by Scott Zamek
They moved on and they were wary. Sergeant Broadhurst checked his powder and held his musket at the ready. Ethreal held her bow tightly in hand. “Maybe we should look at the map again,” whispered Filby, glancing left and right then up into the gloom. “To see if we’re going the right way.”
“There is no other way,” said Ethreal. “We have chosen our road.”
Aerol held his torch ahead into the blackness. “We have seen no other paths—we must follow this one to its conclusion, and I would not pause in such a place as this. We will read the map once we have found the far side of this foul wood.”
They thought the day to be late, night to have fallen, but they could not discern day from night under cover of the bleak forest. The path crooked around decayed trees, faded bricks disappearing under dead bark and forest litter. Another distant, malign howl echoed through the treetops, and an answer, this time close at hand. Another call came, then another, and one seemed to be directly above. Eyebold lit a third torch, sending the added light into the treetops. Lockley tilted his musket upward as Aerol led slowly onward, tentatively, looking up toward the knotted branches and into the lifeless forest. A cry, deep and baneful, called long and lonely from above, and Ethreal raised her bow. Shadows skittered among the treetops at the edge of light; twigs and shriveled acorns fell down upon the path.
A quick glimpse in the torchlight and Ethreal instantly fired. One limp form fell dead to the ground. The trees came alive with squeals and chatter as unseen creatures fled into the forest. Bark and branches and lifeless leaves rained down from above. Aerol walked forward and tilted his torch over the dead beast. It was small, half the size of a man, looking something like a thin and withered trogg. Broadhurst leaned over and poked it with his musket. “What the blast is that thing?”
Filby shuddered and glanced up into the trees. “Whatever it is, there are a lot of them.”
“Wood goblin?” Eyebold seemed unsure. “I have heard stories, but thought them to be myth. They are said to infest dead woodland such as this, and never venture west of the Far Mountains.”
“Which is why we have never seen one,” said Lockley. He was still pointing his musket into the treetops, swiveling the barrel back and forth.
Ethreal removed her arrow and loaded it back into her bow. “This is truly a vile and twisted land.”
“Another reason to put this wicked forest behind us,” said Aerol. “We must stay wary. See to the torches—we travel through the night. There will be no camp here in this sour wood.”
Eyebold began looking for fresh moss to wrap around the torches. He lit the branches anew while gnarled treetops flickered back within sight. The chill night deepened, an eternal vapor blanketing the path as the Watcher gazed into the forest depths, and the others too now raised their eyes eastward, trudging through the darkness over grasping roots and muddy pools hidden beneath a coating of decay. A few sickly crickets managed a call, a chaotic tune sent far over the treetops and into the still sky. But another call slowly came to the fore. The threadbare howl of goblins filtered through the tangled branches, rising mist seeming to curdle and surge in the torchlight with every fading cry. Aerol pushed onward into the gloom, quickening his pace, but the faltering path became thin and vague in the unsteady light until he could see only a shadowy arch through the thickets ahead.
“This can’t be the right way . . . can it?” Filby ducked his head as twigs and leaves and forest bits cascaded down upon the hood of his cloak; goblins were calling one to the other across the path, cackling like a flock of crows, or else taunting the weary group from their safe perches in the darkness. Aerol lifted his torch high overhead—he could see the treetops bristle with writhing shadows. Ethreal could see as well, her back arched upward toward wavering figures at the edge of torchlight as she moved slowly along with constant tension on the bowstring. Stones pelted down from the high branches, and Ethreal let loose, and a goblin dropped onto the path with a dull thud. The soldiers also pointed their muskets into the trees, but they did not fire, holding back their limited black powder for dire emergencies. Lockley knew they would not have time to stop and reload in the darkness and in the damp air; their empty muskets would be useless, and so they held fire and waited for the moment their new weapons from across the sea might be truly needed.
Ethreal suffered from no such restriction. She realized her supply of arrows was not unlimited, but she still carried a full pack in reserve, and another goblin fell from the trees as she raised her bow into the shadows. Slowly they made their tangled way into the darkness, until the night circled west and a wan yellow light filtered through the trees. Aerol tossed his torch aside and held to the pale east, while Ethreal kept her bow at the ready.
