by Scott Zamek
“If one knows how to sail,” muttered Ethreal, as if to herself.
Filby was standing at her shoulder, but he viewed the boat in a much different light. He was longing for a break from running, from the evil that pursued them all—that had pursued them since Bordertown. Looking back at the land, what he saw was harsh and brutal and pitiless. The highest of the cliffs, where the lighthouse stood, he knew fell away to more dark cliffs, on the western side of which extended more darkness—the grim forests and lost wagon trains and walled cities under siege. And flight without end. “At least we avoid the troggs,” he said to Ethreal with a shrug, then he joined Trader as they gingerly moved the horses over the rickety dock and into the hold. Ethreal acquiesced, reluctantly climbing over the side onto the dried-out deck.
Aerol slipped the thick ropes from the moorings and jumped aboard, before the ship slowly drifted away from the dock. Eyebold tilted the sail into the slack wind and Trader jammed the rudder hard to the right. The sun peeked out from behind the lighthouse, then moved behind a high point in the cliff and disappeared to cast a shadow on the darkening sea.
Filby stood at the stern, hands on the wooden rail, watching the shrinking shape of the lighthouse atop the cliff become smaller and smaller into the background of a gray twilight sky. The choppy waves between the ship and the shore filled his sight, until the cliff was in view no more and only a shadow on the horizon revealed any sign of land to the south. To the east, the coast was still close; they sailed within a stone’s throw from a thin white beach, where Filby could see the leafless trees move by slowly and without effort. A gentle swell caused the ship to rise and fall, the shore seeming to bob with the rolling waves.
“Troggs!” called Trader, pointing toward land. Filby moved his eyes along the forest. A band of troggs slowly picked their way through the trees, staying even with the ship as they peered across the water. But the wind behind the longship far outmatched anything on foot; the square sail shuddered in a light breeze while the hull rode up and down on gentle swells, leaving the band of troggs slowly behind. Filby watched as the creatures clamored to keep pace, gradually shrinking with distant waves until they became but specks on a far-away shore.
Eyebold lit a lantern and hung it on the yardarm. It rocked with the rocking sea, casting a yellow light which swung upon the darkening water, first to starboard, then to port, and back again. “Take them below, said Aerol, turning to Eyebold. “Get some food and sleep—we will need our strength soon enough.”
Aerol remained on deck, clutching the tiller and watching the sail flutter with the shifting wind, while Eyebold led the others below. The Far Rider watched as they disappeared through the hatch, leaving him alone with the wind and the growing night. The stars came out in a rare patch of clear sky, but Aerol found he could not look at them. They reminded him of something that no longer existed—something far off and unreachable: a land of warm skies and cotton clouds and bright moons. That vision did not apply anymore. This was a land of shadows and darkness and lost hope. The stars did not remind him of beauty; they reminded him of the lack of beauty, and the rising evil to the east. He turned his eyes away and focused on the sail—on bearing with the wind. He focused on the mountains yet to come.
Below decks, Eyebold quickly reached the galley—nothing but a single counter and a few hanging cupboards, where a cobwebbed wooden table sat next to a few open cabinets. The space was dark and hollow. Dust powdered the stale air as Eyebold brushed his hand across the oak table and hung the lantern.
“Look Filby,” called Trader, who was already rooting through the cupboards. “Just like home!” He turned holding an old jug of wine in one hand and four stained mugs in the other. Filby managed a thin smile then glanced at Ethreal, and for the first time since the forest he saw the warrior of Effindril turn pale. She was gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles as the lantern slowly tilted at an angle with the shallow keel. Old, dried-out boards gave a slow and grinding creek with a mounting swell. Ethreal moved her chair away from the table, then leaned her head against the hull.
“You look unwell,” observed Filby, lifting his mug of wine.
“I am no sailor,” complained Ethreal weakly. “The sea is not for warriors. The sea is for fish.”
