by Marc Secchia
“You are hardly that! Humility is becoming. Verbally bruising yourself is not.”
“But it’s the truth, I tell–”
“Truth is relative, good Kevin, and often subject to one’s perceptions. Maybe you see it as the truth, but I don’t and neither do our companions.”
“Truth is absolute,” he argued, without any real heart for disagreeing with her. “The facts of Zephyr’s condition are incontrovertible. There are natural laws, there is life and death, there are moral imperatives and duties, and–”
“And there is magic. Magic has natural laws of its own.”
“Laws which are costly.”
“So bitter? Good Kevin, what sticks in my mind is that you saved all of our lives, there at Elliadora’s Well. I am sorry your hand was damaged, truly I am. But to be defenceless against the Dark Apprentice, even for those short moments, was a terrible thing. He is evil–cold, grasping, and corrupted to the depths of his being. Killing gratifies him. Who knows where he may have stopped had you not intervened?”
“Hmm. You’re right. Had the Elliarana been lost we would be up a creek without a paddle.”
She giggled, “The expressions you use!”
Kevin answered with a mock-severe frown, “Could you please pay attention whilst we discuss these grave issues?”
“You are just too funny. Say, what has Hunter found?” As they hurried towards the beckoning Mancat, she said, “Much as I love the Tomalia, good Kevin, and noble as your sentiments are, I believe we should first concentrate our efforts on defeating the Dark Apprentice and his pestilent Blight. And to do that, we need the Magisoul.”
“What is the power of the Magisoul?”
Alliathiune’s grimace spoke volumes. “None but Zephyr knows, good Kevin. He made a study of ancient artefacts in seasons past and knows more about it than perhaps any living creature. And, by the Well, what is that stench?”
They rounded a bend in the trail to find the way ahead blocked by what Kevin initially mistook for a gigantic boulder, but now recognised for a mountain of putrefying flesh blocking the muddy trail. It was taller than his head and perhaps sixty feet wide, at least the parts that he could see, and though the scavengers had been busy there was so much meat that stripping it to the bones would take many lighttimes.
“A Huropod,” said Hunter.
“What do you think would drive it so far from the river?”
Kevin understood the question. This creature was a dinosaur much like Brontosaurus but perhaps a little smaller. Typically, because of their great mass, these creatures would spend most of their time in or very near a river or swamp where they might be buoyed by immersion. To find one so far from its preferred habitat was strange indeed.
Amadorn looked at Hunter, who was looking at the flattened and trampled foliage. “This is Troll-sign, good Druid. Here, see the bindings on this broken spear point? The pattern marks the tribe and is sealed with alethi gum. Were Zephyr with us, he could doubtless describe which exact tribe this was.”
“He didn’t know Amberthurn’s doorkeeper,” the Witch pointed out.
“And why would Trolls hunt a Huropod and leave it here?”
“Sport? The pleasure of hunting and killing?”
Amadorn seemed troubled. “It makes no sense,” he said. “Huropods are harmless herbivores, too slow and stupid to make for an interesting quarry.”
“I’d prefer to move on,” said Alliathiune. “The smell sickens me.”
Kevin was only too ready to agree. His innards churned energetically despite having covered his nose with his cloak, and the bushes and ferns heaved with scavengers that had been displaced by their protective spells. No doubt once they passed by the feast would resume.
They filed quickly through the ferns nearby the carcass and struck the trail once more. Hunter raced ahead at a quick jog-trot, scouting for further sign of the Trolls–but there was none to be seen. And soon the dense foliage closed wetly about them again and the march continued.
Alliathiune said quietly, “The Magisoul is our only hope, good Kevin. Legend tells that it was the source of power that Elliadora originally used to create our fair realm. As such, it must also surely contain the power to arrest the Blight and heal the Forest, wouldn’t you agree?”
In his heart of hearts, Kevin could not entirely agree. “I certainly hope so,” was all he could bring himself to say.