A tarnished light seeped down to the forest floor as the day drew on. Aerol could finally see the first glimpse of a leaden sky beyond bare and crooked tree limbs, and looking ahead he noticed the path widen through a stand of jagged stumps bereft of branches, or of leaves, or of any other life save a creeping black fungus. The forest thinned, the chattering call of goblins fading to the west. To the east, they looked out upon a great and pathless mire, flat and endless and fuming white against the feeble day.
“Where’s the path?” Filby gazed at an unending field of rotted stumps pushing through the haze, marking the edge of the dead forest. The barren trees were gone, save for one or two solitary examples poking through the fog here and there like black skeletons, their bony branches raised to the clouds.
“This is your map?” Ethreal waved her hand over the swamp and looked to the others.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, but at least we’re free of them bleedin’ goblins.” Broadhurst cocked the hammer of his musket and checked the powder. He was grateful to see the sky again, though it was nothing but a dark sheet blocking out the sun.
“Quiet now.” Aerol moved ahead slowly, struggling to find the way. The brick path was there, but hidden beneath a dense layer of writhing vapor, and where once he relied on a tunnel of trees to follow, he was now left feeling for the contour of bricks beneath his feet. A bend in the road or a stray step and the hard path became a spongy marsh, forcing Aerol to once again feel around with his feet for the solid brick.
They moved through the swamp slowly and with care. Tussocks of brittle swamp grass began to appear, where cauldrons of sulfur belched up in bubbling pools to part the mist like a tattered curtain. The day never brightened. A dense cloak of hatred seemed to drape down over the world, vaporous and choking, brought by some great force of wind from the east, or else leached from some drenching disquiet beneath the earth, and the air was heavy with its rancid breath. Aerol stopped and looked into the dismal way ahead.
“This will have to suffice.” He motioned to Filby as they stood in the swirling fog. “I do not foresee proper ground to rest—we read the map here.” Eyebold and Ethreal came to the front while Aerol unfolded the map. Lockley and Broadhurst decided to unpack some dried meat, but they ate hurriedly, handing out small chunks to the others while Filby studied the map.
Filby gazed at the parchment for many silent minutes. A solitary frog croaked far off in the vast and unseen mire, the call reverberating through moldy tree stumps and against the tarnished sky. In the end, Filby did not draw, but shrugged, and when he spoke his words seemed lost in the hollow distance. “The same runes as before, and a line bearing east on our present path.”
Aerol peered to the east, through air seething like smoke from the withered land. “Then we keep moving.”
“And if it means nothing?” said Ethreal.
“We have no choice but to trust we are following the proper course,” answered Aerol. “There are no other signs left to us.”
“There is something else!” gasped Filby. All was quiet save the sound of a gurgling pool beside the path; a smell of fermenting soil was rising up through the air. Filby gazed at the parchment for a breathless moment. Even at mid-day, the dim light made the map difficult to read. “A half-circle .
. . like a rainbow, and a rune inside.” He did not draw, but struggled to remember. “It is the rune for the keeper.”
Lieutenant Lockley rested a hand on his pistol. “An arch?”
“A temple perhaps,” said Eyebold.
“Children’s tales.” Ethreal shook her head and walked a few paces up the path. She swung her bow from behind her back, checking the bindings. Sergeant Broadhurst left the group as well; he checked the muskets and found the powder to be wet, so he loaded them all with new charge and worked the triggers back and forth to insure against any rust.
“We are on the right path,” said Aerol sternly. “We move east, and follow the signs.” He folded the map and allowed the others a moment to eat, then led on into the darkening day. Ethreal’s comments were not lost on him. If the map did prove to be useless, they would be walking senselessly onward with no goal or purpose. And despite his friend’s impetuous nature, he knew her, and trusted her, even with his own life. He knew she could be right. But he also knew he could not reveal any doubt, and so he walked east without hesitation.
