Feynard

by Marc Secchia

“Each to his own religion, noble Head Witch,” the Jasper Cat purred. “Me–I prefer a full belly and a safe home over any such doctrine. Nevertheless, I shall add gifts from the Cats to aid this mad venture. I myself am too lame to accomplish such a journey, but if the Portal were ably tuned to a remote part of my homeland above the northern branch of the Rhiallandran River, I could direct you to a most singular help. Among the feline peoples she is common-named Ss’aywaaull’ss-ara.” And his yellow eyes narrowed. “If you can pronounce it, that is.”

  “Ss’aywaaull’ss-ara,” yowled Zephyr, in a close imitation of the Jasper Cat’s delivery. “That’s ‘Hunter’ in Standard Driadornese, I believe.”

  Ss’rrr’than’grrr-ar’s tail flicked in annoyance. “Trust there to be a linguist amongst the Tomalia!”

  “Is this Hunter a Mancat?”

  Now the Jasper Cat’s ears flattened. He hissed, “What do you know of the Mancats?”

  Zephyr, as usual, looked excessively smug. “We all have our little secrets, don’t we, noble Cat.”

  “Yww’rrr’lsss!”

  “Temper, temper!”

  “Good Zephyr, you should not bait the Jasper Cat so.”

  “I beg your indulgence, noble Two Hoots. But I am fluent in all the major languages of the Inner Hills, knowledgeable in many local dialects, and–”

  Two Hoots interrupted heavily, “And overly wont to sing your own praises, young Zephyr, when all creatures here gathered would bow to your superior learning both lighttime and darktime. Learning is one matter; wisdom quite another.”

  The Witch and the Jasper Cat both snickered. Zephyr harrumphed and glared at the skies.

  “Who else will give jewels or gold to appease the Dragon-Magus Amberthurn’s lust for valuable things?” asked Two Hoots.

  Amidst a chorus of grumbling, comments, and no little competition and vying for pre-eminence between the different representatives, various promises were secured. Soon the meeting began to break up, as the creatures in sober mien made ready to be transported back to their homelands. War was brewing, war upon the Hills–they dreaded it.

  “Noble Kevin?”

  The Unicorn moved over to speak to him, but from his other flank, Alliathiune appeared to give him a friendly smack on his foreleg. “Why so pensive, good Unicorn? Our Council of War is concluded–more satisfactorily than we had hoped for, under the impetus of this Dark Apprentice’s cowardly assault–and a course of action has been determined. Are you troubled for your homeland, since Mylliandawn has been untimely slain?”

  “The thought may have crossed my mind in a moment of weakness,” he admitted, “but I swear by my horn I never indulged it. I suspect many Unicorns will be secretly relieved at her demise and yes, Thaharria-brin-Tomal will be in turmoil.”

  “Then what ails you? Is it brave Snatcher? His arm–”

  “Nay, good Dryad. We have summoned Zinfandir to the Well.” Zephyr’s horn-magic pressed a flask into Kevin’s good hand. “Aïssändraught. But leave me a nip.”

  At this, a sad hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Fear you for the Sacred Grove, good Unicorn?” he asked in a low voice.

  “It is a distressing lighttime for our Mother Forest, but nay, good Amadorn–”

  Alliathiune lifted her palm to feel the gentle drizzle the Druid had instigated. “The fire is quenched, the healing Dryadsong sung, and the remaining Elliarana sleep for a space. The Honeybears labour to restore the vale to its prior beauty. What became of Akê-Akê, good Kevin?”

  “He returned from hunting lower down the trail, I believe,” he replied. “The Faun did not see what transpired.”

  Zephyr put in, “Nay, good Dryad, it is not the Faun who weighs upon my heart like shackles of steel in a darkened dungeon.”

  “I had not sensed you felt this way.” Alliathiune instinctively raised her arms and put them about his neck. “Share your burdens with me, noble Unicorn.”

  He sighed. “Truly is it said that the little ones have the greatest hearts. I had hoped it should never come to pass that another Ozark should rise to bring war, famine, and pestilence to our fair Hills. All the careful seasons of diplomacy have been torn apart in an instant’s madness. The Council is scattered and divided as ever before. And the way before us leads to Amberthurn, perhaps the most powerful mage of all. We leave the Blighted Forest behind to embark on a perilous journey in the hope of finding an artefact lost for countless seasons. If I am melancholy, good Dryad, it is not without reason.”