* * * *
The evening’s gathering gloom brought the seven companions to the farwood forest, which were a type of hardwood tree similar to sequoia or redwood, which Kevin had only seen in pictures. The overarching farwood trees were so massive that the rain barely filtered down through the dense layers of forest canopy. Here they paused to make a fire of dry needles and fallen branches, and were grateful to dry off by its brisk heat.
“By the morrow we shall be through this forest and down into the lower parts of Broadleaf Valley,” said Amadorn, “and there we shall find the time-worn steps down to Anurmar Gorge, which were laid by the first wizards to mine korialite in this region. But I like not this matter of Trolls, and the signs which Hunter has found.”
“We must keep alert,” hissed the Mancat. “Troll patrols have passed this way within the last eight or nine lighttimes.”
“Shadowmoon Keep sleeps no longer,” said Kevin.
None of the others dared voice this conclusion. It was like their curious reluctance to mention Ozark’s name. But if the Trolls had somehow become organised there was only one logical cause–that they had a new master. And he thought he knew who it was, too.
“You suspect the Dark Apprentice?” The Dryad’s sharp whisper chilled them more deeply than the weather had been able.
“I’m sorry, Alliathiune, but that is the conclusion I have drawn. You see, on Earth the distance from here to the Well would be of little consequence to a person possessing the right resources. The means to travel great distances very quickly is not unknown to me. The Dark Apprentice models himself on Ozark the Dark, who dwelled here and who also was able to command a war upon Driadorn from this great distance. They must have some sorcerous means of travel. And you had reported that he called himself by the title ‘Kidräl-Lukan’, which I have discussed with Snatcher and he agrees that it translates as ‘Lord over the Gorge’, which must be a reference to Anurmar Gorge. Ozark’s libraries were said to be housed at Shadowmoon Keep.”
He stirred the fire absently with a long stick. “I am afraid there are simply too many clues here to be ignored. We are bound for the serpent’s lair. And consider this: what if the Dark Apprentice captured the Magisoul? Do we think we are lost now?”
“You surely do not think our cause hopeless, good Kevin?”
“Nay, Alliathiune.” He was sounding more and more like them, he thought, more like a citizen of Driadorn and less like the insignificant Kevin Jenkins of old. “But Trolls do not organise without a reason. I think we should make a still mirror. The Council needs to hear this new information.”
Chapter 23: Anurmar Gorge
Seven vastly different sets of eyes peeked over a small ridge, scanning the territory ahead with worried expressions. Beneath them, a long, narrow series of lakes cascaded like contoured rice paddies down into the lowest reach of Broadleaf Valley. There the abundant waters flowed into a huge, shallow lake bordered by a low, brush-covered ridge. Where Anurmar Gorge slashed into the side of the valley like a jagged knife-cut, the lake waters roared and foamed with savage joy as they poured in endless tumult down into shadowed depths.
The weather was oppressively humid. Kevin wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and then patted his damp curls. Gosh, what he wouldn’t give for a shower right now. He could see how Indomalion’s stern gaze caused vapours to rise like a gentle mist from the verdant, densely-forested slopes. Darkenseason must be on its way out, especially here in the hot south. His eyes wandered across to a herd of Huropods peacefully grazing on the riverine flora. Long, slender necks waved like a small forest of dancing s
nakes above the turgid waters, which deceptively concealed and buoyed their massive bulk. How many hundreds of pounds of greenery must they eat every lighttime to sustain those bodies? What a privilege, he thought, to be gazing down upon a herd of dinosaurs. But his companions hardly noticed the Huropods.
“That could be an issue,” said Amadorn, smacking his lips like a courtier in the throes of great distaste.
‘That’ was a troop of Trolls, who had set up camp smack in the middle of the path they needed to take.
“There’s no other way up to Shadowmoon Keep?”
“Good Dryad, the main gates open to the north, which is accessed by a narrow spit of land that leads up to the main Troll hunting grounds,” said the Druid. “Not only would it take us several moons of hard travel to complete that circuit, short of miraculously teleporting ourselves hence, but the chances of making it through undetected–how I wish now for a Unicorn’s mastery of illusion and disguise!”
