by GJ Kelly
“He’s a good lad, that one, Finn’s youngest boy. Wants to follow his father into the Black and Gold, and hopes for my letter of recommendation when the time comes.”
Back in the village, the men and women of Dun Meven were fighting a losing battle in the clearance of Flagellweed from the terraces. As fast as they dug one seedling out, the thousands of others all seemed to tremble and grew another half inch or more. Still they dug, furiously, bent upon reclaiming the soil they had tilled all their lives. But while Elayeen studied the Spikebulbs seeded to the southern side of the village, a sudden cry went up, followed by the sound of a man swearing lustily.
“The plants,” Dannis explained, hurrying back from the scene of the disturbance. “They may yet be seedlings, but the heads are developing, and oozing a clear sap which gives a sharp sting like a burn if touched. One of the men accidentally brushed a growing tip while digging it out with a trowel. Forgive me, Ranger Leeny, you seem distracted.”
“I do not understand why this side of the hill has been seeded with Spikebulb, yet the western side and the north, and all the way along the terraces, has been sown with Flagellweed.”
“Nor I. Do you believe it is important? It may be that the Graken-rider simply exhausted his supply of seed for the Flagellweed, and had to resort to the Spikebulb here. I fear I know only what the book has told me of these things.”
“I know very little that could be added to Allazar’s words,” Elayeen sighed, and turned her gaze back to the slopes while Dannis returned to his duties.
But still she was concerned. What she knew of aquamire and dark wizards told her that surely the Spikebulb was the most costly, in terms of foul energies, to create. She remembered something Allazar had said at Far-gor, about choosing between a flock of Razorwing or a single Kraal-beast. Many small creatures, or one large one. A limited supply of aquamire would only go so far. Again she summoned the Sight, and again saw the black and deadly bulbs, lurking like puff-balls beneath the grass.
They were as black as they should be, infused as they were with aquamire. That particular worm had been niggling at her since Croptop, and the beasts lurking upon that hill, tethered to the stone pillar and the runes carved into its panels. Not as black as aquamire, those beasts, but still as deadly.
Certainly, Allazar’s book made no bones about it; the Spikebulb was far more lethal than the Flagellweed. The latter might kill a small animal, but had been designed to inflict only excruciating pain on a larger one like a man or an elf. However, if struck by the lash of the Flagellweed sufficient times, the poison and the shock would doubtless kill. Once was usually enough to deter a second attempt at passing through the weeds, so Allazar had said.
But the Spikebulb blasted an aquamire-hardened dart into the unwary foot, hoof or paw that stepped upon it, and then burst apart to inflict a catastrophic wound. Elayeen shuddered, remembering the dead goat in the wilds, and the ringing impact of such a spike on Valin’s blade. Valin and Meeya had been gone but three days now.
She rested her bow on her boot, and gazed away to the southeast, the direction Valin had taken. His was the shorter journey, according to the map. Unless of course his path had been blocked and he’d had to pick his way through a field sown with a crop of evil. As soon as the word ‘crop’ entered her mind she flicked a glance to the terraces, now ruined by Flagellweed. The villagers couldn’t hope to clear a single terrace of the weed before those filthy plants were full grown. Thereafter, approach within range of the lash, and know pain. No other crops would be sown there now, not until the Flagellweed died or were burned out by a wizard’s white fire.
Then she saw it, the reason for the Spikebulb, and for the weed on the uncultivated slopes around the hill. She groaned, and closed her eyes. More shouts of pain, more swearing. The digging of the weed was becoming an increasingly parlous undertaking, and the more villagers who were stung by the rapidly-growing infant plants, the more it became obvious that Dun Meven’s people had no chance at all of clearing one of the terraces, never mind all of them.
Elayeen opened her eyes, and looked to where the curator was marshalling his troops in the battle against the Flagellweed. There were wheelbarrows full of unearthed seedlings, and they heaved like grotesque beasts, the infant plants still growing and shifting, their last movements making the piles writhe. She caught the curator’s eye, and he delegated his role to another, and hurried to her.
