by T. A. Miles
Thought of Feidor’s Crest, brought forward another one. “I wonder, if an archdemon is behind all of it, if we’ll even be given enough time to learn anything.”
Merran gave no response, except to look at Korsten from his perch upon a broken column, where he clearly intended to remain for the moment.
“We should be at Endmark sometime tomorrow,” Merran eventually said, indicating with the statement that he had gone further than they originally discussed—possibly than any of the Superiors would have encouraged or agreed to, had they been made deliberately aware.
There was a certain amount of unspoken intent that enabled Adepts to bypass the elders, and which allowed those elders to maintain a sense of conscience in not having to directly suggest that anyone take on more than they should in any given moment, or with any given spell. Unfortunately, the war against the Vadryn was consistently a losing strategy, one rimmed with hope that the tide would turn. It was a constant conundrum that the Council was faced with: whether to risk lives over haste, or to disallow risk and invite defeat. Since defeat was the greater threat, whether or not to take some risks was left silently at the discretion of the acting priests. And there may have been none who heightened danger quite so silently as Merran.
The thought insisted that Korsten sit, so he walked back to where Merran was and lowered onto the same damaged pillar. He felt that he should notate Merran’s early hand in some way, but citation was set aside for spontaneous affection, which came by way of simply leaning against him.
•—•
Korsten and Merran continued on before an hour had been spent at the ruins. The forests of the northern reaches were marked by high cliffs and deep ravines. Nearing Endmark, it was a sizable gorge that announced the outlying lands connected to the town. A tremendous bridge of articulated stone provided access across it.
The architecture fit with its surroundings only in that the present trees were of tremendous height and girth. Otherwise, it appeared as a relic of some past culture, access to a city that had been transformed into a forest and long forgotten. Upon its structure, perched the largely humanoid forms of what Korsten presumed were gods or elementals. Their bodies hugged the cornerstones and balanced upon narrow precipices, observing all who passed. But their eyes were hollow, and their fortress overgrown.
Korsten supposed that, in actuality, it did happen to be a relic of the Old Kingdom. It never really occurred to him just how many ruins or disused structures there were throughout Edrinor. The bridge, in particular, was among the more prominent that Korsten had knowingly looked upon.
The shadows of Onyx and Erschal stretched across pale, uneven slabs that were pushed upward and apart by the forest’s attempt to connect the ravine on its own strength and perseverance. The split land below was blanketed in autumn’s slipping layers and filled with a scarcely moving haze, as if a great river had been turned to vapor.
At the halfway mark, sat ornately structured alcoves that served no discernable purpose, filled with tangling roots and crawlers. Just beyond them, the platform of the bridge was cracked and separated. A space that was the length of several horses floated between the crumbled edges. That space tightened considerably at the east edge of its width, but that space also happened to be cluttered by toppled aspects of the taller structure.
An army had crossed at the same point recently. It scarcely seemed possible that the bridge would have been broken after their crossing. It would require a force of nature, or an unnatural coincidence to bring down such a monument, relic or not. The troops may also have taken the added time to move across the narrowest end of the gap—though it appeared too clogged for that presently. So, maybe it had been a coincidence that brought a portion of the remaining structure down recently.
“It wouldn’t have been an easy route back, if the soldiers needed to take it,” Merran commented.
If the troops were routed, he meant, and fleeing. Fleeing from a larger army, from a horde of nightmare beasts …or one gargantuan one.
Korsten’s gaze wandered below the bridge, into the mist. He began to envision men and animals tumbling into the gorge, careening to their deaths and out of sight. Driven by what force? The Kingdom Alliance knew that they went to war versus enemies who might bring demons or contaminated individuals onto the field. It seemed unlikely that they would be easily shaken to that degree.
Merran looked at Korsten, then below, seeming to know what was running through Korsten’s mind. “Let’s look to Endmark, before we resign ourselves to this,” he said.
Korsten agreed and they maneuvered Onyx and Erschal toward the smallest portion of the gap, which the two animals leaped over easily. The remainder of the bridge stretched into the trees. The sun continued to set, lowering a shaft of red energy between the trees, which fanned pink and gold over the littered ground.
The horses had barely stepped off the bridge’s end when an immense sound of movement sifted into the air, layering one irregular beat over the other. A warm, ranking breeze pushed at Korsten’s back and unsettled Onyx. Holding the reins tighter, Korsten looked behind him, at the rising shapes of bats. They varied in size, some appearing quite common, but among them, there were behemoths, with wingspans enough to wrap around either of the horses.
“Let’s go,” Merran said. “They don’t appear infected, but they can still pose a danger. Anything living in this area is likely to be already agitated and easily provoked.”
Korsten turned back around and guided Onyx forward, the piercing shriek of the giant bats rising away. He had never seen any quite so large, though he had heard tales of forest dwellers in the northern reaches that were larger than most. Living in Haddowyn, Korsten had taken them for tall tales, since nothing of the kind had been witnessed anywhere near the town by anyone whose observations could be considered reputable. The habit of most in Haddowyn was to deny the existence of most anything that was uncomfortable to the senses. All the while, they had been harboring a demon. On reflection, he had never since witnessed a town so satisfied with its delusions of safety.
•—•
Daylight’s departure poured shadows into the spaces between the trees. The horizon darkened, until it was a black rim along the base of the of the world, evidence of the level of Hell they were sinking into the further they progressed. The Vadryn weren’t required in order for one’s imagination to tuck forms into the layering darkness. But the fact that the Vadryn existed tended to discount one’s imagination, in favor of reality.
“We should find a place to camp before too long,” Merran suggested.
Korsten agreed, though the forest was scarcely an ideal choice. Open spaces or structured spaces were the best to sleep in. Since the nearest town was their destination—and as yet too far off—they would have to hope for a wide clearing, or the odd cottage.
The space they found turned out to be a hunter’s shelter, which was preferable to a house, as it had only one small room to it. It was scarcely larger than a horse’s stall, with only a bit of shelving on one side and a small window on the other, adjacent to the narrow entry.
Korsten entered first and gave the shelves and floor a thorough check, to be sure there would be no surprises in the form of unexpected trapdoors or crawlspaces. Merran investigated the door, which was hung crooked and required him to lift it somewhat in order to draw it closed. The window had a shutter, which Merran also closed.
The space grew swiftly black. The shelter’s lantern was brought to light by traditional means, and light swelled in orange arcs onto the close walls. Merran hung the lamp on its hook, and they set about laying out their bedrolls. There was scarce room for two of them, but they were accustomed to close spaces in the company of one another, and Korsten could not deny that he preferred it.
When they had finished preparing to sleep, the light was put out. Eating had occurred at Vassenleigh and the magic infused with their food would hold them for some
time. In the event of an extended absence, they did happen to carry some dried petals and vials of tincture that could be added to most anything. The largest complication with eating outside of the citadel was that its lack of what was a vital nutrient for them failed to satisfy, if they felt drained enough that they desired food at all. If they felt so drained, then a Reach back to safety and proper nourishment may not be an option and therein lay the complication.
It was possible for a priest to transition back into a state of normal existence. As the effects of the blood lilies wore off, they would eventually begin to crave and require food as ordinary people did, and they would begin to age again. Korsten thought about that often, when he thought about those who had left Vassenleigh, such as Sharlotte and Lerissa. He also wondered if it would be quite the same process for any as ancient as the Council. Had they become so saturated that they would carry on regardless? Or perhaps they were never quite ordinary to begin with.
Such wandering thoughts held Korsten to wakefulness for some time after Merran appeared to have fallen asleep. Before they had finished leading him all over his subconscious, Korsten was deposited in memories of his childhood, and of his father, who was either exceedingly old, or no longer living. He thought of his uncle in Haddowyn, who had received Korsten when Sethaniel disowned him, and who had died in sudden madness. It never occurred to Korsten that Fand Brierly had been a victim of the Vadryn, or that Fand’s death was yet another method by which a demon had pinned Korsten to depression. It was a state that had kept him close to Renmyr, because he had grown fearful of what worse horrors might have existed away from the only person who seemed consistent and stable. It took years, near death, and Emergence for Korsten to even begin to realize that Renmyr’s consistency had only ever been in supplying misery.
•—•
The transition from one part of the northern lands to the next went unnoticed by Renmyr, even having used the gate from the plateau to the outermost edges of Endmark, where a matching gate had been fashioned some centuries ago. The trees coming down from the minor cliff remained tall, the clearings few, the people fewer, and the animals silent. The stillness opened an internal pathway to Endmark, the instinctive pull toward his own. Among his own, the signatures varied. Many were as minor lesions on the surface of the world, festering as open sores amid the trees and under rocks. They, too, tried to move off from Renmyr’s notice whenever he drew near to them, like the birds, the rodents, and the deer …like the people wandering on their own, strayed from the security of their numbers.
There were not many encountered beyond what was constantly near in the form of Loel and the affected horses, and one other, who was in need of delivery.
There were no humans presently in Renmyr’s sphere of notice, though he did detect presence beyond what was constantly near him in the form of Loel and the affected horses, and one other, who lumbered behind, compelled by Renmyr’s hold over him.
Renmyr paused to scan the woods. The gray-light of his vision after nightfall showed the silhouettes of trees, the determined spread of rocks, and the isolated form of a shelter in the distance. The structure stood empty, but the area remained of interest all the same.
That interest soon manifested in the form of tremendous towers of ash. They slid into motion, as if birthed of the trees themselves, but the canopy they shared was not of leaves. The jointed ashen pillars—of which there were four—stalked through the woods in slow, sweeping strides, carrying a flat, centered core among them, which passed high above the shelter when the creature stepped over it.
Renmyr stayed where he was, observing the misty tendrils that wafted off the beast with its every motion. He set his gaze upon the core while it was carried past him. A solitary eye opened from the center of the insubstantial gray flesh, its dark pupil ensnared in the webbing formed of blackening red striations that had overtaken the white and also invaded the greenish ring of color, which swelled and contracted while it actively searched the ground beneath it. The seeing orb held itself briefly in Renmyr’s direction while it lumbered forward, aspects of it returning to the night’s fog, which rested high in the trees.
Its path would lead to Endmark, to the town’s resident lord, which was where Renmyr intended to be shortly. He set his horse into motion. Loel followed, along with the other, whose plodding footsteps weighed heavy on the earth.
•—•
Morning came without incident. Merran rose to find that Korsten had awakened ahead of him. He was presently leaned in the doorway of the shelter, observing the forest, possibly watching for signs of Vadryn or of advance scouts from Morenne, since they were as far north as they could be without crossing the border.
“I’ve been awake since just after sunrise,” Korsten let him know.
That was not surprising, but it was also not typical. “What woke you?
“Nothing specifically,” Korsten answered. “It was only an ill feeling, I suppose. Also, I feel that the horses moved off during the night.”
Merran looked beyond Korsten, into the brightening forest. Of course, his view was too narrow to see anything from where he sat, with Korsten in the doorway …snaring the morning light in the texture of his hair. “They’re here now?”
“Yes. I wonder if something spooked them, though.”
“It’s possible,” Merran concluded, sitting up better. “I don’t know if this area will ever be completely free of the Vadryn’s presence.”
Korsten looked at him, though he scarcely seemed to see Merran while he contemplated the topic of their conversation, or perhaps another topic altogether.
“Did you have another concerning dream?” While presenting the question, Merran set about organizing their minimal gear.
Korsten simply said, “No.”
The ease of the response caused Merran to pause and give his gaze to Korsten once more. He was presented with Korsten’s distinct profile, the long and gentle shape rimmed by the day’s glow. Korsten was a vision, and Merran knew well that he was not alone in that perspective. In the northern reaches, Korsten’s beauty was often considered aristocratic, though it could only be in regard to an aristocracy that no longer existed. The frayed edges of that tapestry formed a portrait of gloomy mystery that had long been taken down, rolled, and tucked away, into the farthest reaches of dark forests that had barely counted as a part of the mortal world, let alone of Edrinor. Merran himself was only loosely acquainted with the folklore and legend that had traveled down by way of Morenne.
The demons who had traveled south were of more pressing interest. And they were instinctively drawn to red.
Merran could only wonder whether Korsten had attracted something during the night, and if it had been only on the merit of their soulkeepers that no further interest was garnered. If that were true, it only solidified how important finding a shelter had been. Their camp had been disrupted in the past while hunting, but the circumstances of Feidor’s Crest—and considering how close they were to the Borderlands—made Merran less content to risk a chance encounter.
Whatever may have happened, nothing further was discussed on the subject while they collected the gear and left the shelter to whomever may next find use for it. He doubted that local hunters were interested in the woods much lately, given the likeliness of contamination.
When the horses were ready, they continued through the forest, making their way back toward the road. It was some distance from the shelter where Merran noticed depressions in the ground. They were no larger than a human foot, but there was something about the implied gait, and the paralleling scoring of the earth, as if something had been dragged alongside whomever had passed through.
“It looks as if the heavier prints have gone over other tracks,” Korsten pointed out when they stopped to examine the area.
“Horses,” Merran answered. He glanced about the vicinity in search of any lingering of hazy, greenish lights, but there was nothi
ng to indicate any such magic had been near.
“Perhaps we ought to keep moving,” Korsten suggested.
Merran agreed, and they followed the tracks for a while. They stayed consistent for much of the distance, but were interrupted by rock in some places. Ultimately, the path led deeper into the woods, away from the road.
“It may have been hunters,” Korsten suggested when they stopped at the point where the tracks curved away. “Maybe they were able to catch something.”
Merran stared into the distance, following the trajectory of the prints. The woods stood close, yet their branches were sparse, offering a wide view between the trees. There was nothing to be seen, save the unending forest and a sparse haze, clinging to the earth. Eventually, he directed Erschal toward the road. “I suspect that we’re the only hunters in these woods.”
Korsten issued no words, but he did cast a last look into the forest himself before he guided Onyx away from the curious tracks.
Thirteen
There were few structures of significance between the bridge and Endmark. A signpost had announced the town, and had also indicated the direction of Feidor’s Crest. Korsten saw it fit to lightly score the name of the more distant town away with an abbreviated Fire spell.
Merran glanced back at him as the wood charred, but issued no protest.
They continued on the road to Endmark. The trees remained closely aligned, though autumn had made it easy to see between them for distances that made the forest appear everlasting. Only on occasion did the earth rise enough to obstruct the view.
Upon one such rise sat what appeared to be another relic of the Old Kingdom. It was nothing so large as the bridge. In actuality, it was rather small, a mere idol in stone. Its surrounding structure and base was perhaps comparable in size to the hunter’s shelter. The carving of a human-like deity hovered over the road, as if such eternal eyes yet watched over travelers.