“We are not without our resources, noble Druid.”
Amadorn began to ease himself back from the edge. “Witch, Lurk, Faun–we need a plan.”
Kevin blurted out, “What about a frontal assault?”
“We may as well invite the Dark Apprentice to dinner! What a foolish idea!”
He reddened instantly. “Uh … that came out wrong, good Witch. I meant to suggest that we should not discard the obvious, direct approach–given the capabilities of some of our companions.”
The Witch’s mouth whitened in thin-lipped disapproval. “The need to enter Shadowmoon Keep undetected is paramount, good outlander. Thousands of Trolls could respond to an alarm and seal off ingress to the Keep before we ever sighted it from the path down in Anurmar Gorge. We could not destroy so many before the alarm was raised.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Throwing a quelling glance at the fuming Witch, Amadorn explained, “Look–the signal-fire is laid ready upon yonder promontory and guarded by at least a dozen soldiers. It is a standard Trollish ploy to aid non-magical communication.”
Kevin fumed privately as his companions fell to batting about and discarding ideas and plans. Fancy not noticing a signal fire? The Witch was right, but it didn’t make her attitude any easier to swallow. He wished the wind would change and stick that sour grapes expression right on her sour face–permanently.
The still mirror Amadorn made at dawn had brought only bad news–further setbacks in containing the advancing Human armies, another attack by the Drakes on the Sacred Well, evidence of the Blight spreading right to the borders of Driadorn. Amberthurn’s promised reinforcements had been delayed by an unexpected storm, which had also grounded many of the aerial spies dispatched recently by the Council. Coincidence? A plague on that Dark Apprentice! His ire rose as his mind clicked into gear. Storms on tap, eh? They would simply have to consider other methods of containment, and other means to gain the information they so desperately needed. If they could discover the Dark Apprentice’s lair, Amberthurn was prepared and eager to employ his formidable magic–in the meantime, he was winging his way over Driadorn toward the advancing Goblin horde to ‘roast a few furry rumps’ according to Two Hoots, that front being adjudged the most time-critical.
And his mind turned also to the metal beasts and automata reported by the Council. They had promised drawings, but getting a reliable report back from the front lines had proved a real headache. Was there real technology out there? They had to be constructs of the Dark Apprentice’s devious mind. That said, anyone who could keep an automaton running as long as it had to poison the entire Forest and defeat the best efforts of their foremost wizards, was indeed a force to be reckoned with. He was under no illusions that the Dark Apprentice would be defeated as easily next time.
Should there be … when they met again. Kevin firmed the idea in his mind. He should prepare himself mentally for that lighttime. His old fear of confrontation lurked like a tiger in the subconscious jungle of his fears, stalking him in preparation for the kill. Would he falter at the crucial moment? Or plumb the risible depths of failure like so many times before?
He was fresh out of inspiration.
* * * *
Kevin gasped in disbelief as he took in Alliathiune’s disguise. “Good God!” he spluttered. “Is that you?”
“Good Kevin, your reaction is all I need to know,” rumbled the Troll, with a marked edge that was Alliathiune through and through. “Is my disguise successful?”
“You look intimidating.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“You look–” he cracked a wide grin, “–positively revolting! Especially the curly horns and the cracked, yellowing teeth.”
“Why, thank you.”
“I shall imagine you like this every time you become angry with me.”
“That’s quite enough.”
“The stench of rotten meat and moons-old sweat is very realistic too. Putrid is the word that springs to mind. Definitively putrid.”
The Dryad stomped her foot. “Enough, I said!”
“Be quiet!” muttered the Witch. “Sounds carry, even here. Good Kevin, will you attend me?”
Kevin unwillingly submitted to having some mumbo-jumbo spoken over him, before the Witch anointed him with a few drops of a decidedly noxious substance. In a flash, the world lurched and he grew two feet taller–or so his senses told him.