Filby was not fond of the sea either, but he felt somehow safe. He knew no wraith or trogg would attack them on the open sea. He sipped his wine as Trader broke out some smoked venison, while Eyebold boiled some dried beans on the galley stove and brought out the steaming pot. The ship rocked, the table tilted, and Eyebold snatched his cup of wine as it slid to the edge.
“You know the land,” wheezed Ethreal, who had not touched her food and was still leaning her forehead against the hull. “I will give you that, Watcher Eyebold. This boat will gain us much time.”
“You should have seen the land before,” said Eyebold. “Before the darkness rose.” He took a gulp of wine and a red stream ran down the side of his beard. “It began about a year ago, when I first saw halfwraith roaming the land on dim and cloudy days. Then as the days grew darker, the nightwraith appeared. One of them gave me this.” He pointed to the thick scar along his cheek, slowly running his finger from his temple down to his chin. “My cabin was overrun, so I abandoned the cabin and took up living in the cave. And then I lost all communication with the council and the Watchers from the other lands. So I set about making a journey to the west to see if I could find the Watcher from the Ancient Lands, and then I came to the river and I saw the hoards lining the border and realized there was no way I would ever get across.”
Lapping waves gave hollow, wooden knocks against the hull, echoing through the empty hold. Old boards shifted along the keel to send a shudder through the floor. Eyebold stood and adjusted the wick on the lantern. “The people of my land were slaughtered . . . none survived the rise of the darkness. It was like an evil tide destroying all who stood before it, sweeping up everything in its wake. And now the Far Lands is a land of darkness—populated by the minions of darkness.” He paused and tilted his mug, then poured another and glanced around the table at his companions, one by one. “I knew the Light had to be restored, but my allies had all but disappeared. Still, I journeyed to the Far Mountains . . . I wanted to see if there was a way across—a way to perhaps restore the Light on my own. But if you thought the river was well guarded, then think again, because the Far Mountains are nothing but a fortress, with a solid line of the enemy from north to south—nightwraith and ogres, and halfwraith and troggs. And wild half-men from the Far Lands who have succumbed to the darkness and not yet become wraith but are well on their way.”
Eyebold stared at the others and his eyes were thin and weary. “There is no way to penetrate those mountains, so if that is your mission, I pity you.” A wave suddenly lashed the longship broadside, rolling the hull over at a steep angle. Aerol up on deck pulled the tiller hard to starboard, the foamy crest of the wave splashed over his shoulders, and the ship righted.
Trader stood and steadied himself. “I’m going up to see if Aerol needs a hand,” and he disappeared through the forward hatch.
“Will you not help us through the mountains,” asked Filby, staring squarely at Eyebold. “You know these lands. Surely we have a better chance with your guidance than without.”
“There is no other course now.” Eyebold glanced down and became solemn. “To die trying to pierce the mountains or to die in my cave is the only choice left.”
Aerol climbed down the ladder at the forward hatch. Water streamed from his cloak onto the wooden floor as he lowered his slick hood. “Trader relieved me . . . swells are getting bigger.” He helped himself to some beans and dried meat and sat at the table. The lantern swung a yellow circle back and forth along the curved hull, weaving shadows, drawing out the darkness from slim corners. Aerol decided to set a rotating shift to man the tiller, then they all tried to sleep, but the rolling seas made for a fitful night. By the time Filby finally managed to close his eyes and dri
ft off, the moon had wandered well past midnight and the morning was almost at hand.
IT SEEMED but a few minutes before Filby was jolted awake by the tossing ship. He peered around the hold and found himself alone; it was dark but not nighttime, and the ship rocked with a heavy sea. Climbing the ladder, he opened the forward hatch, sending a spray of sea cascading across his face. Black clouds loomed overhead, turning the day into perpetual night. Heavy waves broke over the bow as all hands tended to sail and rudder and ropes. Eyebold stood at the fore, hand clutched around a lanyard while he leaned into the wind and seeming to challenge the coming storm.