“Lady Ranger?”
“I believe I have deduced the purpose of this attack, Serre Curator,” Elayeen sighed. “This is spite, of a twisted nature not unlike those plants. It may well be the same in Juria, but without details we cannot know for certain.”
“The purpose?”
“To starve you out of Dun Meven. You depend upon the cultivated terraces for food to supply you throughout the year. But now, the land is tainted, strangled, and you cannot sow your crops. The northern and western slopes too are throttled by the weed, as you have seen. And here, this small tract of land on the south-eastern side has been seeded with Spikebulb, and that is the twisted nature I spoke of.
“With an urgent need for planting and with desperation rising, it would not be long before someone suggested cutting new terraces there to the southern side of the road, the land apparently untainted by the dangerous weed. The villagers would pick up their tools, walk out there to dig the terraces…”
“And straight into the field of Spikebulbs. Horrible. Horrible. What kind of barbarian could dream of such tactics?”
“Morloch, and the followers he has spawned. The road itself is clear, though I think perhaps weed and spike might grow well enough there too, in the cracks between the cobbles. The Graken-rider’s invitation seems clear. Abandon Dun Meven, or starve, all those who survived the Spikebulb.”
Dannis grimaced, and became stern. “Then, Ranger Leeny, this enemy knows Dun Meven not. From elder days when all was Aemon’s land, this refuge has stood against darkness and evil. It shall stand beyond the ending of my days and far beyond my decay into dust. We shall not starve, Ranger Leeny. Our purpose is to withstand invasion and support such forces as Callodon may send against his enemies. We have stores that shall outlast this blight, and well beyond.”
Elayeen saw the pride and fierce determination burning in the old man’s eyes, and nodded. “Then, Serre Curator, draw back your people. They suffer needlessly at a hopeless task, and we may yet devise a way of thwarting both the weed and the dark wizard’s intentions.”
“Very well, I shall, though they’ll be angry. The terraces are their lives. To see them host to such parasites will hurt more than any Flagellweed’s sting.”
“Describe to them the plant’s nature. Perhaps they may be able to fashion clothing thick enough and stout enough to walk among the weeds, cutting off their foul heads as they go. The honey I enjoy for breakfast, is it made here, in Dun Meven?”
“It is, lady Ranger, it is. The hives are to the north of the village.”
“Perhaps the beekeepers may be of assistance in the design of clothing that might withstand the weed’s lash? The last time these plants were employed by the enemy was in elder days, during the first war against Morloch, and then only to deny passage to Kindred forces. Times have changed, but the weed has not. It is possible we may now be able to defeat it.”
“And the Spikebulb?”
“Defeated easily enough should it be necessary, though for now we should expend our energies addressing the matter of the Flagellweed. The Spikebulbs may simply be avoided, for now. Make sure all know not to walk on the slopes on the south side of the road. Later, when the terraces are cleared of the weed, we can clear the Spikebulb simply by rolling logs down the slope, triggering them harmlessly.”
Dannis drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “In truth, Ranger Leeny, clarity of thought in the midst of fear and panic is truly a gift to be admired. Minutes ago all seemed dark indeed. Now the light of reason has been brought to bear on the cause of our suffering, and with it, f
resh hope for victory. It is not difficult to understand why the commander of the Kindred Army raised such a force as the Rangers, and entrusted you with the safeguarding of all lands. I’ll go and let the people know.”
Elayeen nodded. “I shall return to the apartment, Serre Curator, I have more reading to do.”
In the empty apartment, Elayeen shucked off her sword belt and quiver, laid her bow on one of the empty beds, and let out a huge sigh as she plopped into a chair.
“Oh, G’wain, I wish you were here,” she whispered, eyes closed and face tilted up to the ceiling. “I wish I knew how you did this.”
oOo
41. Head-cutters
Over the following days, the Flagellweed grew to its full size, and the terraces were completely obscured from view beneath a blanket of them. They gave off a curious, slightly acrid scent which in itself seemed to warn of danger, and few wished to approach the crop even from the safety of the top of the steps. But work progressed apace on the design of a suit of overalls, boots, gauntlets and helmet which might defeat the barbed stinger on the end of the Flagellweed’s lash.