  Kevin shrank back a little as his friends, conversing not two feet from his left elbow, turned to regard him. He did not wish to speak.

  “Ah.”

  “It troubles me, good Kevin, that we entered your dreams to wrest you from that place you call ‘Earth’, to bring you to Feynard, only to fling you into the midst of our troubles, in the expectation that you would save us all. Moreover, it troubles me that we had little conscience in this matter save our overriding concern for the Mother Forest’s wellbeing.”

  “As if that is not cause enough!”

  “Peace, good Dryad. We treated good Kevin as a prize to be won, not as a person, and as a tool rather than a thinking, feeling being. Have we not wronged him in this? Haven’t we forced him to carry out our bidding?”

  “I would go that far and further, to deny this Dark Apprentice his base lusts! Did he not seek to enslave me, and imprison me?”

  Knowing Alliathiune well enough to understand that this line of argument would prove fruitless, Zephyr nudged her and suggested, “I think he rather took a shine to you.”

  “Zephyr!”

  “Oh, indeed. There’s a man and not a creature beneath that mask.”

  “That’s a vile suggestion!”

  “Your gambit very nearly succeeded, at that. If only you had worn more appropriate apparel this morn …”

  “Disgusting males! You’re all the same!” huffed the Dryad, electing to be insulted rather than flattered. “How do you know what a man is thinking, anyhow?”

  “I’d imagine he’s thinking just the same as I’d think if I saw a sweet young mare–noticing the delicate flare of her nostrils, the innocence of her eyes, the fall of her mane, or her shapely hindquarters.”

  Spots of colour blossomed on Alliathiune’s cheeks. “You don’t think of me in those terms, do you?”

  Zephyr hooted with amusement. “Don’t be ridiculous–of course not! You have neither mane, nor hooves, nor a horn. But I’d wager you all Driadorn against a twig that’s what he was thinking just then–in man terms.”

  “Well, I know what Kevin was thinking!” she muttered, crossing her arms defensively across her chest.

  “Kevin, my nose, ears and eyes inform me, was as drunk as a Stoat and–”

  “Truth echoes from the depths of a flagon!”

  “Well–”

  “He thinks I’m fat.” She waved her finger beneath his nose. “You, Kevin–”

  The Unicorn rolled his eyes in exasperation. “By the great Well, you are obsessed with your appearance! You are by no stretch of the imagination … good Dryad! Didn’t you notice what else Kevin said about you? Hmm? Or were you only listening to one voice–your own?”

  Alliathiune pushed him away and turned on her heel with an angry cry. “How dare you insult me! How dare you side with that–that horrid little manikin!”

  To her stiffly retreating back, Zephyr whispered, “The word he used was ‘gorgeous’–but you didn’t hear that, did you?”

  “I did?”

  Now he wished he could slip beneath the table and hide forever.

  But Zephyr said, “Come, good Kevin. We must prepare for our journey.”

  * * * *

  Hunter was as tall as Akê-Akê but lithe as a whippet, and where he was all brawn and bluster, she was whipcord muscle and deadly grace. She wore a one-piece leather outfit with no discernable zip or fastening, in a faded tan that had seen much hard wear. No less than a small armada of weapons was secreted about her person, a
nd she carried a great two-handed sword slung crosswise upon her back. Her yellow Cat-eyes assessed them all without a flicker.

  “Ss’aywaaull’ss-ara,” she hissed. “Hunter. From the Cats I come.”

  She was a Cat, but the form and features of a Human had been blended in to leave her some way between the two. Fingers and toes were furnished with extensible claws, her eyes were slanted and the pupils slit, her eyebrows tufted, her face angular and pointed, with the whiskers and canines of a cat. Her tan pelt was sleek and silky, with splashes of white on her left shoulder and right forepaw. She moved with graceful economy, like a tigress on the hunt.

  “The Peace of the Mothering Forest to you, noble Hunter,” said Alliathiune, first to break the silence. “I am Alliathiune the Dryad, and these are our companions for the road–Zephyr Tomalia, Amadorn the Druid, the Faun Loremaster Akê-Akê, Kevin, who is an outlander, the Head Witch of Gnarlhand Coven, and over by the Arch of Driadorn is Snatcher. There is one yet missing, who will join us on the Southern Marches–Glimmering of Dawn, an Eagle of the Tramalian Eyrie.”

  “Which makes nine companions–a propitious tally,” Zephyr put in.

  “What manner of beast is this Snatcher?”

