her chest in an unconscious negation of his actions. But under his pleading gaze she unbent, and with a muted sigh unstoppered the flask at her belt and handed it to him.

  “Thanks, Alliathiune.”

  “I think it’s foolish too, caring for a Faun,” she muttered, but her heart was not in her words. Dryads were creatures to whom caring came naturally, and it traumatised her to ignore suffering of any kind.

  Deeply aware that he was being watched by everyone; aware too that he had stood up for something he believed in, even a small thing, for the first time since he could remember, Kevin knelt in the dust beside the Faun and dribbled water onto his parched lips. His mouth opened automatically, swallowed, and then coughed and spluttered most of it back up again. Kevin propped up the lolling head and poured a more liberal second helping down the Faun’s throat. Their closeness allowed him to examine the Faun more exactingly. He had read about scarification–a process much like tattooing, only this was concerned with the creation of raised and ridged scars on the body, a kind of mutilation for adornment. It was customary amongst the tribes of East Africa. A double-spiralled pattern of dots spaced regularly about a quarter-inch apart originated above the eyes and ran down the prominent cheekbones, branching off to cross the nose and curling to the underside of his full lower lip. Fuller and more intricate patterns swirled about the muscular chest and shoulders, which were hairless despite the thick pelt covering his lower body and legs.

  Kevin’s hand moved absently to his pocket. He carried the Key-Ring wrapped in a handkerchief for safe keeping, and he intended to wet the cloth and bathe the poor Faun’s face. Perhaps it would be a balm to him in these terrible final hours of his life. He tried not to dwell on the grey, dusty intestines lying near his left elbow, and noted the weather instead, which appeared to be turning thundery. Yes, there was a distant, lingering growl over the distant, rising woodlands.

  Snatcher raised his head to sniff the air like a dog. “Lightning before the turn is up,” he commented. “Best find shelter–” He broke off. “Good Kevin, what is that blue–”

  Kerrrump!

  A sudden detonation blew Kevin backward across the trail, but his fall was thankfully broken by the incredibly swift reactions of the X’gäthi. Everyone shouted at once–Alliathiune had ducked behind the Lurk, Zephyr readied the magic of his horn, Snatcher raised his club, and X’gäthi blades sprouted suddenly from dark hands like a fatal forest. Multiple echoes faded swiftly over the Yalkê-na-Têk.

  “Was that lightning?” asked the Dryad, rubbing her eyes.

  “By the Hills, look! Look at the Faun!”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I’ve never seen the like!”

  Kevin shook his head in horror as the X’gäthi warriors grovelled as one before him. His hands flapped in abject distraction. “No … no, stop it, please.”

  “High Wizard!” they cried together, in ragged chorus. They ground their noses in the dust and wailed, “Mighty, o Mighty High Wizard!”

  Chapter 10: The Bridge of Storms

  “No, Brian! Don’t hit me! I won’t do it again! I promise I–mmph!”

  Kevin’s shrieks were cut off with the finality of an executioner’s axe, but still rang clear in the pre-dawn stillness. For an instant he fought against an engulfing palm, before the pair of opalescent eyes above reminded him of where he was and who it was that had muffled his screams, and his fear switched at once to stifled sobs of terror and relief. Snatcher swept him up in one great arm; despite his great strength, the Lurk held him as gently as a mother coddles her babe.

  At length the Lurk said, “Come, good outlander. Dawn breaks. Soon we shall cross the Bridge of Storms, which is an experience not to be missed.”

  He groaned, “I don’t like heights, Snatcher.”

  “That is well, for neither do I. But we shall cross it together, you and I. Now, let me wake those who yet slumber–we have a lighttime’s work ahead of us.”