The way continued formless and flat. Aerol raised his eyes into the unclear distance ahead, but a gaze in any direction was a meaningless endeavor, for he could see nothing but gathering vapor heaving upward like the very breath of the earth. A frail wind trickled across the veiled land from the west, the faded brick finally edging out of the murk and shadows here and there to show patches of green moss in the mortar. It was the only green life they encountered in the hopeless swamp. No sun could be seen through the ragged sky, a sky filled with dark clouds that threatened rain. But no rain fell, only gloom and the pale light of dusk. Aerol pressed on, and it seemed to him the path tilted slightly upward. A thin and barely visible ridge lifted to the south, where the hazy air of the valley rose halfway up the purple heights of distant peaks, then became trapped as if held in a shallow bowl to the north.
The withered swamp grass seemed to stretch on forever. Filby was tired, thinking of sleep and campfires. “Does this swamp never end?”
“Take heart,” said Eyebold. “Mountains begin to close in from the south, and the path rises upward.”
The pollution thinned, ghostly wisps of smog still filtering across the land in scattered patches, but now the path became hard and waterless under the eaves of a distant sky. The brick road widened and was easier to follow, though it appeared more ancient as they traveled onward; many bricks were missing, and many were chipped, and many stained brown with the passage of time. Filby looked up from the path as they walked along and his mind began to wander. He noticed a lone green tree on a dry hill rising from the ashes to the north, but it was withered, with crooked branches, and was bent as if against a great wind. At last the acrid sulfur that tainted the air in the deep swamp began to clear, and visible patches appeared to the north and south. Almost nothing remained green, only moss and fungus and a few rare trees striving up from fuming soil, half-dead and reaching for a light that had long deserted the lands beyond the mountains.
Into the faded world they pressed, on into the dark recesses of the frail earth, eager to push east and leave the rotting forest and the swamp behind, but high ground and dry land did not console them. The country was withered and colorless, clad in muddy soil. The ground rose slightly, a brown creek oozing down from the highlands to push putrid water along the path’s edge. They could now see in all directions, even with a constant haze fading off into the distant mire. To the north, mountains rose higher and closer, domed by a coal sky. Southward, a sharp cliff fronted by stubby trees angled toward the brick road to block any view of the far horizon. The ancient path crooked slightly left then right as Aerol led onward, climbing and descending along low hills.
They stopped only briefly to camp for a few hours and check the map for new signs. None appeared, so they began east again with the first sour light of day. All knew that time was growing short. The days had become as dusk, and the nights were long and deep and black. Aerol quickened the pace. The mountains to the north and cliffs to the south pressed in upon the brick road, until Aerol found himself at the base of a thin valley scattered with green and struggling trees still reaching upward to defy the darkness. The day grew dark but it was not night, and it seemed the sun had abandoned all things upon a weary land.
A thin light filtered through the black sky above, but at midday it was no more than the glow of a waning moon. The cliffs to the south squeezed in upon the brick road, leaving only a thin band of trees separating the path from a sheer rock wall. “Hold!” called Ethreal suddenly, raising her hand. She peered through the thin veil of trees and beyond to the cliff. Dark shadows covered the rock face as Ethreal pointed through the trees. “A cave,” she said, and looked to the others.
They returned her gaze with blank stares.
“Like an arch,” said Ethreal, an edge of impatience in her voice. “Or a rainbow.”
The others looked, and there in the shadows, the bottomless void of a dark cave reached deep into the cliff. Aerol swept a few branches aside and stepped through the curtain of trees. Almost immediately, he was faced with a rough archway cut into a rising wall of weathered rock, and along the border, a series of faded runes could barely be seen chiseled into the ancient stone. Some of the runes could be made out, and others were chipped away, or only half there—polished down into nothing by wind and time. Aerol ran his hand along the worn grooves. “These are yet more ancient then the runes on the map. They would take much time to decipher.”
