by R. T. Kaelin
After a quick glance at Nathan and Wil, Captain Scrag shrugged his shoulders.
“Fine. But if it turns back into that thing, I’m letting him eat you first, bucket-man.”
Nundle winced. The first time Captain Scrag had laid eyes on him, he had exclaimed, “Hah! I could carry you in a bucket!” The name had stuck.
Nathan turned to Wil and said, “Go make sure no one is hurt.” Lowering his voice, he added, “And tell everyone to keep hands on hilts.”
Nodding, Wil said, “Yes, Sergeant.” After one last quick glance at the thorn, he turned and hurried back to the group of soldiers.
Facing the captain and Nundle, Nathan extended a hand, palm upward, toward the thorn and Nikalys, looking as if he was asking them to have a seat at eveningmeal.
“Shall we?”
As they approached, Nikalys spoke without looking at them.
“Is everyone alright?”
“Thanks to you and Nundle, yes,” answered Nathan.
The thorn swiveled its head in their direction, its bark-like skin crunching like crispy, dried-out Harvest leaves. Its shiny black-orbed eyes studied them each, pausing briefly on Nathan and the captain before settling on Nundle last. Tilting its head to the side, it leaned forward a few inches as if to get a closer look at him. The thorn’s eyes were like a puddle of water on a one-moon night: black with flickers of light dancing here and there.
Without taking his eyes from the creature, Nikalys said, “Thank you for your help, Nundle. I swore my head was going to burst.”
The thorn shifted his gaze back to Nikalys and spoke in precise, unaccented Argot, its voice reminiscent of a gentle breeze whistling through the leaves of an oak.
“I am sorry for that.”
“You’re sorry?” asked Nikalys, his eyebrows arching high. “You try to kill us…and then apologize?”
“Remain calm, please,” rumbled Broedi as he and the bald hillman arrived to stand with the group. “They mistook us for the Chosen.”
“Who are the Chosen?” asked Nundle.
“Our enemy,” replied the thorn. “We have fought off their aggression for many seasons.”
“Over five centuries,” rumbled the tattooed hillman.
Broedi said, “They thought we were invading their shores.”
“With only thirty soldiers?” asked Nathan.
“It did seem unusual,” whistled the thorn.
“Did it?” growled Captain Scrag. “Did it not occur to you that you might ask who we were before howling at us?!”
Broedi held up his hands and spoke in a quiet, firm tone.
“Captain, please. Try to see things from their point of view—a ship full of strange, armed men arrive—unannounced—and set to shore. In a land where war with the Chosen is never-ending, to what conclusion would you arrive?”
The captain of the Sapphire stared at Broedi for a few heartbeats, his white moustache twitching. After a moment, he nodded and said, “I suppose I can understand that.”
“Good,” said Broedi. “I hope so. Now, I would like it if everyone remained calm. Can we do that?”
As the assembled group nodded their agreement, Nundle got his first close look at the strange hillman and noticed that a web of intricate, green designs covered his cheeks and forehead, forming a mask of leaves and vines around his eyes. The markings resembled the tattoos worn by the seaman of the ship Nundle had taken from Yut to the Arcane Republic, although their designs were limited to arms and chest only. Staring at the hillman’s face, Nundle shuddered, imagining how painful it must have been to get the markings.
As odd as the tattooed hillman was, he was nothing compared to the thorn. Nundle turned his attention back to the creature and marveled. Up close, the thorn’s skin was not a single, drab color as it appeared from afar, but rather a myriad of nutty browns, soft tans, and charcoal grays. He noted the thorn was not wearing any clothes, although that seemed entirely appropriate.
“Can all thorns do what you did?” asked Nundle. “And by that, I mean turn into that awful beast?”
The question had tumbled from his mouth before he realized it. And rather than wait for an answer, Nundle began to do what he sometimes did.
“And how exactly did you make that screeching sound? Gods! It was horrible! Is the shriek part of the Weave that was inside you? Or was it just you? Oh! About the pattern you used: I sensed Life and Will, but there had to have been something else. What was it? Soul perhaps? Air? No—not Air. I would have felt that. I wonder if…it might…have been…”
He trailed off once he noticed that everyone—including the thorn—was staring at him. Glancing around at his companions, Nundle muttered, “Sorry about that.” Turning to the thorn, he added, “I apologize for my rudeness. My curiosity sometimes gets the better of me.”
The thorn tilted its head to the side, regarding Nundle as its grassy-hair rustled in the wind.
