by Scott Zamek
“Wha-where’s Trader?” stammered Filby. No one had noticed. In the confusion, their friend had not been with them. Filby looked back along the horizon. “Should we go back for him?”
The others scanned the flat expanse. A roiling cloud was tracking toward them, quickly approaching. “No time,” said Eyebold. “He will have to find his way. We must cross or be overrun.” He grabbed the towrope and began pulling the ferry across the swift current. Aerol quickly joined, until the raft was slowly moving through the middle of the wide river.
Filby protested, but Ethreal placed her hand on his shoulder. “We cannot sacrifice the mission to search for one man. The Watcher will understand.”
“Look!” cried Filby, pointing back to the far plain.
There they saw one lone horse followed by a long line of enemy cavalry. It was Trader, an arrow sticking from the side of his steed. His body was arched down and slipping through the wind. His arms grasped the horse’s mane and nudged forward with every stride. A whipping stream of dust sped behind him as the hooves of his mount tore against the hard earth. And behind, a solid wall of riders stretching the entire length of the valley bore down upon him, tearing east, pounding the ground into thunder.
Aerol turned and began pulling the raft back to shore.
The fastest riders of the enemy hoard led the way like a spear point, outmatching Trader’s injured mount. The charging halfwraith gained by inches, then feet, and Trader strained and urged his horse forward. But an arrow flew and his steed gave a cry of pain and stumbled. The ground seemed to tilt as his horse faltered, but the wild-bred righted himself and sped onward to the east.
Trader egged on his mount with all the might in his arms and legs, and the river neared. But another arrow flew, and the wild-bred stumbled again and rolled to the ground with a loud and piercing cry, and Trader was flung over the mane onto the skidding dust of the bare plain. He rose and drew his sword and turned. The hoard advanced toward him like a great dark shadow rolling over the land, and the ground shook and it was as if storms from the sky had descended to earth. Trader turned and ran toward the dock, until an arrow pierced his leg. He stumbled but ran on until the river blocked his path, then he turned with the water at his back.
Filby and the others looked on in horror, frantically pulling hand over hand on the towrope back to shore—back to aid their friend. Arrows sped by Trader as he stood with his sword held high on the far bank of the river, but three wraith were upon him. Ethreal swung her bow forward and the wraith fell, but three more took their place as Trader raised his sword to meet the advance. A slash across his chest caused him to stumble back.
Two wraith grabbed the towrope and began pulling the raft to shore, just as Aerol and the others were pulling in the same direction. Trader could see his companions returning to his aid, returning to their own destruction. He drew a long breath and remembered the green fields of Meadowkeep, then turned, raised his sword, and cut the towrope. The raft broke loose and was swept downriver by the swift current. Filby and the others looked back at the receding dock, helpless to do anything to aid their friend. They could still see Trader on his knees, too weak to lift a sword. A wraith hovered over him, raised a sword high in the air like a dagger, then plunged it down into the chest of the Watcher.
The raft floated down the river, and the dock disappeared from view.
Eyebold tried to settle the horses as the raft rode the current along rising peaks and white waves. They turned full around like a spinning top, then bounced down a short set of rapids and swirled to a stop in a calm eddy. The raft slowly drifted to the far bank of the river. “Fifty miles to the next ford,” said Eyebold, and he quickly began disembarking the horses. “I don’t think they can follow, but we should not linger.”
Filby was numb; everything seemed as if far away, as if he was hovering overhead and looking down on someone else riding along the riverbank. Back in Bridgehaven, he had insisted Trader come with them, and now he felt responsible for the Watcher’s death. He rode along in a haze, barely hearing the words spoken around him. He felt as if he could not ride on; he felt as if he could not even breath. Eyebold was anxious to put the river well behind them before nightfall, and so they rode on and did not stop. The darkness and evil encompassing the land had crowded out many things, and grief was one of them. It was a luxury meant for another time.
