Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “That great sorrow can never be undone. Ozark did furnish the Men of Ramoth with a magical means of leashing and herding the Greymorral Lurks, and they took them away, out of Mistral Bog, and led them by road and by ship here to the Utharian Wet, from which Ozark employed these master builders in the construction of his great fortress called Shadowmoon Keep. Enslaved by Ozark’s dreadful yoke, the Lurks had no choice but to labour many seasons over a fortress suitable for he who from within its impregnable granite and korialite fastness would dominate all living creatures on Feynard.”

  “The Dark Wizard had no desire that the secrets of his fortress should become known in the outside world, so when the work was complete, he once more rounded up the Greymorral Lurks and led them to a place called Shadow Peak. Here he commanded them to be flung into the abyss. But legend tells how partway through that great slaughter, Ozark was struck with a more cunning use for the Lurks. He led those who remained into the dungeons of Shadowmoon Keep, and they have never been seen again. Some say they remain there to guard the greatest treasure of all–the Magisoul. If so, they must have perished long, long ago, but that is not what I have heard.”

  And how did the old witch know that? Kevin was on the verge of blurting out his suspicions when Alliathiune trod on his foot. She met his frown with a butter-could-not-melt smile and a tiny headshake.

  “The sign you see Utharians making in the presence of a Lurk means ‘your sorrow is my sorrow’. You see, it was here in Utharia that Ozark rose to power and prominence. They said he was paler than an ordinary Human and stocky, a man of overriding passions and unquenchable ambition. Some called him an outlander–like you, good Kevin. Whatever his origins, for nobody truly knows, it was here that they granted him the means and opportunity to pursue his evil agenda. The Utharians made Ozark their king.”

  She sighed softly and touched Snatcher’s paw with her fingertips. “Noble Lurk, a great tower of strength you are, but unless you put past hurts behind you and embrace the future, you will fail. You will soon face a difficult decision. Choose wisely.”

  Choose wisely? Kevin sniggered privately and regarded the sunny skies with a modicum less assurance than before. Was it mere coincidence that Indomalion had appeared on cue during Alliathiune’s song? If there was one thing he hated about Feynard, it was the way his earthbound convictions had been eroded, or completely blown out the water, more to the point. Her demonstration of Dryadic power only rubbed salt in the intellectual wounds. Magic shmagic! Mighty High nothing!

  The old woman said, “Now, behind my abode you will find the path marked with poles topped with the feathers of the red marshrill. You will want to travel swiftly, for if darktime overtakes you out in the Wet, I could not vouch for your safety. On the far side, the trail up to Broadleaf Valley lies a turn or so to the east, by the forked tree.”

  The companions made their farewells and set out at once on the trail. Snatcher led them via a narrow headland into the dank depths of the marsh, and thence from one reed-covered islet to the next, often knee- or thigh-deep in slimy muck and frigid black water. The mists closed in, quickly blotting out the hut. The poles appeared every twenty to thirty paces, and more often in the dangerous places. The Lurk seemed to find it invigorating for some reason Kevin could not fathom, for he had fallen twice in quick succession and even his hair was plastered with mud.

  It was only after they were two turns into the Utharian Wet that Amadorn remembered to inquire of Snatcher what the old woman had meant by ‘you may tell them after’?

  The Lurk threw, over his shoulder, “Why that was Elliadora–of course.”

  And the companions exchanged amazed glances. “Of course,” Akê-Akê sniffed, giving the Lurk’s broad back an exasperated frown. “Who else?” When Alliathiune declared she had suspected there was something strange about the woman all along, an argument was not long in following. Snatcher forged ahead, oblivious.

  Chapter 22: Broadleaf Valley

  “Is it much further?” Kevin wheezed, manfully trying to keep pace with Alliathiune and Hunter. “Can we take a break soon?”

  “Good Human, we stopped but half a turn ago,” said Akê-Akê, prodding him unmercifully. “Come, the next handhold is right there. Good. Now put your foot here.”

  “I’ve never climbed a mountain before. Is it always this hard?”

  “No, it’s just this bit that is very steep.”

