Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “Is everyone okay? Where’s Hunter?”

  “She’s fine,” Alliathiune said. “Hold still, I said!”

  “That stings.”

  “What exactly were you trying to do, good Kevin?” asked the Dryad.

  “Learn courage,” he replied, at exactly the same time as the Druid said, “Gathering his magic at the same instant as I unleashed a lightning-bolt. Most creatures I know have a natural limitation on the power they can absorb. This Human appears to be different. Had I known, I would have attempted to instruct him–but I fear, only the noble Unicorn would know what to do with such a peculiarity.”

  “Oh, he’s peculiar indeed,” the Faun put in, evidently in a mischievous mood.

  “Er–what are you doing, good Alliathiune?”

  “Preparing to stitch your cheek with the jaws of soldier ants,” she replied. “Lacking needle and thread, this method is excellent–clean, mostly painless, and effective.”

  “Note her use of the word ‘mostly’.”

  “Akê-Akê, I will personally take one of that creature’s suckers and stick it over your face, do you hear me? Good Kevin, this aloe and herikberry poultice will sting. But then it’ll numb the pain and we’ll stitch you up with–”

  “Chomping mandibles? Where did you get ants?”

  “I called them.”

  Delicately, Alliathiune smeared something on his cheek. It stung as though a wasp had taken a violent dislike to his cheekbone. A citrus tang made his nostrils tingle, mixed with the hint of honeysuckle which was the Dryad’s natural scent. Her green tresses brushed his mouth, making him shiver. Tomorrow, or the next lighttime, they might face the Dark Apprentice in his lair. He felt curiously peaceful about that encounter, almost reckless. But he was afraid for the Dryad. Afraid he might lose her.

  “Now, you really do need to hold still,” she breathed, her hazel eyes fixed on her work. Kevin had never noticed how long her eyelashes were, before. Her skin was velvet and gold, with an occasional glint of what he had seen within the korialite. Was this a Dryad’s magic, he wondered? An inkling of her innate power?

  He reached up with his good hand, intending to brush the tickling strands of hair aside. Instead, his palm moved to caress her cheek, and before he knew it, his head lifted to close the couple of inches between their mouths and he kissed her.

  A while later, when his brain managed to catch up with what his treacherous hand had just set off, Kevin realised that Alliathiune had turned as still as a petrified tree. But no sooner had this thought jolted his fevered mind, when her lips suddenly became pliant against his and the Dryad kissed him back. Truly kissed him, in a way that made him realise that a lake full of wine and green kale could not possibly have been so intoxicating. They kissed with exquisite tenderness, and knew the whole of Feynard had paused to take notice, for distantly, Kevin sensed a knell much like that which had accompanied his acceptance of the Dragon-Magus’ challenge.

  He did not care. Kevin Jenkins had never felt more alive.

  “Oh, Kevin,” she whispered, after what to him was a blissful eternity. And then, without warning, she slapped him sharply. “Kevin! No!”

  He stared into her hazel eyes, brimming with tears. He saw the patterns on her lips and in the hollow of her neck writhe like animate vines, and settle suddenly. What magic was that? A surge like an ocean comber followed immediately by stillness? And just as quickly, Alliathiune bent to press her lips to the place she had latterly struck. She made a sound like a muffled sob. The Dryad seemed distressed, torn by some unfathomable emotion.

  “Please, oh … Kevin, you mustn’t … we mustn’t … you’re unbelievable, you silly, sweet man.”

  The Dryad busied her fingers at his cheek. He watched a tear squeeze from the corner of her eye and track down to her jawline. Her lower lip quivered ever so slightly, but she did not withdraw from him. Perhaps he wasn’t so toxic after all?

  Seer magic, Kevin thought darkly, closing his eyes. The most powerful of all Dryad magic; a secret he would have given half of Feynard to comprehend. The Alliathiune of old would have torn a strip off his hide, but now she merely set to pinching his cut shut with ant mandibles. Was she afraid of how her Seer magic would react to a Human Wizard? What made her withhold? Should he not have kissed her? But, what a kiss! Was such a liaison forbidden for religious reasons? If so, why not make it clear? He wished he could have spoken to Zephyr.

  He felt distinctly unrepentant.