“Very good,” said the Witch, looking him over critically. “Akê-Akê has run out of maglamma root, so you’ll have to keep that mouth firmly shut or the Trolls will hear you speaking Human. Do you understand? No whining until we are well out of sight and hearing.”
“Fine.”
“Now, the magic will make you feel different and probably upset your sense of balance. Practise walking up and down for a while until you get used to the feeling. You need to look the part when we go down there.”
“Are you sure this will work?”
The Witch’s eyes turned as frosty as a Darkenseason darktime. “At least I know what I’m doing when I work magic, good outlander. Until you reach that stage, I’d recommend that you keep your opinions to yourself and learn a modicum of respect–or I will extract it from your sorry Human hide. Is that clear?”
“Uh … quite clear.”
Touchy as ever, he thought. All of his companions, bar Snatcher, were as touchy as crickets with a bad case of the hiccoughs.
Working himself up into a fine old state, he fumed and huffed and frowned all the way down the hill behind what appeared to his eyes to be a motley troop of vagabonds. Even the Lurk had been Trollified, if that was a word.
But as they approached the Troll encampment his aggrieved mien gave way to trepidation and quickly, to outright fear. Might as well march into the lion’s den, he thought darkly, attempting a timid count of the armoured troop of real Trolls and giving up somewhere between forty and fifty. No point in scaring himself witless. No wonder Zephyr had derided them so openly. To a creature they looked like they breakfasted on nails and flossed their teeth with rusty chains. If this disguise did not work, then they were toast for sure!
Snatcher was their chosen spokesman. His voice was closest to those of the Trolls, and he was enough of a linguist to make passable conversation in the dialect of Standard Driadornese spoken by these creatures. Akê-Akê would back him up if needed. He knew a few phrases, mostly curses, which had formed part of his education at some point. Kevin reminded himself to ask the Faun about that.
They strode openly into the encampment, neither appearing to hurry nor stopping to make conversation. It helped that Trolls were by and large a surly crew, not given to polite chit-chat or bestirring themselves to the effort of conversing with strangers when there were better things to occupy their time–such as tossing four-sided dice made of animal hide, eating a stew brewed in huge cauldrons over a slow fire–Kevin tried not to imagine what their contents might be, for they smelled fatty and foul–or sharpening their favourite weapons, which resembled barbed, razor-toothe
d meat cleavers. Two burly fellows were wrestling in a bid to tear each others’ heads off their necks. When they rolled into a fire and nearly toppled a cauldron the cook brained one of them with an iron saucepan.
The companions were just exiting the far side when a large Troll appeared from nowhere and planted a huge, splayed hand on Snatcher’s chest.
“Urgle goes gurk to?” he said.
“Flaggat Anurmar Gorge yum tek hoogley,” Snatcher replied, as best as Kevin could make out.
“Hoogley booger bling mak grinder,” added the other, holding out his palm.
“Bling no have,” rumbled Snatcher, shrugging those mountainous shoulders of his.
“Booger bloody well grinder!”
“Bling no have!”
“Furgle!” insisted the Troll, becoming angry. “Booger bling!”
Akê-Akê put in, “Ya flidder popadoff, booger.”
This evidently tipped the balance. The Troll made a grab for Akê-Akê, who sidestepped nimbly. Snatcher barred the Troll’s way.
Akê-Akê said, “Bling grinder up your fag pak.”
The Troll turned purple with rage and roared something incomprehensible. The Lurk shoved him several feet backwards. The Troll swung a great haymaker at Snatcher, who took the blow upon his shoulder without flinching. He returned the favour with interest. There was a crunch of bone; fist against face.
The Troll fell backwards, taking with him whatever fleeting interest the encounter had generated in the encampment. Fists were a perfectly acceptable way of settling an argument among Trolls. Having established beyond a shadow of a doubt their right to continue unmolested, courtesy of one Lurk’s skill at fisticuffs, the patrol of ‘Trolls’ hiked on down into Anurmar Gorge.