Eyebold led them south along the riverbank for a few miles, then cut inland along a twisting valley. They left the overgrown brush of the riverbank behind as Filby raised his eyes to the horizon, to the dim cliffs rising up in the distance, and he knew the foothills of the mountains awaited at the far end of this one last glen. He knew the dark land was to become yet darker, but it was impossible to imagine. Even now the forest they rode through was dried out and gnarled and black, anemic oak trees and elms struggling for light and shedding their faded leaves. Eyebold had chosen the route to take advantage of the thick forest, but instead they rode through a land of leafless trunks, moldy branches pointing upward like bare bones reaching toward the irredeemable sky.
The four continued on in silence. Desiccated leaves littered the ground, crunching under hooves as the valley gave way. Aerol took a turn at the lead and he rode tall and showed no emotion. Filby could not bring himself to ride straight in the saddle; he slumped over and hung his head, lagging behind the others without realizing his horse had slowed to a weary walk. He did not even notice when Ethreal dropped back and sidled up alongside. “There is no time for grief, Redmont.” She gave Filby a hard look, and Filby slowly raised his head. “Make east and restore the Light. That is our revenge.” She nudged her horse and rode ahead, scattering brittle leaves into the wind.
What day existed in the darkening land was brief and leaden. The sky remained a ceaseless curtain forever hiding the sun, while night rose up quick and black from the deep corners of the east. Aerol found a small patch of forest still clinging to a few green leaves, where he decided to stop for the night and risk a small fire. His group needed rest and food; they needed to recover from the hard ride to the river and the loss of their companion. But mostly, Aerol knew, they needed another look at the Map of Dunhelm and the road onward.
Eyebold stacked a few dried branches together and began an ember. He knew the small grove provided some shelter, and would hide the flame from any watchful eyes peering from afar. Filby handed out the canteens, and Ethreal unpacked some smoked venison and dried fruit. “We will have to hunt soon,” she said, as she tore the last piece of meat in half. “Or we will be living on dried fruit and nuts.”
Aerol was not listening. He crouched down and spread the wrinkled map next to the fire, then waved Filby to a knee. The brown and faded surface showed its age in the firelight. Filby could see the runes, but they were barely visible, and he gazed at the map for some time before picking up a charcoal pencil. “There is something new here,” he said, as he etched the symbols onto a blank page, slowly and methodically, careful not to distort the smallest curve or line.
Aerol and Eyebold analyzed the page. Five new runes appeared before them. “I would know that one anywhere,” said Eyebold, pointing to a simple rune that looked like a roof supported by two pillars. “That is the symbol for death.”
“More like someone has died,” offered Aerol. “And these two—it is the old symbol again, yet it has separated out into two runes just as Andreg predicted. This one, ‘the keeper,’ then comes your rune for death.”
Eyebold ran his finger along the sequence of runes. “The keeper is dead.” He turned to Aerol. “Mean anything?”
Aerol sat in silence for a moment, rolling the words around in his mind. The keeper is dead. It was meaningless, even to the Far Rider. “Here is the other half of Andreg’s divided rune, ‘to seek’ and a new one. ‘Flame,’ I think.”
“Ember,” corrected Eyebold. “Or ‘small flame’ perhaps.”
“And the final one?” Ethreal threw the last bite of her stale venison into the fire, sending a few
sparks into the night air.
“It has to do with time.” Aerol gazed curiously and closely at the page. “But it is an odd form. It indicates descending time, or time moving backwards.”
“A ticking clock,” said Eyebold, grabbing his beard and glancing at the others.
“If only Andreg were still with us,” muttered Filby. He poked a stick at the fire and stared at the map. It looked almost yellow in the flickering light.
“Even Andreg cannot read what is not written,” said Eyebold. “It is as I feared. We must be beyond the mountains before the runes can be fully understood.”
Aerol committed the runes to memory, resigning himself to the fact that the translation was beyond his knowledge, at least until more could be revealed. He studied the map and he turned to Eyebold. “What of this valley ahead?”