  But his vaunted mental powers were lost in a fog of his own making. He could think only of the sensation of her lips melting against his. Kevin Jenkins, bumbling Wizard, bold kisser of Dryads. He could not stop smiling.

  Chapter 24: The Dark Wizard’s Lair

  The company marched quickly upriver the following lighttime, not pausing to make conversation with any troops of Trolls. The noontime brunt of Indomalion’s glow again made Anurmar Gorge heat up unbearably, and cast them about with blinding rainbows and refractions of light. In this part the stinking river leaped down a series of rocky steps and foamed at the base of small waterfalls–all the better to churn up the delightful smell, Kevin thought. Ahead, oily black smoke curled lazily into the afternoon sky.

  “The forges blaze,” Akê-Akê said dourly. “Does the Dark Wizard arm his troops?”

  “A swift, incisive raid is needed,” repeated the Witch. “Our job is to deliver Kevin to the Labyrinth and secure the Magisoul.”

  Akê-Akê’s rough palm clapped Kevin on the shoulder and he rasped in his ear, “I’ll bet the Sacred Well our sweet Dryad wants to deliver you to those dungeons after last darktime, good outlander. I won the bet, by the way.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Oh? What bet, good Faun?”

  “Back at Shilliabär, I bet the great Lurk and our stuffy friend Unicorn that before this adventure was over, you and Alliathiune would be running together like Forest creatures do. All you have to do is wake the Unicorn so that he can pay me.”

  “Akê-Akê!”

  The Faun grinned irrepressibly as the Dryad turned to regard them. Perhaps her ears were burning. “See how she regards you?”

  “Like her personal punching-bag.”

  “Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” the Faun tut-tutted. “When, in all the ages of the Hills, were matters of the heart ever straightforward?”

  Amadorn, hiking along at Kevin’s left hand, pushed back his shaggy dark hair and said, “Lad, when we Druids make music, the finger plucks the string, but the string must vibrate and thrill the hearer with its beautiful note. Should the string remain silent or sound a false note, let the musician beware. And ne’er a sweeter note was struck in all Driadorn, upon my honour. You came to us a boy, lad. But I see you growing into a man.”

  Kevin stared at the Druid, his heart in upheaval. He wanted to say Amadorn was being fatherly, but he had never known a father to behave in this way, or speak with wisdom and openness. Harold had always spoken in scornful words, and with his fists when words failed him. Harold was no father, he recognised now. As with so much of his life since being kidnapped to Feynard, Kevin shook his head in amazement at his ignorance.

  “Do you think … uh, she …?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Akê-Akê took a swig from his waterskin. “Careful here, good Amadorn, the edge might crumble.”

  “Lad, you’ve declared your purpose. Now remain steadfast and treat your beloved with unfailing honour. As the suns turn above the Hills, you will surely come to appreciate that pursuing a woman is like tending a flower. She needs time to bud. A little water at the roots, nutrients, and Indomalion’s fair eye, but not too much of any.”

  “And then you pluck her,” Akê-Akê added, with a lewd chuckle.

  Amadorn swung his cane up and thwacked Akê-Akê, not gently, upon the shoulder. “Thank you for spoiling a fine image, good Faun. Now, Kevin. Let us once more assess what you know of defensive magic. Shield against my attack.”

  And the Druid spent the remainder of the afternoon instructing Kevin in how to misdirect
, nullify, and reflect attacks. ‘Use the power wisely,’ he kept saying. ‘If you can, use it against the other wizard. There’s no need to meet an attack directly unless you have companions to protect, or other reasons. Never absorb a fireball.’

  All the while, the smoke drew nearer.

  * * * *

  “I’ll organise the diversion,” Hunter whispered, her sibilant hiss dying amongst the grey boulders like an expiring breath. “Snatcher, when flames leap out of the guardhouse windows, you lead our companions down to the dungeons beneath the Keep.”

  “As per Amberthurn’s instructions,” said the Witch. “The Magisoul lies somewhere within the Labyrinth. Will you join us there, good Mancat?”

  “That or die in the attempt,” said Hunter, fatalistic as always. She and the Faun were well matched in their indifference to dying. “Is your potion ready?”

  “It’s a powder,” said the Witch, handing her a small satchel. “Take care not to bump it, noble Mancat, or expose it to heat. When you set the fuse, make sure you are well away, for it will cling and burn with more efficiency than one might credit. The Druid and I are modestly pleased with our joint effort.”