Filby made his way forward and clutched a rope next to Eyebold. Breaking waves crashed over the bow, adding seawater to thunder and rain from above. “These squalls come up all the time in this region,” Eyebold shouted over the din of the storm. “Won’t last long.” A wave came dead on, rushed past the stern, and the ship fell into a trough and slammed against the sea. Filby’s knuckles turned white around the forestay. “One good thing,” shouted Eyebold, “this wind will get us to the eastern shore before daybreak tomorrow.”
Thunder increased and the sky blackened, but the worst of the storm soon passed into a slow and steady rain. Sharp waves became long, low swells, lifting the ship slowly upward then gently placing it back down again upon the wind-swept sea. A sickly light returned to the day, filtered by rain and dark clouds and saltwater splashed into the murky air. Filby went below to check on the horses. He tried to give them water, but they were nervous and would not drink. He tried to soothe them with a gentle voice and a calming hand, but finally realized the only cure—for the skittish horses and for his own tattered nerves—would be a piece of dry land and a horizon that did not rock with the rocking of the sea.
Another night brought more beans and more smoked venison, but calm waters. Trader tied off the rudder and did not remain on deck—the wind and waves had slackened to a point where the sails did not need to be tended. Ethreal felt better on the flatter seas, finally eating her share of food and drinking her share of wine while Aerol spread the Map of Dunhelm out on the wooden table and lengthened the wick on the lantern. “We should spot land just after daybreak,” said Eyebold. “That storm pushed us a good long way.”
“And then?” asked Aerol. He lifted the lantern from its metal hook and brought it closer to the brown vellum.
“This shore,” said Eyebold, pressing his finger to the map, “will not be guarded. There is nothing of importance in that area, and no one expects a ship to land in these dark times.” He moved his hand north along the map. “But within a day, we will reach this set of valleys, and we will see our share of the enemy. There begin the foothills of the Far Mountains, a slow and steady rise for about two days on horseback to the mountains proper.”
“You are the Watcher for these lands,” said Ethreal. “Choose a path.”
Eyebold stared at the wrinkled brown vellum before him. “It’s hard to say, without knowing the position of the enemy. But I think we should skirt this valley.” He pointed to a section of the map marked long ago by an ancient scribe to depict a forest. “It offers cover. And this river—there’s a ferry we can use if need be. The river is full of flesh-eating fish and cannot be forded by horse.”
No one slept that night. Early morning came and they gathered on deck to look out for land and wait for the break of day. Filby gazed out over the open water and it was like peering into a fuzzy dream. Light fog filtered through the salty air. The sea was flat as if it had turned to ice. The wind betrayed them, letting go its grip on the sail and slackening the cloth into limp canvas, while their pace became that of a crawl, allowing fingering white wisps to creep over the deck in low and lazy curls. Trader stood on the bow straining ahead into the dense atmosphere, until a forested point of land appeared with a gust of wind from the west. “Land!” he called, and pointed off the starboard bow.
Aerol swung the tiller hard over and Eyebold slackened the sail, looking to the north. They drifted up onto a remote beach, a thin white strip backed by green thickets and the knobby trunks of stunted pines, and for the first time in months they heard wild animals again: the far-off howl of a wolf, the thin background whine of insects, the flitting and cackling of birds through dense treetops. Eyebold tossed over the bowline, then slid down into the knee-deep water and waded ashore. The others followed along easily, though Filby and Trader took some time to disembark the horses. A small ramp extending from the hold was designed for just such a purpose, but it was now at an odd angle to the beach and the horses had to be brought gingerly across. When the unloading was finally complete, the steeds bucked their heads and tossed their manes as if relieved to be on dry land once again.
Eyebold nudged his horse into the dark forest and heavy thickets, pondering the path ahead—trying to recall in his mind what the land once looked like and what it had now become; wondering if the way would be recognizable, even to a Watcher. They rode single file, making their way through tightly packed trees, underbrush thick with dew that clung to their legs and feet, then up a short rise, where the forest thinned and a small path led around bent trees, gray-barked and clad with moss. “The land levels out ahead,” called out Eyebold. “The forest becomes less dense before we enter the next valley.”