  “My palms are abraded raw, Akê-Akê! I’ve got blood running down my knee–I can feel it! Oh, why did I ever agree to this miserable journey?”

  Alliathiune chirped, “You didn’t! We kidnapped you.”

  “But I’m so tired, I’m going to fall–”

  “Good outlander, if you complain once more I will–whatever! I can’t speak any more. But you will be sorry!”

  “Running out of threats, Akê-Akê?”

  The Faun snarled, “If you still have breath enough for jokes, my furless friend, then you are not climbing fast enough! Move!”

  “Slave-driver.”

  “If I had a whip, you impudent whelp of an ass, I’d have you skipping up this mountain like a young deer! Just you try my patience, good Kevin! I’ll take off my belt and give your pale hide a tanning it will never forget!”

  His words cut like a knife twisting in his innards. “Father,” was the deathly whisper that came from Kevin’s lips. Harold’s thinking, through and through.

  But his reaction was unprecedented. Before, he would have curled up in a whimpering ball and resigned himself to a beating. His mind would coexist in splendid isolation from his abused body and simply allow it to proceed; numb, unseeing, and unaffected. There was a tacit kind of acquiescence there which had often disgusted him. He would have been incapable of any other reaction.

  This time, it made him angry. A resplendent, burning, consuming anger that swept away any thought or reason left in his mind.

  Akê-Akê grunted in amazement as Kevin leaped up the narrow trail like a mountain goat bitten by a grimfly. They were near the saddle of the pass, but the trail here was a perilously steep hand-over-hand climb to the top. This was one of the reasons for the many species of flora and fauna that were unique to Broadleaf Valley–there were no easy approaches or exits to it, and life there had taken a curious turn for the gigantic amidst a fertile tropical paradise. Kevin shook the dust off his feet and left the prideful Faun eating his dust. In moments the panting Human steamed past Amadorn, then Alliathiune, Hunter, and the Witch, and closed in on Snatcher with red-faced determination. Something had to be proven. For once, Kevin Jenkins was not going to be second last–and that only because a more capable someone always tarried for his protection.

  If Snatcher was surprised to be overtaken, he gave no sign of it. The Lurk pushed on with the phlegmatic mien of his kind. But he discreetly kept pace with the outlander.

  Kevin stood at last upon the knoll called Nelî ur Nall, which translated as ‘the place of two aspects’, his lungs afire and his heart racing. Looking back, his whole world lurched as he considered Amadorn, Alliathiune and the others toiling up towards him: what scared him was the view beyond, the terrible drop should one miss a foothold or handhold, and the thought of how recklessly he had tackled the final climb. He sat down with a bump. Better to be closer to the rocks, because it stilled his wobbling stomach. Goodness gracious, was that band of mist down there the Utharian Wet, where Snatcher’s kin had once been enslaved? And the verdant Utharian plains beyond? They looked prettier from above, less the featureless expanse that had taken a moon and more to cross.

  They were close to Shadowmoon Keep now. Kevin faced about. Three lighttimes travel down into Broadleaf Valley, and a further two along Anurmar Gorge, should all go well. His eyes narrowed as he peered along the trail, which snaked along until it became lost in a jumble of gigantic boulders, recalling what Zephyr had told him about the journey ahead. ‘Broadleaf Valley is a geographical oddity,’ he had lectured the companions, ‘warmed by many hot springs and volcanic fumarol
es, giving a mephitic tang to the air quite unlike Driadorn’s pristine goodness. Its unique animal kingdom is dominated by two species, the peaceful Huropods and the carnivorous Megaroaches. Huropods are great plant-eating reptiles dwelling in the many pools and watercourses in the warm, lower regions of the valley. Megaroaches are grossly oversized cousins of the common cockroach. They may be driven off by a simple charm or any very high-pitched sound.’

  ‘And Anurmar Gorge?’ Kevin had wondered.

  ‘A different kettle of fish,’ Zephyr had explained. ‘Deep within the Gorge are hidden the only known deposits of korialite, a mineral prized by Druids, Magi, Wizards, and Witches for its diverse magical applications. It is extracted from the rocks by a long-winded magical process that practically ensures that the commercial mining of this mineral has little value. The Magisoul is a type of korialite, according to the legend. More worrying, however, is the rumour that has come via the Council of War, namely that Shadowmoon Keep has once more come to life and belches foul smoke and odours into the darktime skies.’