  “A Lurk of Mistral Bog.”

  “A swamp-dweller?” Ss’aywaaull’ss-ara’s eyes narrowed. “To my people, they are legend. I am intrigued. Are the swamps as dangerous as their reputation?”

  “We passed through safely,” the Unicorn boasted, “save for Kevin here, who was nearly eaten by a carnivorous plant.”

  Kevin, who was looking as wan and downcast as a foggy winter’s morning, made no response to this jest. Despite the beautiful sunshine from cloudless skies, there was a definite nip in the air and he toyed with his cloak’s hood, trying to keep his ears warm. He had just screamed at the attentions of a wandering wasp, making several of his companions chuckle out loud at his discomfort. Could he help disliking stinging insects? The other, more pressing problem, was this abominable hangover even the Aïssändraught had failed to cure. He avoided meeting anyone’s gaze.

  “This morn grows no younger and the Blight worsens by the turn,” Zephyr said brusquely. “Snatcher! We depart!”

  The Lurk unfolded from his sitting position like a boulder which had suddenly sprouted legs, slung his cloth carryall over his shoulder, and took up his great club. Hunter’s eyes brightened at the sight, and she nodded. “Strength to your right paw, noble Lurk!”

  Snatcher’s luminous eyes lidded over. “And may your tooth and claw remain ever sharp, noble Mancat!” he thundered. “How do you know the traditional greeting of Lurk to Lurk?”

  “The ancient tales are milk and meat to the Mancat.”

  “Ah … I’ve never before met one of your kind.”

  “Likewise. But you knew our customary greeting too, good Lurk. How is that?”

  “During the reign of Omäirg leading up to that terrible battle of Thäos-brin-Thäthan,” he rumbled, “did a band of Lurks not pass through the land of Cats, bringing warning of the terror and bloodshed to come? Therefore the Cats mobilised their people and swept down upon the eastern flank of the Dark Wizard’s armies, wreaking havoc amongst their human conscripts. For this reason alone the army’s march was sufficiently delayed for the Tomalia to assemble and prepare near Thäos, where the decisive victory was won.”

  Ss’aywaaull’ss-ara bared her canines. “All Cats are honoured by your words. Yet, many of my people now regard Lurks to be mythical creatures.”

  “Surely the Hills must quarter creatures many times stranger than I.”

  “Perhaps. Shall we proceed, good Unicorn?”

  “Indeed.” Zephyr gathered their attention with a showy flick of his horn. “We shall stretch the Portal to its safe limit, giving us an immense head-start on our journey. This will place us in a region known as the Southern Marches, which are the fenlands directly adjacent to the Black-Rock Mountains, some eight to ten lighttimes of travel northeast of Amberthurn’s keep. A number of Unicorns, X’gäthi, and other creatures will remain here to safeguard the portal, which is our great strategic advantage, and will doubtless become a centre of command and communication in the conflict to come. I have twice had occasion to travel the Southern Marches and know the region passably well. It is wild but not overly dangerous, if one takes shelter with care in the late afternoon to avoid the swarms of grimflies.”

  “Ugh,” said Alliathiune.

  “But worse are the Skanks, the reptilian birds which feed on the grimflies. They are hostile and aggressive.”

  Akê-Akê twirled his mace meaningfully between his stubby fingers. “How do they taste, good Zephyr?”

  “How should I know? I’m a vegetarian!”

  “More for us then, eh, Snatcher?”

  “I shall reserve judgement until the moment,” said he, with a Lurk’s typical caution. “Are the X’gäthi not–”

  “By oath they don’t leave Driadorn,” Alliathiune replied, cutting off both Zephyr and Amadorn. “They’ll serve as scouts to the north or as guards here at the Sacred Grove. Good Lurk, before we leave, are you completely recovered from your injuries?”

  “Noble Zinfandir did work a mighty healing upon my arm,” he replied, holding up the splint on his left wrist, “and knit the bone by the singular power of his horn. It must yet rest and recover, but he advised the splint may be removed within ten lighttimes. We Lurks heal quickly–and do not burn easily.”

  “Elliadora be praised!” exclaimed the Dryad. “We feared greatly when you were set afire.”

  “Perhaps I am more swamp than creature,” the Lurk joked, which so surprised everyone that only Akê-Akê laughed. “Nay, I need but one paw for my club, and the honour of journeying once again with such fine companions. Let those wicked ones who foment evil against our Mother tremble!”