Eyebold pointed to the map, where a set of rudimentary triangles in faded ink represented the looming mountains to the east. “We will reach the foothills by noon—three days through rising hills to the Far Mountains. I will try for the Pass of Frozen Spires, which is a high and hidden pass. It is likely to be guarded, but not guarded by the full might of the enemy. There, we might have a slim chance of breaking through to the Beyond Lands.” Eyebold glanced at the others; they all looked somber and deep in thought. “Rest well tonight,” said the Watcher. “Tomorrow we reach the foothills.”
FAR MOUNTAINS
D ay was approaching beyond distant prairies to the west, over a land on the far side of the Meltwater still untouched by rising darkness. In the shadow of the Far Mountains, the day was tainted by a sour hue, the sky shut like a rusty iron door against the sun. Eyebold raised his head in search of the light, but could see only the dim glimmer of clouds before a storm. “We must be watchful,” he whispered. “The enemy was thick and wary along these foothills not one month ago.” He led the way slowly along a barren valley, trees nothing but wilted hulks with crooked trunks, leafless and black, and no green thing or living animal could be seen in any direction.
Endless waves of earth soon lifted from the valley floor to the east as the four riders made their way into the rising land, weaving a crooked course between brown hilltops that were worn down into lifelessness by bleak and weary days. A long valley swept to the north, where a few tufts of green grass still struggled up through ashen fields. Eyebold stopped and dismounted. “This valley bends away to the north around the White Mountains, where green pastures grew not long ago.” He patted the side of his horse, methodically untying his canteen from the saddle then slinging it over his shoulder. The others dismounted and did the same.
Only Filby remained atop his steed. “Green pastures? We’re not . . .”
“We must loose the horses,” said Aerol. “There is no more pasture here, or clean water.”
“They cannot venture where we are bound,” insisted Eyebold. “Through the rocky foothills and over the icy Pass of Frozen Spires.” He pointed north, along the valley where the horses were to be released. “This valley eventually leads west, toward brighter skies.”
Filby dismounted and grabbed his canteen. The others unhitched their saddles and dropped them to the ground, then riffled through the saddle bags for anything worth carrying onward. Their supplies were almost at an end, and aside from the canteens, they salvaged almost nothing. Ethreal filled her quiver, and Filby rigged some straps and slung a saddle bag around is back to carry the extra arrows. In the same saddle bag, they packed the flint and some matches; dried fruit and the last of the smoked venison—a mere one day’s provision. Aerol knew they would have to ration their supplies, or resort to hunting and risk a fire.
Ethreal leaned in and placed her hand on the neck of her white stallion. “To the northern mountains of Effindril,” she whispered. “Perhaps you will fare better than we.” She stepped back to watch her steed bolt into the valley and gallop quickly into the distance. The other horses followed easily behind.
“We must move,” urged Eyebold. “This land is too exposed to linger.”
Filby gazed away to the north, watching the small herd of distant horses trail dust along the valley floor, then he slung his pack and followed the others into the shallow hills. They made their way along the valleys and hillsides, avoiding the denuded highlands, but the earth beneath their feet gave way easily and the miles were arduous and slow. A thin path weaved along scree and fallen boulders, between once-green groves of scorched trees, ever east toward the Far Mountains. No sun could be seen behind the dingy clouds that dominated the western sky, and the slack wind that once whispered in from the north deadened into a stark lull, turning the country into a muted and cheerless wasteland.
Aerol tightened his cloak against the cold. “This path was not made by deer,” he whispered. “Keep a sharp eye.” Filby looked to the front. The path curled into the distance along fruitless soil and around blind hillsides. No deer, or any other living thing showed itself along the foul ground, and before them, rising hills arched over the land into a distant blue haze, the vague horizon in the east forming like indistinct waves on a far-off sea.
Ethreal led the way, setting a quick pace. Filby struggled to keep up; he felt his legs weaken with every climb, and with every descent, he stumbled and skidded along, remembering his sturdy horse. Still the path led on, rising higher into the foothills. A lowering sky at their backs shut off the world to the west, and dismal clouds swept in from the north to blacken an already sallow twilight. The short and feeble day turned into an impenetrable night, but Aerol urged speed, so they hiked onward after only a short rest. Finally, Filby could continue no longer, and they agreed to set camp in a deep gully between hills, but few slept and even fewer rested in the cold night air with no fire.