Several attempts had been made, revealing all too painfully the flaws in each successive design. The poor volunteers soon made those flaws known when the poison from the Flagellweed penetrated to find skin, and inflict there a burning agony. Curiously, other than a mild reddish welt which soon faded, no permanent harm was done, but the agony was described by the victims as unspeakable, and no-one wished to be exposed a second time.
Finally, on the 12th of the month, Elayeen gathered with the rest of the villagers to watch the latest attempt in the battle against the foul weed throttling Dun Meven. The volunteer, a stout young fellow stripped to his long woollen underclothes, stepped into a suit open at the back and so thick it stood upright by itself, arms bent forward as though clutching a barrel.
Once inside the suit, dubbed ‘The Weedwalker’ by the villagers, two men were needed to close the rear panels and lace them tight shut, so thick were the many layers of waxed canvas. Boots were next, of stout waxed leather further shielded by flaps of waxcloth-covered steel hinged to the bottom of steel greaves, which were strapped in place once the boots were secure. Gauntlets next, and then the helm, a ghastly parody of a Goth-lord’s iron mask, with small and simple eye-holes and holes by the nose for breathing. Over this, a large chain-meshed hat, similar to a beekeeper’s familiar round hat and veil, only considerably more substantial, with layers of cloth mesh after the chain and, finally, a slit visor.
The fellow was led to the steps and helped carefully down them, and once on the level ground of the terrace, handed a pair of garden shears. He set off at once, bravely, tramping on the remains of those weeds destroyed in prior attempts, and when he encountered the first live Flagellweed and was whipped by its lash, the small crowd held its breath. He advanced two waddling paces, stooped forward a little, and neatly snipped off the bulbous head containing the whip which had struck him.
A great cheer went up at that, and the bulky Weedwalker, apparently of its own volition and looking for all the world like a bizarre monster of Morloch’s making, waddled further into the fray, pausing to decapitate one victim before attacking the next. Behind him and wearing suitable overalls, gloves, and simple cloth masks, others proceeded carefully with shovels, digging up the remains of the headless weeds, careful not to disturb the obvious swelling of the spore-pod at the base of the weed’s long neck in spite of the book’s insistence that only fire would activate them.
After an hour of this, a small but hopeful swath had been cut along the terrace, and the youth in the armour made his laboured way back to the steps. There, he was drenched with water from above to wash off the poison which covered and seeped into the first layer of the suit, and only after that was he helped to the top. The poor man was exhausted, it was a warm spring day and the sun was bright, the suit heavy and inflexible, the work thus made much harder than it looked. But no sooner was he extricated from the armour and led away to rest and a well-earned pint, another took his place, and the process began again.
“The work goes well, lady Ranger,” Dannis beamed, handing her a pewter goblet of cool wine.
“Yes. The young men are brave.”
“They are indeed. The greatest threat, of course, is to their eyes. It is our biggest fear, and theirs too, that one of them will be blinded should the poison penetrate the veils, visor, and the mask.”
Elayeen suddenly shuddered in the sunshine, remembering the first days of her own blindness at Raheen, and the terrors lurking in that endless darkness...
“But still,” Dannis smiled again, “We are of hardy stock here in Dun Meven. It has been a long time since our home was required to stand against an enemy, but all of us are born and raised so to do, should the need arise. Thus shall we overcome this foul threat, with patience, and with fortitude.”
“With luck, these plants will prove to be short-lived. You were correct, Serre Curator, it is a shame that the wizard Allazar did not include details of the plant’s lifespan.”
“Then let us hope it was an oversight, Ranger Leeny, and not because the foul things are so long-lived as to be considered immortal.”
“I do not think they are. They have been entirely extinct from these lands until recently. Some time ago, I heard it said that the west had been gripped by darkness, Goth-lords rising. It may be that it was there the seed for this blight was made, and carried here on the wing.”