  “Well said!” cried Akê-Akê, twirling his mace again. “May the dark ones wail in dismay at the report of our coming!”

  The Witch snarled, “Can we get on with it? Before I gag from syrupy platitudes?”

  “Grief,” muttered the Faun. “After you, in that case.”

  With a swirl of her dark grey travelling cloak, the Witch strode into the magical portal and vanished. Akê-Akê plunged after her with a grimace, then Amadorn stumped through using his cane, then Alliathiune and Zephyr together. Hunter leaped through in a lithe bound.

  Snatcher glanced at Kevin, who had yet made no move. “I don’t trust this thing,” growled the Lurk. “What if they pointed it half a step off a cliff? That would make a fine tale, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Um.”

  “Or at the mouth of a glüalla? Better yet, a pit of slimy, boot-biting eels.” He nudged Kevin with his elbow.

  “Snatcher!”

  “By the Hills, it speaks! What manner of fearsome beast have I awakened?”

  “Listen here, old man, that’s just not funny.”

  “You’ll have to think of more creative insults than ‘man’. How’s about … overgrown lump of tar? Or, clumsy ambulatory bag of bones? Or just plain ‘ugly beast’?”

  Kevin sighed. “Snatcher, you aren’t ugly. You’re just … you.”

  “Tell you a secret?” The Lurk popped his knuckles, then said, “Pity Zephyr’s not here to get annoyed!”

  Kevin had to chuckle now–Zephyr jumped a good foot every time Snatcher did that. “Stop trying to cheer me up,” he complained. “I’m being miserable.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “Well, being a swamp creature and seeing you’ve got such a wonderful mire of self-pity going on there, I’d love to leap in and wallow with you, but I’m not sure how.”

  “You’re being ridiculous!”

  “Genuinely–”

  “Look, Snatcher, I can barely remember what happened!” he burst out. “All I know is that I made a complete fool of myself, Alliathiune won’t even speak to me, and then somehow I–it was the ruddy magic again, I tell you! It has nothin
g to do with me! Now look at my hand! Look at it, for heavens’ sake!”

  “Kê!”

  Snatcher caught Kevin’s wrist between his secondary thumb and forefinger and bent low to inspect it with his full concentration. He prodded and kneaded the crystalline but pliable blue flesh, palpated the bones, and curled, straightened, and examined Kevin’s digits from every possible angle. Close as he was, Kevin clearly saw a soft, translucent membrane sliding over the Lurk’s eyes–and for an instant, his impression was of wells of glistening eternity, as though the Lurk could see in and through and beyond things, right to the core of what his hand had become. He felt a distinct prickle of magic, a frisson of excitement trickling across his fingertips. Snatcher blinked, and his eyes flicked back to normal.

  “Curious. Shall we join the others?”

  “No, hold on,” cried Kevin, almost panicking as he tried to hold the Lurk back. The hide he grasped had a leathery roughness to it, but it was warm to the touch, and it flashed across his mind how ridiculous his action must look given their disparity in stature. “Heavens above, Snatcher, you can’t leave me in the dark like that! It’s pure torture!”

  “I need a few turns to give this matter due consideration,” returned the Lurk, with a kindly note in the low rumbling of his voice, “but my initial observation suggests that the basic structure of your hand remains intact. Have you been able to wriggle your fingers? No? Do you have any feeling at all?”

  “Not until you did whatever it was you just did.”

  “Ah. So you felt the deep sight? That is significant. Your hand,” he caught it again and held it to catch the light, “is it not whole? Is it not similar in colour and texture to your Key-Ring? Perhaps it is even the same substance.”

  Kevin jerked as though he had been struck by a jolt of electricity. “Good God! I do believe you’ve hit the nail on the head! But … why?”

  “I would posit some ill counter-reaction from the magic you unleashed to bring down the Dark Apprentice,” the Lurk suggested. “Elliadora’s Well is the heart of all Driadorn’s magic, the place where spells have their greatest potency–an illimitable font. Perhaps that is why the Apprentice chose such a ground for his dastardly assault. Yet what issued from your hand was like a negative magic, a cancellation if you like, of what the Dark Apprentice and Zephyr had respectively wrought. In so doing you drew back into yourself all the energies of their spell-casting–indeed, from the whole area, from my preliminary observations–and those reacted with your Key-Ring to produce this peculiar result. By the natural laws, something cannot result from nothing, nor nothing from something. The energies you released had to remain in balance.”