Morning came, sullied with black clouds. Aerol handed out a few morsels of meat, and they drank sparingly from near-empty canteens before setting out. The path steepened and Filby felt his back tighten with every step. He looked on in amazement at Ethreal, who seemed to glide over the landscape with effortless speed. What manner of human being could be so skillful on horseback yet so light of foot over rough terrain? He found himself longing for his garden back in Meadowkeep, until Eyebold raised a hand. Filby stopped and listened. The tamper of feet could be heard around the blind hillside.
“Over the hilltop!” called Aerol.
Filby scrambled over the hill and hid next to the others, then peeked his head up to see the path. A band of troggs scampered by, perhaps a dozen, snorting and grunting in whatever odd language they spoke to each other. Filby wondered if they were speaking at all, or perhaps those were just random noises uttered by mindless servants of the darkness. “We hide again,” whispered Ethreal, as the sound of footsteps disappeared beyond the western hills. “Are we warriors or rats?”
“Better to hide than to fight and be discovered,” insisted Aerol. “And bring the full might of the enemy down upon us.”
Hills rose into low mountains tainted with frost, and to the four trudging east it seemed as if all their efforts delving into the Far Lands had been useless, for they hid many times as the day wore on and the way ahead was impassable. Roving bands of troggs crisscrossed the region at will, scampering across the landscape like an infestation, and progress became hindered by frequent stops. “We must abandon the path,” said Eyebold finally. “The Pass of Frozen Spires lies to the northeast across rugged mountains, but better to chance an overland crossing than risk being discovered.” He cinched his cloak against the growing cold and turned north onto the pitch of a low mountain. Filby scrambled up behind, sliding back on the loose rock, until the angle shallowed and he found himself on a long and gradual incline. Sharp boulders jutted from the slope, where thin green plants struggled for a foothold in a few wet cracks hidden from the wind.
They crested the top and Filby looked to the east. A boundless landscape of increasingly higher peaks stretched across the land like craggy brown saw-teeth pointing toward the forgotten sky. In the deep distance, against a dull horizon
tainted with warring clouds, the high pinnacles and white ridges of the Far Mountains appeared thin and gloomy, teetering at the edge of sight. A storm was building to their north, or rising smoke from some great and unseen fire; columns of ash engulfed the jagged foothills, boiling into an overcast that swept the sun aside and threw a sickly yellow light upon the day.
A thick rain began to fall, driven by a frigid north wind, but Eyebold kept on down the mountain along wet ground and loose rock. He stopped to fill his canteen where a stream of dirty water flowed through the thin cracks of the cliffs above. The others did the same; it was not the crystal-clear water of the clean springs to the west, but it was a welcome sight in a land of polluted streams and poisoned fields.
The mountains closed in throughout the day and into the night. Aerol called a stop to distribute a handful of dried fruit and take a brief sleep, but they built no fire, and then they continued wet and tired into the next morning. The peaks rose ever higher, though Eyebold had a knack for following a crooked line through valleys and along mountainsides, thus avoiding any pure feats of mountaineering. And Filby was grateful. His legs felt like wound springs and his back constantly ached. He wondered at Ethreal, who seemed to be in her element. The very slightest of limps was apparent, but still, she had surely followed her own rules and not those of the healers back in Andioch. Even Eyebold, with his wide frame and bearskins flapping in the wind, was able to clamber up the slopes with a certain ease.
They saw no sign of troggs. The path was so wild and remote that no one would think to venture near the region unless out of necessity. A small valley rolled up from the south, squeezed between two rocky cliffs, where Aerol decided to stop and risk a fire. A quick rest, he thought; the rain had ceased. There were enough dead shrubs clinging to the cliffs for a modest fire, and Filby stood warming his hands and drying his waterlogged cloak. Eyebold set up a spit, where the others hung their cloaks out to dry. They ate a bite of smoked meat and counted the rations: a few mouthfuls of dried fruit and a handful of beans.