  “It’s very busy up there,” Kevin worried.

  “All the better to hide a few more Trolls,” said the Witch. “I have renewed our spells. As long as you don’t open your mouth, good outlander, you’ll be safe.”

  If the Witch would get off his case for a change, Kevin thought sourly, that would be even better. Now that the moment of infiltrating Shadowmoon Keep was upon them, he had rediscovered a healthy desire to remain alive by not sticking his head into a hornet’s-nest of enemy activity. Tempers were definitely short. Was he the only sensible one in their party?

  As the Mancat disappeared into the gathering gloom, soon to reappear as just another Troll heading for the Keep’s gate, their conversation ran dry and each of the companions fell to making their private preparations for the moment of truth. Akê-Akê checked his mace a dozen times. Amadorn ran through his catalogue of pre-prepared spells. Alliathiune sat in a lotus position–rather incongruously given her Troll disguise–and meditated, while the Witch was doing something that involved equal parts of frogspawn, royal jelly, and newt livers. Kevin decided that he would rather not know what that paste was intended for.

  At length, as evening gathered her dark skirts around Shadowmoon Keep, Snatcher grunted and said, “Ah, the plot is afoot.”

  Alliathiune looked up at the guard-tower. “Indeed, I see flames in the windows and a most impressive conflagration in the making. That’s our cue.”

  Flames billowed out of the guard-tower’s winders as the companions walked steadily up to the great rampart of Shadowmoon Keep, growing by degrees more keyed-up as the grim turrets rose above them and the strength and size of the Keep became apparent. Black battlements obscured the darktime sky and spread for hundreds of yards either side of the great gate, which was flanked by round gate-towers sixty feet tall that housing the machinery to part the immense timbers on runners as thick and long as a man’s thigh. As a legendary fortress it lived up to its reputation. Kevin felt an oppressive weight of stone loom above him as they passed unmolested through the tunnel, yielding a twelve-pace thick measurement on the outer curtain wall alone.

  The main keep still waited within, perched like a lurking Dragon on a rise overlooking Anurmar Gorge, a good half a mile distant. Kevin imagined any evil Wizard would feel perfectly at home there. Rooted to the mountain, it hulked into the early evening sky as if to shout to the world, ‘I am immovable! I am evil! I cannot be defeated!’ Orange lights flickered in the windows of the tall central tower. Was the Dark Apprentice at home? Kevin expected to see monstrous bats roosting there. What he saw, everywhere, was carrion birds–more vultures and hawks and the pot-bellied storks the Forest-folk fondly called Ripper Storks than he had ever seen before. They must eat well here.

  All this made him nervous, but Alliathiune must be doubly troubled. This was no place for a Forest Dryad. The space behind the curtain wall was a tent-forest of Troll regiments unrelieved by a single growing thing–save a dead tree from which hung three objects unrecognisable in origin or age, which had once been frequented by crows but were now too mummified to be worth the effort. He imagined a spiritual darkness here, where the ground had been desecrated by bloody deeds in times past and dedicated to the purposes of Driadorn’s ultimate destruction. Also, he sensed that Shadowmoon Keep was too alive and organised to be merely occupied by a troop of Trolls looking for shelter. This place definitely had a new master.

  It made a familiar and unwelcome feeling creep into his bowels.

  But Kevin strode along beside Amadorn as though none of this mattered, for they could not give the impression of faltering from their course. Shouts and curses erupted up near the burning tower, drawing attention as the conflagration took hold. They slipped unnoticed through the confusion, deeper into the Troll encampment at the base of Shadowmoon Keep.