“Or perhaps by sea, in that ship you mentioned?”
“Perhaps, though nothing remained of the wreck save for the Goth-lord and a small army. I may be mistaken, but I do not believe a safe harbour exists in the east which isn’t well-manned. How would such seed be landed unseen?”
“Well,” Dannis announced, sliding his hands into the broad sleeves of his billowing farmer’s smock and folding his arms. “There is the Graken to consider. Could it not have landed upon the ship’s deck and taken off the seeds of terror now scattered about the lands?”
Elayeen’s heart sank. Of course, Dannis was right. The Graken may even have brought ashore much more than simple seed for Flagellweed and Spikebulb.
“Yes,” she muttered, “There is the Graken to consider.”
“You must excuse me, lady Ranger, I have to congratulate young Norris for his work in the suit, and encourage the other young fellows before they take their turn.”
“Please give him my compliments too,” Elayeen said, and then realised a little late that it might seem somewhat odd for a humble Ranger of the Kindred so to do, before adding, “For his courage.”
“I shall be glad to, lady Ranger,” Dannis smiled, and took his leave.
Elayeen walked away from the throng, which was thinning a little anyway, the air near the terrace made a little more acrid for the decapitations and uprooting of the plants below. She wandered towards the blockhouse, drawn to the road perhaps by the knowledge that in two or three days, all being well, Valin and Meeya would be climbing the zigzag path up the hill. All being well.
She had been counting the days, in between learning all the horrors contained in Allazar’s tome. If neither Valin nor Meeya had encountered obstacles or opposition, they should by now have passed word of the Goth-lord and events at Fallowmead and in the Shearings to the allies. That word should even now be speeding east along the Sudenstem by boat to Sudshear, and west by horse to Callodon Castletown. And her friends would be hurrying back to Dun Meven.
She sipped her wine, resting her bow on her boot, and from the out the blockhouse a cheery voice greeted her.
“Morning, lady Ranger, nice day. Warm and sunny, spring at last, winter a memory!” The guardsman emerged, smiling, and moved to stand beside her, taking a deep breath of fresh spring air.
“Good morning, Finn. Yes, a fine day.”
“Bet you ‘ad some miserable ones out there in the wilds, coming down from the north. Rather you than me. See the lads are doing well against that foul muck on the terraces.
”
“Yes, yes they are.”
“Looking for your mates? Be a while yet, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ll get a better view from up top than from here. Don’t get to see much from here but the lower hills, and little enough happens there. Birds, mostly. Funny things, birds. Flitting from one bunch of trees on one hill, to another bunch of trees on another. And back again.”
It was true, the view was far from the sweeping panorama one might expect from the tallest of the peaks in the hill country here at the border. It was all hills, the valleys beyond hidden from view. Below, the cobbled road, winding its way to the valley and the broad stream flowing there, a silver ribbon of water wending its way south through yet more hills.
“Have you been to Mereton, Finn?”
“On the lake? Aye, once. Few years ago it was now, though. Coof, longer than that, blimey, my youngest was only about three at the time. Ned. He’s up on watch now, up in the tower up top. You’ve not seen Mereton, Ranger Leeny?”
“No. We did not travel so far to the south.”
“Ah well. It’s a nice enough place I suppose. Right on the lake shore. Lots of restaurants and taverns selling fish. Very nice it is too, but everything can get a bit samey after a while, even fish, if you know what I mean.”
Elayeen smiled. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, then there’s the market. Big it is, coof, blimey, bigger than the whole village ‘ere, I reckon. All decked out with stalls, and flint and granite stones underfoot got great ruts worn in ‘em from all the wagons gone back and forth there through the years. Selling all sorts, they are. Best Arrunweave coming west, and dried fish, sheepskin this and sheepskin that, herbs, spices, salt, arts and crafts. And all manner of stuff from Callodon going east. The Guilds do well out of Mereton, let me tell you, and so do all that dwell there.”
“And the boats to the east?”
