The Light of Endura

by Scott Zamek

  Aerol led the way across the river, where the wagon track squeezed thin through a forested glen and gray clouds sent a misty rain into the afternoon breeze. Trader halted in mid path as if listening, then stared ahead down the long dirt track. He held up his hand, “something approaches. “

  The others stopped, listening.

  Within minutes, a horseman appeared around the bend ahead, riding slowly atop an old, chestnut horse no larger than a donkey. As he drew near, Filby could see his bulging, weatherworn saddle bags rock with the gentle sway of his advance. He seemed a man of some years, and harmless, clad in a tan cloak and crooked felt hat, until he stopped center path, blocking the way.

  “What is your business old man,” shouted Ethreal, nudging forward.

  “I have seen him before,” said Trader. “At the village fairs and Barrington Towns of the west. He does parlor tricks and magic for children.” He leaned forward and called ahead. “Andreg, isn’t it—is that what they call you?”

  The old man removed his felt cap and nodded. “Andreg the Mage,” he said. “At your service.”

  Trader shifted in his saddle. “What is your business here, Andreg? You occupy too much of the road for a friendly passing.”

  “You would do well to travel more softly during the day my intrepid friends. The lands are not as safe as they once were. Ogres have pressed in from the east. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. What once ventured forth only at night now challenges the day.” Andreg nudged his horse forward a step. “As far as my business here,” he said. “It is the Map of Dunhelm,” and he glared at Filby as if studying a rare artifact.

  “What do you know of the map, old man?” called Ethreal, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. A damp wind scattered a few dead leaves across the path. The day grew dark behind rolling black clouds.

  “The coming forth was foretold,” replied Andreg. “As all things in these Five Kingdoms are foretold.”

  “You best stop speaking in riddles and answer,” said Ethreal, as she unsheathed her sword and held it against the wind.

  Andreg climbed off his horse and raised a hand. “Stay your sword Ethreal. You would do well to welcome a friend when there are so many enemies afoot.”

  “We ask you again,” said Aerol, rising up in the saddle. “What is your business and what do you know of our affairs? Speak well lest you meddle too greatly.”

  “You have a see-er,” said the mage, stepping forward. “Young Filby Redmont. But you cannot understand his visions. I can translate the Runes of Dunhelm.”

  “It is a trick—a parlor trick,” said Ethreal. “We cannot trust him. Knowing our names . . . of the map—it is all illusion and subterfuge. He is a spy.”

  Aerol sat in thought for a few moments. “What do we have to lose? My knowledge of the runes is limited. If he is a fraud, we shall see soon enough.” He turned to Trader.

  “Let’s give him a chance,” said the Watcher. “We are four and he is one—the map is in no danger.”

  A steady drizzle muddied the track as an early fall wind rose from the west. Thick manes and swishing tails dripped cool rain into puddles around the horses’ hooves. “Let’s leave it to the see-er,” said Ethreal, sheathing her sword. And Filby agreed to read the runes.

  They took shelter under a sprawling oak tree, its wide canopy dispersing the rain into damp drips and dribbles beneath the branches. Aerol unfolded the map, and Filby drew what he could see. The mage struggled down to his knees, complaining of his old bones, and watched as the runes appeared from Filby’s pen. Several minutes passed, while Andreg did nothing but stare at the page. “Well?” snapped Ethreal, looking down at the map with her hands perched on her hips.

  Andreg was deep in thought, not listening. “In the ancient tongue,” he muttered, pointing to the first runes. “Domito tres Verlus, the Sacred Flame. He moved his finger along the page to the next few runes. “Illik tray es, but an ember.” He turned his head toward the others. “The Light is dim. There is not much time.”

  “And this?” said Aerol, pointing to the remaining runes.

  “Nathrae togri dur, darkened land.” And then Andreg paused, studying the next set of runes closely and seeming to struggle with the translation. He mouthed several variations, then, still squatting on his knees, turned his head to the group. “These last runes call for the protectors of the Flame to come forth. But it is a strange variation, referring to the recent past. Has called for the protectors. I think it is meant to be read, ‘Where are the protectors?’ I fear even now it is too late.”

  Light drizzle turned to heavy rain with the march of thunder and thick, dark clouds. Aerol folded up the map and slipped it under the flap of a waterproof saddle bag, while the canopy of their oak tree bent to the north with the oncoming storm. The trees offered little protection, but they tied up the horses under a wide branch and turned up the hoods of their cloaks. Trader piled up some logs and banked a fire against the wind while they waited for the rain to pass. “What do you think?” asked Ethreal as she and Aerol watched the wagon track turn into a brown rivulet.

  “We take him with us. I know enough of the runes to be sure his translation was no parlor trick.” Trader and Filby were buttoning up saddle bags on the horses, and Andreg watched thunderheads move west over the rolling hills.

  “Did you ask him?” said Ethreal.

  They had no need to call for Andreg; he approached as they glanced up. “I will travel east with you,” he said. “The Flame must be restored without haste.”

  “And if we were to take your advice,” said Ethreal, glaring thinly at the mage. “Just how would one accomplish such a feat?”

  Andreg removed his felt hat and wrung out a cupful of water. Strands of hair in various shades of dark and light gray flopped with the wind. “As far as reaching the Beyond Lands—it is merely a question of traveling east for those hearty enough to undertake the journey.” He replaced his hat and looked at Ethreal and suddenly his face became wise and hard. “Rekindling the Flame, I know not, but hope the map will reveal a path when it reaches the land of its maker.”

  The rain abated. The five riders rejoined their mounts and slogged east toward the gray horizon. The thin wagon track crooked left then right and became lost in a set of rolling green hills, and though the rain ceased, the afternoon remained bleak and gloomy, a slate-gray sky showing no variation overhead. The white stallion and Aerol’s black Frasian pounded through puddles, but Filby and Trader had chosen wild-bred horses, smaller and more streamlined; their brown and white frames seemed to glide over the muddy surface with effortless grace. Andreg, riding a donkey-like horse with a slightly swayed back, persistently lagged behind the others.

  Trader knew of a trapper who lived in a cabin near the border, within sight of the Forest Lands, and he thought they could make it before nightfall. He led the way as the road rose steadily into the early evening, scattered clumps of cottonwoods and ash slowly giving way to dense tracts of sycamore and red maple bordering both sides of the dirt track. Eventually they crossed over a creaking wooden bridge, where they turned left and followed the trout-filled creek north into a set of ascending hills. Nothing could be seen up ahead as the way persistently angled upward, their view obscured by thick stands of pine trees on uneven ground, but they soon broke out of the hills onto a high plateau cradling a blue mountain lake.

  Trader wheeled his horse around to the west and looked over the treetops upon the Great Plains. The view stretched into the obscure haze of distance, becoming lost in the descending gray sky at the edge of the world. Ethreal sidled up beside the Watcher. “You see something?”

  “Three riders. Too far away to make out. Halfwraith, I think, but they are bearing away to the west.”

  “What are they?” asked Filby, who had joined alongside. “Halfwraith?”

  “They are men,” answered Ethreal. “But they are men from the Beyond Lands, ever engulfed in darkness, and they have never before been seen this far west.”

  “They t
hrive on darkness and abhor the light,” said Trader. “And so their eyes are pale white and skin a sickly yellow. These are the features adapted to perpetual night.” Trader watched for a few moments, satisfied the wraith were not following their trail, then abandoned the edge of the plateau to avoid being seen.

  The gray sky broke into a jigsaw of dark clouds in the west as the sun became dim in search of the horizon. Groves of tall pines dotted the high plateau, now fading into thin shadows, until at last in the hollow blur of thickening twilight: a dark line of distant trees, as if the flat plain had suddenly been cut short and surrounded by a deep and unforgiving colonnade. Trader gazed upon the Forest Lands as they drew near; he had been there only once before, and then in brighter times.

  The Watcher became suddenly wary, leading the way slowly ahead. Within a mile of the dense forest looming in the distance, a mixed stand of elm and birch trees hid the trapper’s cabin from the eyes of passing travelers. They approached with the last of the twilight, and saw that a clearing held an old fire pit ringed by charred rocks. Two windows roughly cut through log walls faced the clearing, and an old moss roof still looked solid and weatherproof. Already the windows glowed yellow against the night.

  The trapper appeared at the door with the neighing of horses and rising chatter of crickets. A hand-carved pipe churned away, causing curls of white smoke to linger around his scraggly brown beard and flannel shirt. Trader edged his horse forward and dismounted. “John Gromby,” he called, walking up to the door. “I don’t know if you remember me—Trader Hawkins. I was here a few years ago with another traveler named Bearden.”

  “Of course I remember. Them were the bright days, when travelers still ventured this far east.” He puffed on his pipe, sending a cloud into the lantern light of the threshold. “Go ahead. You can water yer horses over there, and yer welcome to camp by the fire pit for the night.”

  Trader raised his hand in thanks, and Gromby squeaked the door closed behind a whiff of pipe smoke. Aerol set about building a fire; darkness was quickly rising, and he struck the flint while a long light from the cabin window put a thin yellow stripe across the clearing. Ethreal and Andreg unpacked a few supplies from the saddle bags while twilight still held sway, soon joining Aerol, who slowly built up a crackling fire against the cool west wind. Trader and Filby unrolled their blankets next to the warmth before night took a hard grip on the land; all was black but the pulsing ring of light around the fire and a distant glow of lanterns from the cabin. The call of crickets ramped up and up and up, enveloping the land like a draped blanket, while one of the horses chirred in the darkness.

  Trapper Gromby walked out with a lantern and joined the others around the fire. Filby’s usual pot of tea, nestled in glowing embers, boiled away at the edge of the ring, and a game bird rotated on a spit, dripping fat into the fire. “You say yer headed through the forest,” said Gromby, perched against a tree stump and stuffing his long pipe with dark tobacco. “Used to be people lived in there, but they all moved out. You couldn’t pay me enough to go in them woods now, no siree.” Aerol rolled a log onto the fire sending sparks through the night, while Trader and Filby poured cups of tea from the hot kettle. Ethreal was barely listening as she unhitched her saddle at the edge of light.

  The trapper tossed a rock into the embers. “Once in a while a family comes through, a wagon train, and they have horrific stories. Some of ’em didn’t make it through, or strange calls in the night. Nope—that land ain’t for normal folk anymore, nosir.”

  Andreg sat beside the fire fumbling with different colored crystals from his saddle bags. Filby watched as the mage would pick one up and make it glow. One glowed red, one glowed bright white like the return of the day, and one made little sparks in the air. Filby was not sure how the parlor trick was done—Andreg held them in his open hand and they just activated somehow. One floated an inch above his palm and glowed bright green, then fell to his hand, sputtered, and faded, as if the trick had gone wrong.

  “I see them troggs every now and then,” said Gromby, “but they don’t bother with me. One old trapper in a cabin ain’t no interest to no one. It’s them calls in the night that bothers me—ain’t no animal I ever heard. Makes the hair stand straight up on the back of me neck, it does.” He gazed into the fire as if remembering, then worked his pipe and sent a smoke ring toward the flames. “And them calls is comin’ from the forest, where you all says yer headed.”

  Ethreal finished organizing her gear in the shadows and joined the group, placing her saddle near the fire as a back rest. The crickets calmed to a steady rhythm, and the call of a wolf rose in the distance. “Don’t mind them wolves,” said Gromby. “They won’t come ’round as long as there’s a fire burnin’.”

  “What of the road through the forest,” said Aerol. “What do you know of that?” Ethreal turned the spit and fat from the game bird flared the flames. The glow from cabin windows began to fade as the lanterns inside burned down.

  “Road?” said Gromby. “No road. Just take that wagon track you been followin’ and you will find a path enterin’ the forest. It used to head east all the way through, but it’s overgrown now in spots. Might have some trouble gettin’ them horses through, but if you stick to that path, you won’t lose yer way.”