Ethreal and the others peered into the cavern’s bare silence, but all was black and they could see nothing. Eyebold set about making torches, rummaging along the ground for dead branches, then he paused and stood with a start. “Look.” Eyebold pointed, and the others saw as well—dozens of tracks: troggs, halfwraith, many horses.
“We know the enemy is about,” said Aerol. “Stay wary.”
A filtered light struggled down from the bleak sky, the day already fading into night. Eyebold lit a torch and held it through the opening of the cave, peering intently inside, but the vamping flame accomplished little; Eyebold strained to see merely a musty powder in the air, a lapping fire pressing in against impenetrable depths, and beyond only darkness and darkness. Lighting two more torches, he handed them to Aerol and Sergeant Broadhurst, then the three slowly led the way through the carved archway.
The entrance gradually widened as they made their way inside. Aerol cast his light against the stone wall where he could scarcely make out the chiseled and worn marks of ancient runes, then the wall became smooth again, with no marks, and the entrance opened upon a wide chamber. Even the light of three torches could not reach the far walls, and so they were forced into the formless void, torches held high, searching for the edges of the room.
Aerol arched his torch back and forth in the darkness, inching forward; he could see nothing but the dim ground covered with tan dirt. Many enemy tracks were pressed into the cave floor, and they were the chaotic tracks of battle or haste: skid marks, running, tracks pointed in many directions, and new tracks set over old. “What does it mean?” Filby shuffled next to Aerol, watching the Far Rider’s torch held to the ground.
“The enemy has preceded us,” answered Aerol quietly. “That is all we know.” He lifted his torch and moved slowly ahead. Eyebold and Broadhurst were at his shoulder, and together they cast a flickering yellow circle into the blackened void. A glimmer of light reflected back into the cavern, and they could see the gray stone walls again on either side. The chamber seemed to thin; something appeared ahead in the darkness, where the leading edge of torchlight met with vague contours and shadows. Aerol moved ahead and tilted his torch forward. A shape emerged from the gloom, like a large boulder, but not the dun and drab color of the surrounding walls. This seemed to break through the darkness, and as they approached, the color of white reflected back against the torchlight. They could see a long stone slab raised on a marble pedestal, with ornate runes carved on the marble along with columns
and facades and finials.
Aerol approached, the others by his side, until they could see something was set upon the stone slab: the figure of a man, lying on his back. They gathered around the slab and held the three torches high. A man lay upon the pedestal, old yet majestic, draped in a flowing robe of purest white and a short white beard to match. His arms were crossed over his chest, looking almost as if he was deep in a peaceful sleep. But three arrows stood firm in his chest, and faded red stains, almost perfectly round, tainted the pristine white robe.
They stood for many moments, holding their torches over the body. “The keeper?” whispered Filby, breaking the silence.
Aerol lowered his torch to the marble pedestal. “Here is the rune. He is the keeper of the ember.”
Filby gazed at the wizened figure, perfectly preserved, and the old man seemed to give off a certain light. “But if he was killed, who killed him? And who placed him on the pedestal?”
“As to the first, I would say the armies of darkness,” replied Aerol. “To the second, it is left a mystery.”
“Now what?” said Ethreal, head cocked to a side.
Aerol passed his torch along the base of the pedestal. “Perhaps the answer lies in these runes, or those carved into the cave wall.”
Lieutenant Lockley looked around at the dozens of faded runes and knew they would need some time. “Perhaps you should keep watch sergeant—I’ll relieve you in an hour.” Broadhurst saluted, then walked out to the cave entrance with his musket and torch.
Eyebold moved his torch along the wall, but the partial runes were impossible to read. He stumbled upon a lantern tipped on its side near the far wall. Oil still remained, and it gave off a steady light when he struck a match to the wick. “Look here.” He held the light to the wall and the others gathered around. “They are not runes, exactly . . . far more ancient—the language of the beginning times.” Etchings carved into the cave wall appeared in the lantern light. A small oval shape, like that of an eye, seemed to be casting off sunbeams, and a hand was placing it in a hearth. The next picture was that of a temple with many pillars, followed by a diagram of the sun.