  Kevin could see no such smoke. He did detect haziness in the air ahead suggestive of humidity to his scientific mind, and a faint, bitter tang on the breeze that made him clear his throat several times. He looked glumly at his blue hand. Strange how the flesh had not withered or rotted; stranger still, how it seamlessly merged with the healthy pink of his wrist and forearm. He held it critically to the light. By gum, just look at how the powers of articulation had returned to his digits! He could crook his fingers an inch at least! Was his hand on the mend? He dared not give his hope free rein.

  Instead, he watched as Amadorn levered himself over the final hurdle and wearily hauled his body towards Kevin. The Druid looked exhausted. After hesitating a long moment, he leaped up to lend a steadying hand as Amadorn collapsed upon a flat boulder.

  “Shäyol take it!” he panted, his face pinched with pain. “Done something to my back. Thank you.”

  “Here, let me take your harp.” Kevin eased the strap over his shoulder and deposited the instrument at Amadorn’s feet. “Do you need to stretch your legs? Just rest and … uh, I guess I’ll get Alliathiune?”

  “Good lad.”

  After awkwardly informing Alliathiune about the Druid’s difficulty, Kevin had time to reflect that being in a position to help someone less able than he was a rather unusual and instructive circumstance. The contrast with his life at Pitterdown Manor could not be more marked. When he returned–if he returned–oh, dear! How blind he had been never to consider the future! Easier by far to bury himself in the present and ignore his long-term prospects, which were uncertain to say the least. Kevin groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  The Lurk touched his shoulder. “Waycrust? I break this waycrust to share with you, good Kevin.”

  “Thanks, Snatcher. I’m afraid you caught me wondering about the future.” He tore off a chunk of bread and chewed hungrily. “Um, nice and nutty. I break this waycrust to share with you, noble Druid.” And Kevin passed the waycrust on.

  The Lurk’s enormous eyes regarded him from an uncomfortably narrow distance. “Should the Blight succeed, good outlander, there will be no future for the creatures of Driadorn. Think back to the last message we received. Our efforts grow ever more fervent, but the automaton has redoubled its efforts.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense!”

  “Unicorns working on purifying the Well’s waters reported some strange events darktime before last, which was when the phenomenon began. They heard a loud noise and saw a black creature arise from behind the automaton and fly away like a strange, stiff-winged bird.”

  Kevin’s eyes gleamed like a mad scientist in the throes of discovery. “Aha!”

  “What do you mean, ‘aha’?”

  “I deduce, my dear Lurk, that this bastard-born Dark Apprentice has a means of travel or perhaps flying about Driadorn’s Hills. Robots are inanimate, unthinking devices much in need of a master’s hand from time to time in order to function correctly.” He sprang to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, thinking aloud. “He needs a hideout. A place to stash his aircraft. His sky vessel, my good Lurk. His means of transportation. Wizards cannot teleport far, or so the Unicorn assured me. The distance we crossed at the outset of our journey from the Well required lengthy preparation and enormous power. No, this must be some physical means of transportation, a machine perhaps–and that means we can hijack it.”

  The Lurk growled, “You use too many Earth words by half, good Kevin, but your sense is clear. We should hunt down the Dark Apprentice like the fiend he is!”

  “Perhaps the small birds and creatures of the Forest could be employed for such a task?” The Lurk nodded. “I shall enquire of Alliathiune.”

  She was digging her knee into Amadorn’s back in what Kevin considered an alarming fashion. As he approached she twisted and yanked his shoulder upwards with all her strength. There was a dull ‘pop’ and a dreadful groan from the Druid. Kevin winced.

  “Come to commiserate, good outlander?” he grinned, brushing back his shaggy hair. “Our tame Dryad is a marvel, I tell you!”

  “Tame?”

  “By the beautiful Well, that feels a hundred times better!” He stretched like a cat enjoying warm sunshine. “She’s useful to have around, not so?”

  “Useful?”

  “I tread a conversational quagmire, good Kevin, but remain unabashed!”