  As the Lurk’s shadow ambled away, Kevin wiped his eyes and sniffled several times. He hated dreaming about his brother. This particular memory was of when they were much younger. He had mistakenly borrowed Brian’s pencil sharpener without returning it, for which his brother had repaid him with a black eye and a broken wrist. ‘A tumble down the stairs,’ Father had told the doctor. ‘Boys–you know how they are. Growing up so fast.’ The sadistic pleasure with which Brian had slammed his hand into the bedroom door to produce that broken wrist, was photographed indelibly in his memory.

  They ate watchfully, speaking little, for which the presence of the Faun amongst their number was primarily responsible. Outwardly, at least, the Faun acted as if he was unaware of their scrutiny and tacit hostility, chewing a large root he had unearthed the previous evening with the enthusiasm of a creature who has recently discovered how fond he is of having all his intestines intact, and indeed, safely within his abdomen rather than being spilled out upon the ground in a ghastly buffet for the vultures. For this he had Kevin to thank. Akê-Akê Redpath–that was his Clan name–had cast himself at the Human’s feet to pledge his unswerving allegiance, and bound himself thereto by the mightiest oaths known to Fauns. It had proven an almighty headache; Zephyr spent the remainder of the previous day arguing the odds with Alliathiune and Snatcher. The general view that Akê-Akê should be summarily shortened by a head had gradually given way to a grudging acceptance of the import of those oaths. Kevin suspected Zephyr might have tolerated a cockroach better, but the Faun was now part of their company.

  Kevin groaned softly and stretched his back. Several heartless callous rocks had spent all night tap-dancing on his spine.

  “High Wizard?”

  “What?” he grunted, not bothering to look up. Since yesterday’s events the X’gäthi had displayed a renewed and embarrassing predilection towards Kevin-worship. He had become less than gracious in accepting his lofty status.

  The X’gäthi’s bow was deep and fluid. “High Wizard carry his sack now. X’gäthi not worthy.”

  Kevin favoured him with a glance that could have withered a healthy plant in nanoseconds. “Why?”

  “Dryad say Mighty High Wizard might need it.”

  “The Dryad, did you say?”

  The X’gäthi’s head bobbed up and down. “Mighty Wizard.”

  His jaundiced eye rolled heavenward at the sound of Alliathiune’s low-pitched giggling. She smiled cherubically at him. “Oops, it appears I’m discovered. Run along now.” And she shooed a wildcat away from where it had been dozing next to her shoulder.

  “You’ve been plotting with these … these–”

  “Your worshippers.”

  “Stinking
piles of tripe, yes–my private fan club! Can’t you make them stop? It’s beyond absurd!”

  Her tone suggested sugared lollipops. “Stop what, good Kevin?”

  “It’s High Wizard this and flipping Mighty High Wizard that–it’s not like they need any encouragement!” he said bitterly, turning the same colour as his hair. Heavens above, it felt good to have the freedom to be angry! “I’m no wizard, Alliathiune, I’ve told you before. I don’t know the first thing about magic and it’s all just an accident! I couldn’t magic a spark from my fingertips with the help of a bonfire! I don’t need a bunch of dark men following me around calling me–”

  “Voices down!” Zephyr hissed.

  Alliathiune cooed, “What shall I tell the X’gäthi on your behalf, o mighty high one, o paragon of wizardry?”

  “Ooh … I’ll … you,” he floundered. He had read about flirtation, but being its object made him feel as though he had been struck by a bus made of soft velvet.

  Kevin settled for snatching his sack from the X’gäthi’s fingertips and making a show of tying it to his belt–which was when he realised how the Dryad had been baiting him, and like a hungry fish he had gobbled it right up. “Alliathiune! You are the most exasperating, meddling, trouble-stirring, bothersome little–”

  “–but utterly irresistible–”

  “Thoroughly despicable is more to the point!”

  “Good Kevin,” she pouted, until her lower lip trembled, “I am surely not despicable? Am I?”

  But he could not help laughing at her outrageous posturing. No doubt she could persuade stones to bud into berry bushes if she set her mind to it! And when she smiled at him, what power in the universe could possibly resist? His heart bounded along like a foolish rabbit, and a silly grin remained plastered upon his face as they set out into the clear, fresh morning.

  * * * *

  Akê-Akê trotted peaceably behind Zephyr all that morning long as they pressed further along Lyredin’s Way, before breaking away from the trail at a point Snatcher indicated. After scaling a small pitted cliff, which according to the Faun was home to a rare and highly poisonous breed of lizard, the company set foot, hoof, and pad upon a secondary and much trickier trail that branched away to the north. To Kevin’s eye, the crumpled sandstone landscape was an impassable wilderness, criss-crossed with sharp crevasses and hidden pitfalls, and covered in a prickly scrub and trailing heaps of brambles that seemed maliciously bent on scratching his arms and legs to pieces, but his companions cheerfully considered it some sort of local byway.

  “This section is passable,” Snatcher reassured them, “and joins up with Küshar Ravine a short throw from here. Thereafter we must pass along the ravine wall until we reach the Bridge of Storms, where we shall arise beneath it and then try to cut across. The Faun guard post lies this side of the bridge. Good Zephyr, could you think somehow to distract them? With sufficient time, we might be halfway across the bridge before they notice ought is amiss.”

  Zephyr nodded. “I shall prepare my magic. Akê-Akê, what do you think would best distract your compatriots?”

  The Faun spat on the ground and touched his belly self-consciously, where a white scar spoke mutely of his recent ordeal. His speaking voice was a surprisingly high tenor for so well built a creature. “You speak of those who would kill me. If they see me again, they would repeat the ritual of Opening. No, I am no longer a Faun. I am a bondservant to the young master. You are my Clan and my people, whom I now live to serve and protect. This is the nature of a blood-debt.”

  “We understand and respect your oaths, good Faun,” the Unicorn harrumphed. “Do you understand, however, that we intend to travel beyond the Bridge of Storms to Elliadora’s Well itself? This is territory unknown to Fauns, full of the deadliest danger and–”

  “If you think I shall balk in the face of danger,” snarled the Faun, “then kill me now! Had I a bow to hand I would prove to you the meaning of my vows!”

  “Peace, good Faun. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Speak the word and I will fling myself bodily into Küshar Ravine!”

  “Peace! I will command no such thing–unless the good outlander thinks otherwise?”

  Zephyr had the ill grace to sound rather hopeful as he said this. The Lurk snorted and Kevin rolled his eyes in exasperation. “The good outlander, Zephyr, has a thumping headache and wishes only to close his eyes against the incessant glare in these parts.”

  “You should drink more.”

  “How many mothers does a fellow need, Snatcher?”

  “Go back to sleep, you impudent whelp!” snapped the Unicorn, shifting to present Kevin his rump. “This much for your headache! Good Faun, your service is acceptable. Know you we seek the source of the Blight?”

  “No–pray tell me more.”

  As they set out once more, the Unicorn outlined for the attentive Faun the nature of their mission to Elliadora’s Well. Kevin listened with half an ear. Were it not for his bumbling with the Key-Ring, the Faun would probably be dead now. The healing had been a complete shock, the oath-taking, an unsolicited addition–now he had a bondservant? He should inquire of Akê-Akê precisely what a master’s duties might be. Just when he had thought he was coming to terms with all that had occurred since his arrival on Feynard, matters had suddenly turned complex. Stupid rotten High Wizard indeed! What if the Faun turned against them? Would he be held responsible for rescuing the surly rascal in the first place?

  Kevin faltered as the first hint of their destination became clear. Half a mile ahead, as they crested a small rise, the ground dropped away into a yawning abyss, the far side of which might have been the far side of the Moon for all he cared. Küshar Ravine. It cut across their path with breathtaking majesty, the slash of a godlike sword deep into the land’s belly. The strata were visible right down into the murky depths, in which his eyes picked out the moving specks of white birds against the grey, burgundy, and sandstone backdrop. He could never cross that, never in a million years.

  Beyond the ravine, olive-green treetops, burnished to a furnace glow by the coppery sunlight–so different to the Earth Sun’s colour, he noted for the first time–marched skyward as far as the eye could see, until they brushed the clouds. Rising ground, Kevin thought. Rising to the level of Elliadora’s Well? They had been climbing steadily since Mistral Bog; and very steeply for the last lighttime.

  “Thanks,” he said to the X’gäthi who had steadied him. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The X’gäthi grinned and pointed. “Look, High Wizard. Bridge of Storms.”

  “It’s awfully thin, isn’t it, old boy?”

  “Safe and strong,” said Zephyr, nudging him forward with his muzzle. “Keep moving, good Kevin. This section is exposed.”

  Kevin willed himself to proceed; what if the Unicorn nudged him with that needle-sharp horn of his? His feet wanted nothing more than to be pointing in the opposite direction and kept getting themselves tangled up as a desire to flee grew in his breast. “Who built it?” he threw over his shoulder.

  “Glothum engineers, in the time of Sudibar Treefriend,” said the Unicorn. “It is said that the Glothums were once the most handsome and creative of the Human-descended peoples, fond of ingenious artifice and architectural projects on the grandest scale. They built for themselves a walled city deep in the Old Forest, very near Elliadora’s Well. Ah, Shilliabär, wondrous city of yore! Woe, how you have fallen.”

  “Woe,” Snatcher echoed unexpectedly, just ahead.

  Zephyr continued, “Omäirg prepared for the King of Shilliabär a gift worthy of kings, a pearl of peerless beauty and marvellous aspect. This pearl was called the Magisnare, one of three sister stones originally handed down to mortal creatures by Elliadora herself after the Seeding of the great Forest. A man could peer into its pellucid depths and therein lose himself–which they did, one by one, those unsuspecting Glothums. For, concealed in that cursed stone was a cunning enchantment, which snared their minds and opened them to Omäir
g’s potent sorceries. Scarce had those few Glothums who remained uncorrupted realised their folly, when their fellows fell upon them in the darktime. A hideous slaughter commenced. Thus did Omäirg wreak Shilliabär’s downfall. Over the centuries its soaring pillars and marbled colonnades were reclaimed by the Old Forest, until the city became ruins haunted by the descendants of those original Glothums. The word ‘Glothum’ became synonymous with fear, loathing, and the debasing power of evil.”

  “And what of the Bridge of Storms?” Kevin pressed him. Its slender white arch, soaring as though by magic above the vertiginous depths of Küshar Ravine, had now been lost to sight behind the jutting promontory upon which its span was anchored.

  “Ah yes! Formerly, it was a moon’s journey or more through the Old Forest to skirt Küshar Ravine and make the Fords of Bray, where one may safely essay the crossing of the Barlindran River. We will twice cross the Barlindran, once at the ravine and a second time much nearer Elliadora’s Well, where it becomes a much younger, but no less spirited flow. But I digress.”

  “As ever, good Zephyr,” Kevin smiled, “but I do enjoy your learned and informative asides.”

  Zephyr strutted for a space as he savoured this compliment. “You are too kind,” he murmured, but brightened with, “yes, it was for commerce with the lands south of the Barlindran River that the King of Shilliabär commissioned this great work. According to legend, a hundred engineers conceived its design, and supported by carpenters, stonemasons, and artisans of all kinds, had within seven seasons effected this link at the narrowest point of the Küshar Ravine. It was named the Bridge of Storms in honour of the workers who perished when a terrible storm struck their works partway through the project, tearing loose one of the main struts and collapsing a section of the partially completed span. At the time, its construction was hailed a miracle of craftsmanship, and contributed immensely to peace and prosperity in the region. More recently, however, following the downfall of the Glothums and the rise of the Fauns, the bridge has fallen into disuse.”