  Everywhere he saw signs of preparation for war. Shields, helmets, and body armour lay in great mounds among the tents. Rack upon rack of spears and pikes and swords stretched along the walls. The din was incredible. Blacksmiths clanged away busily, forges roared and billowed, animals bleated and groaned, and Trolls shouted guttural obscenities at each other. To his left, Kevin saw hundreds of Trolls in battle formation charging each other with staves and clubs; others wrestled and trained at arms under the eagle eyes of their masters. A foul haze hung over the scene, generated by the forges, cooking fires, dust, and dusk. Carts of supplies entered through another gate he could occasionally make out through the billowing smoke. Where was it all going, he wondered? To Driadorn? By darktime? But, considering the distance …

  Alliathiune lurched against him. Kevin took her elbow, but his eyes widened as he saw what had frightened her. Ahead, above the square black tents of the Trolls, dust and smoke boiled as a huge orange creature ponderously flapped its wings to clear the ground. Wind rushed across his face. A Dragon? No, similar. The thing carried a cargo net slung from its belly. There–another. And another. A whole convoy was lifting off now, a dozen of the beasts, and as he threw up an arm to protect his face, he saw descending from the clouds a similar convoy returning with other items in their nets. Animals, he wondered? Meat for the troops?

  “Are those Drakes?” he shouted in Alliathiune’s ear.

  “Something else!” she shouted back. “Real creatures, not summonings.”

  Air transport for their supply lines. Kevin scratched his chin and then dropped his hand again, trying to shamble along with a Troll-like, arm-swinging gait. This Dark Apprentice was far too organised and ingenious for his own good. Here was forethought, careful planning, perhaps the breeding of unique animals for the purpose of waging war; here was an operation so vast it shocked him to the core. What chance did Driadorn stand against all this?

  Cut off the head and the snake dies, Zephyr would have said.

  And so they marched on.

  “More fires back there,” said Akê-Akê. “The Mancat does her work well.”

  Kevin glanced over his shoulder as something exploded with a ‘WHOMP!’ behind them. Oil stores? Fuel for the furnaces?

  Shadowmoon Keep shadowed them now. Great fires burned in sconces set in the walls and in huge brass bowls before the gateway. They would have to climb nearly a hundred steps to get up there. But even though the gate was guarded, Snatcher led them on without hesitation. Closer. Closer. Kevin imagined any second the cry must go up. But the Witch had done her work well.

  “Fladder oogly guk nok nok,” Snatcher greeted the first guard.

  The gates were tall enough for ten of him, Kevin thought. But thankfully the entrance to the dungeon was not far within. Perhaps the Dark Wizard liked to have a quick route for his prisoners to their cells.

  “Fladder guk nok bling grinder,” Akê-Akê nodded.

  “Urkle with tok?” snarled one of the Trolls–the real Trolls, Kevin realised.


  Unexpectedly, another of the Troll guards growled right in his face. “Urkle!”

  “Quite, old boy,” said Kevin.

  The Troll’s brows lowered. “Urgurug santuk?” A thick finger prodded him in the chest.

  Akê-Akê and the Lurk froze, and then turned back slowly to stare at Kevin.

  “Um … fladder bling?” Kevin tried.

  “Urgurug santuk?”

  “Rhubarb,” said the Lurk, pushing between Kevin and the Troll with the halitosis that was about to overpower him. “Rhubarb,” he repeated, making a sign with his hand.

  “Fladder rhubarb?” The Troll drew back with a look of horror.

  “Fladder bloody fladder rhubarb,” said Akê-Akê, punching Kevin hard enough on the arm to make tears start in his eyes. “Mynan-uk tok tok!”

  The Trolls burst into yellow-toothed gales of laughter and waved them on. “Passik, passik.”

  The company filed between the massive gates and into the main Keep. Surly groups of Trolls sat around, playing their favourite game of dice.

  Snatcher at once bore left and down a wide staircase that led underground. On the first landing they nearly bowled over a pair of Trolls loitering on the steps. Nicely done, Kevin was smiling to himself as he approached them. This disguise was brilliant.

  The Trolls took one look at him and howled the alarm.

  Kevin very narrowly avoided collecting a large club between the teeth as he missed a step and grabbed for the handrail. This was just as well, because it removed him from Akê-Akê’s firing path and an arrow abruptly sprouted from the Troll’s chest. A cracking blow from Amadorn’s staff halted the second. He collapsed in a heap.

  “What happened?” cried Alliathiune, very much back to herself.

  “Some sort of cancellation,” the Witch replied. “There is a magic about this Keep that prevents dissembling. Our disguise is ruined!”

  “Protection,” added Amadorn. “A subtle trap.”

  “So someone wants to identify anyone entering the Keep?”

  “Or protect against magic-aided attack, good outlander. And judging by the boots on these stairs, their cries have been heeded.”