  Alliathiune braced herself, hands on hips, and let her temper rage forth as though the door of a furnace had been flung open. “If I am not appreciated, you rude man, I’ll remove myself forthwith and leave you to suffer the pangs of a pinched nerve! I honestly don’t know why I bother to help you when all I receive in return is incessant teasing. Now, you are to drink an infusion of alubin root mixed with limwort morning and evening, good Druid, which will ease the cramping of your muscles and allow you to sleep more restfully. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly,” said he, but found himself speaking to her back as she flounced off.

  Alliathiune’s rages rarely lasted long. This one blew over like the warm east wind as she busied herself harvesting a sprig of winterwort. Kevin could easily imagine what she was thinking. ‘Those dratted men don’t appreciate anything I do for them–poultices for Kevin’s blisters, herbal teas, medication for upset stomachs, ointments for cuts and bruises–my skills are wasted on the ungrateful wretches.’

  Before he knew it, Alliathiune was back with a smile. “You’re a mine of good ideas, noble Kevin,” she said. “How simple to scour Driadorn for the Apprentice’s hideout, when there are thousands upon thousands of birds that might offer aid!”

  “And then?”

  “I imagine Amberthurn descending in a terrible Dragonish rage upon the Dark Apprentice and tearing him to pieces.” Alliathiune’s smile vanished. “By the Sälïph that gives life I am growing over-fond of violence. Too much time spent with that bloodthirsty Faun!”

  “You should also enter a tree before we reach Shadowmoon Keep,” Kevin advised.

  “There’s no telling what horrors we might encounter in Ozark’s ancient fortress,” agreed the Dryad. “I need to be at the peak of my powers.”

  Cheep.

  “Hello, dear one,” Alliathiune held out her hand. “Have you brought a message?”

  A flit of wings brought a small grey tern to her hand.

  “Ah, so you have.” She stroked the bird softly. “Well done, little one. You must be hungry. The Lurk may have a leftover fish for you. Shall we find out in a moment?”

  Her deft fingers unclipped the message capsule and unrolled a thin sheaf of pressed leaf paper commonly used by the Unicorns. She read aloud:

  “To the Seekers,

  Greetings from Elliadora’s Well. We write to inform you that the Drakes attacked our Council this third lighttime Azar of Darkenseason. The courageous defenders of our Mother drove them off but the effort exacted a cost in lives–three Dryads, six Unicorns, five Honeybears and a
Druid perished in the battle. Our preparations are disrupted but our hearts remain true.

  The Goblin army has crossed the Fords of Larn and advances steadily despite the attentions of our Witches, who steep their every step in ruinous blood. Rimmal Tarn of the Otters and Badger Glen have been evacuated in good order as planned. We pray for your swift return with the Magisoul to end this terrible Blight.

  Yours in Elliadora’s Peace,

  Grand Owl Two Hoots.”

  At once, Alliathiune began to march off, saying over her shoulder, “I must share this with the others.”

  Kevin kicked a nearby stone as if it done him harm. But before he could wallow in his despondent mood for more than a second, he became aware of a second bird, a miniature snowy owl, perched on a nearby branch. The bright little eyes peered directly at him. He frowned. It was the Dryad Queen’s messenger-owl–what was her name again? He recalled that the snowy owl had visited them with a message just after they departed Amberthurn’s lair.

  Without thinking further, he raised his arm. “Come here, little one.”

  To his amazement, the owl flitted over to him and perched on his sleeve, her sharp claws pricking his skin like miniature pins. She gave the webbing of his thumb a little peck. Kevin held up the waycrust for her; the owl sampled it but ate little. Clumsily, one-handed, Kevin unsnapped the message cylinder from her ankle and tipped out a tightly-furled strip of reed paper. Well, two messages in one lighttime. His heart jumped. Perhaps the Dryads had discovered how to restore the Elliarana?

  Quickly, he unfurled the note.

  To our Sister Alliathiune,

  Greetings in Elliadora’s all-powerful name from Her representative in the Forest, the Queen of all Dryads. In answer to your question: yes, a Seedling must be replanted in the Sacred Grove. And this is how: