The Light of Endura

by Scott Zamek

  “Watcher Eyebold.”

  “And Aerol . . . I met you many council meetings ago, in better times, when you and your kind were not such an endangered breed.”

  “And the Watchers of these Five Lands have suffered a similar fate,” returned Aerol.

  “These are dark days indeed,” said Eyebold, as he motioned to the wide opening of a cave at their backs. “Please.”

  Trader tied up the horses while the others followed Eyebold into the cave. Filby took up the rear, wondering at their good fortune. He had met two Watchers already, including Bearden back in Bridgehaven, but Eyebold did not resemble either of them. Trader and Bearden seemed as if they could pass as the average Meadowkeep merchant, but Eyebold was big, taller than Aerol, and wide like a tree trunk. He wore tanned animal skins and furs, looking almost like a caveman, with a long scar across his right cheek and unkempt, scraggly hair. Another cut along his forehead showed fresh blood, and even his clothes looked like they had recently been slashed by a sword. The broadsword tied to his waist, Filby thought, could probably not be lifted by most men.

  “There is no more watching,” said Eyebold as they moved into the cave. “There is only fighting.” He reached up and put a match to a lantern hanging from the cave wall, then moved the lantern to a small oak table in the center of the wide chamber. Two wooden chairs stood by the table, but the only other item in the cave was a wrinkled bedroll laid out against the far wall. “That army that pursued you has been riding north along the border for many weeks now. It started as a simple band of troggs, and has since grown to more than one hundred. They first came down from the White Mountains away to the north, when the days were still long and bright—before the clouds began to block out the sky. Then halfwraith drove across the foothills to the east, and the nightwraith followed.”

  Eyebold tilted the lantern and adjusted the flame; an orange glow dissolved into desperate flickers against the cave walls. “I can guess why you are here,” said the Watcher, glancing at Aerol and the others with a pained depth in his eyes. “I have led dozens of armies to the Far Mountains these many months, and none have returned. And the darkness still grows. This mission will take you just as it has taken the others who have come before you.”

  “This time, there is a difference,” said Aerol. “We bear the Map of Dunhelm.”

  Eyebold stood silent.

  “And a see-er travels with us, who can read the sacred runes.” Aerol withdrew the map from the folds of his cloak. The Watcher’s eyes widened, and he glanced from the map then, with curiosity, to Filby.

  “We had one with us who could translate the runes,” said Aerol, “but alas, he fell not five hours ago trying to cross the Adamantine River.”

  “And saved our lives,” said Ethreal. She was leaning against the cave wall and cleaning her bow, looking alert and impatient, watching Trader return from tending the horses.

  Aerol shrugged. “I do know something of the runes, however.”

  “As do I,” said Eyebold, sitting down on one of the wooden chairs.

  Aerol spread the map out on the oak table, while somewhere above the cave walls, the sun began to set behind a darkening forest. The song of crickets crept through the mouth of the cave, and Eyebold shortened the lantern wick. He did not want the light too bright lest the enemy see it from a distance.

  “You forget,” said Trader, as he tilted the light toward the map and slowly ran his hand over the stained surface, “Eyebold is descended from the scribes of old.”

  Eyebold turned his head to the mouth of the cave, the sounds of the night. “Most of that information did not survive the ages. My knowledge is limited.”

  Filby’s eyes were fixed on the map as he continued drawing. He had already been at it for several minutes, and he worked the pen while the others looked on. “Only one rune,” he sighed, finishing the last stroke. “It is the same one that Andreg translated earlier.” Filby laid the pen down in disappointment. Ethreal shook her head, walking to the mouth of the cave. She decided to collect saddle bags and unpack some bedrolls before the last of the twilight faded.

  Aerol lowered his head, then turned to Eyebold. “Andreg thought it to be two overlapping runes . . . he was of the mind that we needed to get closer to the Far Mountains before it could be deciphered.”

  “He may be right about the rune,” said Eyebold thoughtfully. “I have never seen it before. But I believe the map needs to be beyond the Far Mountains before it can be properly read. Especially if, as you say, the Light is truly expired.” Eyebold paused, resting a hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “Even with the map, you must first cross the mountains, and the crossing is beyond the power of any man or group of men.”

  “You Watchers are good for talk,” said Ethreal, as she tossed some saddle bags onto the cave floor, “and for endless planning. But my plan is simple—travel east and restore the Light. No more discussion necessary.”

  Aerol leaned on the table and gazed at the map in thought. “We cannot rush in against such a foe. We must be patient . . . and we are fortunate to have one who knows the land.” Aerol spun the map around. “Perhaps we should take note of the rest of the map.”

  It is accurate as far as it goes,” assured Eyebold. “But greatly lacking in detail.”

  Trader pointed to a faded section of the vellum stained with brown lines. “If we follow this valley to the north, it might provide some cover. Is it forested?”

  “Yes,” said Eyebold, and he picked up the canteen from the table and took a swig. “Very dense.” Filby still sat at the table, feeling a bit overshadowed with the other three leaning over him toward the map. But he also felt compelled to remain, lest a new rune unexpectedly show itself like it had before. Ethreal was content to listen from the far wall while she rolled out blankets, muttering to herself, and unpacked a few items from the saddle bags.

  “We follow the valley to the east, under cover of the forest.” Trader pointed to the map. “That will take us within five days’ ride of the Far Mountains. Then we have this vast open plain . . .”

  “There are hundreds, if not thousands of halfwraith and troggs and nightwraith scouring that land,” cautioned Eyebold. “No . . . there is a better way. This body of water, shown here as a small lake, is actually a vast inland sea extending to . . . here.” Eyebold pointed to a spot on the map just inches from the Far Mountains. “I know of a boat moored within a day’s ride, if it is still there. The lighthouse keeper used to have a one-masted longship. If we sail that vessel east across the sea, perhaps a two-day sail with fair winds, then we arrive within three days of the Far Mountains.”

  Trader raised his eyebrows. “No enemy would follow us out on the open sea.”

  “I never had this option before,” said Eyebold. “The previous expeditions were too large to fit on a small boat.”

  Aerol lifted his hands, palm up. “The sea it is.” He glanced around at the others. Ethreal was putting some smoked venison on the table; Filby and Trader were nodding their heads in agreement as they sat down to eat. Filby was exhausted, and as he looked around the table, he could see the others were as well. It seemed they hadn’t had time to pause and reflect, to take in what had happened over the past few days: Andreg’s death, crossing into the Far Lands, the growing darkness. But as night deepened—as the far-off sound of crickets filled the forest air, and Filby and the others lay atop their bedrolls in the darkened cave—the memories of past days began to rush forward. Filby fell into a fitful sleep, thinking of the road traveled, and wondering, with a growing uneasiness, about the road yet to come.

  THE ROUTE cut north, and they followed the deeply-folded way through a land of chestnut oaks set upon rolling hills of moss, here and there clusters of tall pines sending the crisp scent of forest resin trickling through the trees. A cold haze covered the morning sun, hard ground showing patches of frost and scattered leaves. Filby tightened his collar. He could see the breath of the four horses in front and hear the crackle of stiff leaves underfo
ot, while above, the bare oaks pushed their branches wide overhead like withered and crooked arms. No road or path led the way, only open country and the knowledge of the Watcher from the Far Lands.

  The five riders descended down a steeply-forested hill before breaking out of the trees into a sloping field of mixed underbrush and thick brown grass. Filby took up the rear as he watched the wet hooves of the horses in front pick up dew and scatter droplets into the wind. He was cold down to the bone. He shuddered, but it was not the chill shiver of dawn. He knew possible danger lurked around any given tree or hill, but more; the land seemed without substance, without warmth, the bottom of the sun resting flat against the far horizon in the east, yellow and distant and cold at their shoulders. A frigid dew clung to tussocks and weeds along barren hillsides, the fell hand of lightless days turning everything somehow colorless and waning—tilting toward a great dark silence.

  The land turned flat as they rode through a basin of widely scattered oaks. Eyebold dropped back and Trader took the lead, true north, down into the deep valley and across a small stream. A polluted brown lake skirted their path to the east; to the west rose a set of high hills covered with dead pasture and scrub. “My old hunting grounds,” said Eyebold, as he eased up next to Filby. “I sometimes see troggs along here, but most of them are to the east, closer to the mountains, or to the west along the river.”

  The sun detached from the horizon and turned red with forming clouds, melting dew from the wilted grass and casting a pale glow on the hills. Filby and Eyebold rode side by side for some time, watching the route turn flat and open along a field of short weeds and a lake to the west shimmer in the rising sun. “When was the last time you saw the longship?” asked Filby. He rocked gently in the saddle with the sway of his horse, turning his head to the Watcher.

  “Many months now . . . since before all the trouble started. It lies at the mouth of the Adamantine River, where it flows to the inland sea.” Eyebold looked to the horizon, as if remembering something, or gazing at far-off towns and villages that were no longer there. “The people who lived along those shores thought the sea had once been part of a larger ocean many centuries ago, and so they named it the Departed Sea. They were all descended from gold miners, you have to understand, who came here almost two hundred years ago when a rich vein of gold was discovered along the banks of the Adamantine. But the solid rock bed along the riverbank was so hard that it broke many axes and picks, and the miners spent many decades breaking through to the gold deposits. Most found nothing, and became fishermen or farriers or lighthouse keepers. Or they became destitute and returned home.”

  The sun brightened and red clouds from the east scattered overhead. Filby slowly became more relaxed—at ease for the first time since Andioch. He could not imagine being in danger while riding next to a man the size of a forest bear. Eyebold related more tales as they rode, of the surrounding towns and villages, not only within the Far Lands but the lands to the west as well. Filby was struck by the amount of knowledge, the amount of history Eyebold had accumulated, and the intellect seemed an odd match with the beard, the furs, the broadsword.

  Trader and Aerol led the way as the road began to climb a gradual rise, where up ahead a solid line of spiny hills lay along the backbone of the land before them. Aerol ascended to the top of the ridge ahead of the others then peered intently down upon the valley. A dozen small brown lakes shimmered in a field of dry grass, and the road formed a thin ribbon below, crooking left then right through the maze of lakes until disappearing over a milky horizon filled with haze and dust. Trader reached the top, then quickly looked down and pointed. “A band of troggs tracking west . . . eight that I can see.”

  “Have they seen us?” They appeared to Aerol as mere pinpricks in the valley—too far away to pose any immediate threat, but he deferred to the eyes of the Watcher.

  “It should be safe to continue down this road,” said Trader grimly, eyes intense and focused sharply on outlying fields. “But we should remain alert lest the enemy reverse course.”

  Trader grew very wary as the five riders descended slowly into the withered grasslands. The day became cold but clear. The sun hung directly overhead, yet it seemed distant and blurred, sending an icy halo into the blank afternoon sky. They rode along the shore of a still and silent lake, where an abandoned town rose up from the water’s edge: roofs caved in, fences torn down, a few overgrown fields that once held corn or wheat, now the home to tussocks and weeds and a few furtive rabbits. “These people fled to the west many months ago,” said Eyebold softly, craning his neck back and forth to see what the times had done to one of his many charges. “They were some of the lucky ones, when the Forest Lands were still safe.”

  “Tracks,” called Ethreal, as the horses plodded slowly and carefully around the lake. She pointed down to thin footprints scattered here and there along the muddy banks of the lakeshore. “Troggs . . . less than a day old, maybe two.” More tracks dotted the path as Ethreal’s stallion gave a nervous grumble, while the others followed along through the far side of the doomed village. Beyond the last of the decayed buildings, trees began to press in on either side of the path again—a small grove of poplar and ash and hemlock standing as the northern border to the town. The woods continued flat beyond the town for a time, then led up to a set of low foothills blanketed by weeds and dry scrub.

  Aerol led on through the hills, following the road up, and up, into a shallow range of jagged mountains. The narrow path switched back and climbed to the top of a low pass. Frost was in the air. A slim layer of powdery snow covered the countryside. Filby could see the pumping steam of breath again as the horses labored through the climb; he raised the hood of his cloak and focused on the way ahead, where oval hoofprints left a long line of brown dents in the thin white ground.

  The hollow sun was small and cold and distant, tilting toward the west. Shadows rose as they climbed down out of the mountains, but Filby was happy to see the snow slowly melt away and disappear. He felt his sore muscles stretch as he clung to his steed, but he said nothing, instead content to watch the road as the hills extended on for many miles into a rising and falling landscape. North of the valley, the hills flattened, and the road angled gently downward. The air warmed slightly, and it seemed to Filby they had been descending overall for quite some time, even though the road behind them had risen up many times over many rolling hills.

  Eyebold urged them on. He wanted to make the inland sea before nightfall, for though he knew his old hunting grounds to be relatively safe during the day, he could not say what might lurk in the shadows after dark. Aerol climbed to the top of the last shallow ridge and gazed into the grim distance, his black steed snorting with the will and impatience to move on—to continue down into the flat expanse extending beyond the horizon before them. Away at the edge of sight, the silver Adamantine River curled like a glimmering thread in a land of sere gray ground and brown rock. “That river forms the western border of the Far Lands,” said Eyebold, looking down upon the hard way ahead. “But then it bends east and cuts across this valley, then empties into the Departed Sea.” He glanced up at the westering sun, thinning his eyes and thinking of the approaching dusk. “The sea is just beyond sight at the far edge of the depression—we must set a steady pace lest we find ourselves caught out in the night.”

  They descended from a round world of brown hills into a land of featureless, straight lines. Before them lay the flat and ever-extending fields of dry grass; the hard, even ground touching the edges of a distant sky. At last the powerful stallions were in their element, where a trot or a gallop could be sustained with little effort, and so Ethreal let loose her reins to send her steed swift and straight and without care. She could see the silver Adamantine approaching quickly from the north, and she led on across the relenting plain until the sun touched the west; led on until the riders came to a halt on hard rock banks and the steeds snorted with nostrils wide. Looking around, watching the clear current flow north and east
through a pine-scented valley of white birch and solitary hemlocks, it seemed to Ethreal as if they had entered a small oasis in a quickly withering land. She jerked her reins northeast at the riverbank, following along the water’s clean edge while the sun slowly turned the day thin and red at their backs.

  The river opened up into a broad delta; they followed the easternmost bank, clattering along the hard rock before Eyebold rose up in his stirrups and pointed to the north. “The sea approaches!”

  Filby looked up and followed the Watcher’s gaze. At first, an unsure mirage folded the distant air into rising currents, bending the horizon into a glimmering curtain. Slowly, the entire image lowered back to earth, melting into a basin of water and waves. The ground gave way under patter of hooves, until the glittering shores of a large sea rose up from the brown and green land to encompass the entire view to the north. A rock ledge stood off their left shoulder, where Filby could see a sturdy brick lighthouse looking over a sea of crashing breakers and turbulent white waves. The adjacent keeper’s house, flush with the vertical cliff, seemed as if it would tumble into the sea with the slightest passing storm or crash of a wave.

  “The longship!” shouted Trader. He leaned forward in his saddle and pointed to a protected inlet south of the cliffs. The Watcher could already see what the others could not, but as they approached, even Filby noticed a broken-down dock which had been worn to the bones by weather and waves. Wooden planks dangled in the lapping water, and the supporting posts tilted at odd angles. A small ship was moored there, with a curved wooden hull and a single mast poking up from the middle of an oval deck. One sail remained tightly furled to the mast, stained brown with mildew and age.

  “There is a hold large enough for the horses,” called out Eyebold, pointing ahead. “And the lightkeeper used to insist the galley be well stocked with wine and dry goods.” The sun showed like a silhouette behind the gray-bricked lighthouse, forming a white arc against the dull sky. Eyebold climbed aboard and inspected the ship, first walking over to the long rudder and checking the mount, then untying the square sail, pulling it tight against the yard. The deck boards seemed hollow underfoot, causing his steps to echo against the empty hold below as he tied off the sail and called to the others. “It’s not perfect, but it should hold for one more journey across the sea.”