  Andreg shifted against his tree stump, and Filby could have sworn he heard the creaking of old bones. Trapper Gromby stood up and held his lantern against the night, wished the group luck, then walked slowly back to his cabin. The fire burned low and dying embers crackled while Filby spread out on his bedroll. Ethreal ripped a chunk from the spit and poured a cup of tea. “What is that?” said Trader, rising to his feet and pointing north. “On the horizon.”

  Aerol stood and they all gazed north. Strange, glowing flashes illuminated the northern sky. They came in rapid succession, then faded, then returned again—some yellow, some orange—like lightning strikes from a far-off storm. “Strange happenings,” said Andreg. “Not all can be explained.” They watched the lights until they dimmed and disappeared. The fire burned down to embers, and the lantern light from inside the cabin flickered to a faint glimmer. Trader stretched out on his blanket, as did the others, and a starry sky poked through scattered, unseen clouds. The edge of sleep crept into camp.

  Suddenly, a shrill cry rose from the forest. Aerol shot up gripping the hilt of his sword, eyes fixed upon the black night. In all the dark recesses of the earth, the Far Rider had heard the malignant cries of evil creep ever west with the darkening days. But that cry, it brought a sweat to the back of his hand as he drew a few inches of steel from the scabbard. He stood rigid and alert and wrestled with long memories. That call, that wicked sound that was blackness itself, he had heard that call before.

  FOREST LANDS

  T wo parallel ruts stretched straight and dusty over the perfectly flat plain, disappearing up ahead into a solid wall of dark trees. A hazy sun rose at their backs as the five riders made their way ever east. Tattered clouds formed streaks in an otherwise blue sky, but the morning air chilled dewdrops into a fine mist that clung to the low swales and hollows along the road. Filby cinched his cloak tight around his shoulders; he felt the dreary grip of the trees looming just ahead, the cold and twisted branches, and he could see where a thin path broke into the forest then crooked out of sight into a distant black hole. “How far do you think? To the other side, I mean.” Filby wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Rather, he wanted just to talk, to dispel the uneasy feeling rising in his mind.

  “We will not know until we see the state of the road ahead,” replied Aerol, his tall black Frasian riding in the lead.

  “And the state of whatever else waits in that tangled mess,” added Trader, looking ahead into the trees. He arched forward in the saddle and strained his eyes, but even the Watcher’s keen vision could not reveal the path to come.

  “What awaits us is already written into each of our fates,” said Andreg, puffing on a long white pipe. “Worry will profit you nothing
.” He teetered along on his swaybacked horse, at complete ease, looking as if he was sitting in the cradled bough of a tree.

  “My sword dictates my fate.” Ethreal pulled gently on the leather reins, and her white stallion slowed to keep pace with the others. “Destiny is for those who do not fight.”

  “Fate is fate,” answered Andreg, as Aerol led the way into a dim realm of half-light and shadows. Filby’s horse quivered with an odd shudder as they breached the rim of the forest. The path arched like a tunnel behind, where a blot of light showed one last glimpse of the Great Plains slipping slowly into the west. Filby could feel the light fade, feel the warmth overtaken by cold shade, and though a few shafts of sun angled through bare spots in the canopy above, Filby looked along the narrow way before them and the forest seemed darker and more dense through the tangled world ahead.

  The hard dirt path angled upward over exposed roots and brambles, too thin for a pair of horses abreast, and so Trader brought up the rear in a single-file line. The Watcher too could sense the light from the Great Plains fade at his back as the trail veered to the south around a tangled bend of black trees. Thick, bleak air seemed as if it had been dipped in smoke, the only sign of wind a faint creaking through forest branches. And even that was a welcome sound; all else was a dripping silence, a naked void of cold absence, until even the quiet tamper of hooves on the forest floor became nothing but a muffled and dull thud. Songbirds, there were none; animals did not call—only the eyes of the Watcher knew there were creatures of the night about: wolves and foxes, coyotes and screech owls lurking in the shadows.

  “It is cold,” said Trader, holding his cloak tight to his neck. “Too cold for early fall.” A few odd shafts of light still made their way to the forest floor, but they were feeble and thin, a dull yellow, the color of sickness.