They crested a rise and broke free of the forest, then rode along grassy hilltops for a time before arriving at a high overlook. The land descended to the east, a patchwork of rough grass and barren ground looking like tilled fields reaching in all directions. But they knew, what they saw spreading out beneath them was not made by man; it was the pattern created by dead land butting up against fields yet to die. And the areas yet to die were still not quite living; rather, they were in the process of dying. “We must cross that,” said Eyebold, holding his arm over the valley. “Half a day’s ride, and then the land will rise again into the foothills of the Far Mountains.”
The sky was a shallow ceiling of solid gray, and the sun could not be seen. Morning was surely behind them; somewhere beyond the dull and relentless overcast, the light that shone on the day was tilting toward the west. Eyebold was wary as they descended into the valley, cocking his head left then right, constantly pausing to look at tracks on the hard ground. The others looked as well, and they saw the tracks of many horses and many troggs on foot. “We will make for the river,” explained Eyebold, pointing into the distance. “There we will find a ferry, and cross over into a forested valley. Once there, I think we can work our way under cover of trees into the foothills.”
The riders passed a lake and a small stream, brown and polluted, and it seemed even the grass, where it was green, was an off-color green, wilted and weary and longing for the pure light of day. Eyebold continued onward into the valley and it was as if they had entered the bottom of a vast bowl, the sides rising up in every direction around them. Trader stopped, straightening up in his saddle. The others stopped with him. “What is it?” asked Aerol, suddenly alert.
“Riders, I think.” Trader cocked his head, then turned toward the north and stared at the horizon. “Many riders—cavalry, heading southeast to cut us off.”
The eyes of another Watcher could see, and what he saw made him quiver. “We must ride!” cried Eyebold. “We must make the river and cross on the ferry before they are upon us!” Eyebold spurred his horse, and the others, stunned for an instant, quickly followed. Ethreal stood motionless for a moment, peering to the north, until finally out of the haze of distance a black line of rolling dust came moving down from the valley rim. She nudged her steed and chased the others until the white stallion was well in the lead, kicking up dirt as he sped along the sprawling plain.
The thin cloud on the horizon quickly rose into a roiling mass of dust and horses and halfwraith bearing down upon the valley. Ethreal looked to the north and knew the race was already lost; even her white stallion could not outrun an army that had planned the perfect angle of pursuit. The wraith would easily be upon them before they reached the ri
ver. And the enemy numbered in the hundreds. Leading the way, Ethreal turned her horse to the south, away from the oncoming hoard and toward a small patch of forest. But she could still see the horrible truth; the cavalry rode headlong for the very same forest.
The five steeds of Andioch dashed into the forest from the west. The leading edge of the cavalry sped into the forest from the north. The enemies clashed in a burst of chaos, like a spinning storm with a swirling eye in the middle, and riders were cast off the center of the storm like so many leaves in the wind. A confused mix of friend and foe, white stallion and black, halfwraith and human, all emerged like a writhing tempest from the east end of the forest in a mad dash to the river. But the sturdy mounts of the Ancient Lands outpaced the halfwraith cavalry, and Aerol’s black Frasian shook out to the front, and Ethreal’s white stallion outmatched them all. Before long, the band of five was together again, outpacing the enemy on the vast plain; appearing as a cloud of dust speeding east before a gathering enemy hoard.
The fastest of the wraith—five, ten, perhaps twenty—kept pace with the fleeing riders, but the remainder of the army was left far behind, and soon even the vanguard was outdistanced. On the hard endless field, the wraith fell farther and farther behind, until the beating hooves of cavalry were no more than a distant cloud of dust on the horizon once again.
“The ferry!” shouted Eyebold. They approached the river at a gallop. The ferry stood waiting, a flat-bottomed raft tied to the bank with thick ropes, and the riders did not pause. The horses jumped aboard in a seamless motion that ended a long and draining pursuit. Eyebold was the last, his sturdy mount strong enough but struggling to bear his heavy frame.