“Firstly, I am not a ‘thorn.’ Others have given us that name. We are buhanik.”
“I actually knew that,” said Nundle, disappointed in himself. “Sorry. Again.”
“It is forgiven,” whistled the thorn. “I, in turn, am sorry that Fingard and I tried to kill all of you.”
Nundle glanced at the tattooed hillman, assuming he was Fingard. If so, Fingard did not appear the least bit remorseful about his role in the attack. Now that he thought about it, Nundle wondered exactly what the hillman’s role had been.
As Nikalys sheathed the Blade of Horum, he said with a hint of sarcasm, “Well, then. If you’re sorry, I suppose all is forgiven.”
Turning its black-eyed stare on Nikalys, the thorn said, “You are gracious to accept our apology. May the sun shine on you.” It would seem the creature did not grasp the mocking in Nikalys’ tone.
“Broedi?” began Nathan. “Could you explain exactly what happened here? How is this—” he nodded at the thorn “—the same thing that emerged from the forest?”
Crossing his arms, Broedi rumbled, “The moment I saw the creature, I figured it was a buhanik that had been adapted with a Weave. How, I was not sure. A similar pattern I know that is capable of doing something similar only works on plants.” He turned an eye to Fingard. “I would be interested in knowing where you learned such a complex Weave.”
Nundle stared at the bald hillman in surprise.
“You are the mage?”
He had assumed that the thorn had been behind the Weave.
Fingard’s eyebrows drew together as he growled, “I will not answer your questions.” While the deep timbre of his voice was similar to Broedi’s, the sharp tone was foreign. “You might not be of the Chosen, but you are still strangers to our land.”
The thorn whistled, “They are strangers only because we have allowed them to be, Fingard.” Turning to Broedi, it said, “I am Talulot. I protect these shores with Fingard’s aid. May the sun shine upon you.” It shifted its black-eyed gaze to the tattooed hillman. “Fingard?”
After a reluctant pause, the hillman rumbled, “I am Fingard Veratrir. Long life to you.” He bowed slightly, revealing even more green tattoos atop his head that looked like a wreath of laurels.
Broedi introduced himself as an explorer, giving his first name only before turning to the rest of the group. As instructed before leaving the ship, each of them gave their first name only as well, along with a courteous greeting. Even Captain Scrag managed a civil “Good days ahead.” With each introduction, Talulot repeated the same salutation, “May the sun shine upon you.”
Nundle went last, taking off his wide-brimmed hat and freeing his bright red hair to blow in the breeze.
“I am Nundle, a merchant out of Deepwell in the Thimbletoe Principal of the Five Boroughs. May your tables bring full bellies and joyful hearts.”
For Nundle’s introduction, Talulot said nothing in response. It simply stared at him with its dark and oddly reflective eyes. Nundle wondered if he had somehow offended the thorn. Perhaps full bellies were not desirable to a thorn.
Finally, Talulot whistled, “I sense you are not young, yet your growth is stunted. Why is that?”
The question took Nundle by surprise. For a moment, all he could do was stare at Talulot. Every other member of his group, however, enjoyed a quiet chuckle, even Broedi. The thorn looked around at the display, evidently confused by their response.
“I do not understand your mirth,”
After a moment or two, Nundle recovered, smiled politely, and said, “I am a tomble, Talulot. This is as tall as we get.”
The thorn tilted its head to its left and whistled, “Noteworthy. Aembyr-The-Ageless had told stories of your kind, but you are the first I have seen with my eyes.”
Nundle’s heart skipped a beat.
“Pardon,” rumbled Broedi. “Did you say Aembyr-The-Ageless?” His tone was intense yet polite.
“I did,” said the thorn.
Those from the Sapphire exchanged a series of quick glances with one another, everyone with the same excited glint in his eyes.
Keeping his voice even and calm, Broedi asked, “Is Aembyr-The-Ageless known by another name? Wren, perhaps?”
Talulot tilted his head back to the right.
“He uses that name for himself.”
“And where is he?” rumbled Broedi.
“In Buhaylunsod,” replied the thorn. “Four days journey towards sunrise.”
Broedi glanced to the east, into the forest.
“We would be honored if you would take us there, Talulot. I would like to speak with… ‘Aembyr-The-Ageless.’”
Rather than answer, the thorn studied Broedi for a long stretch in complete silence, the breeze tickling its grassy hair. Just when Nundle was wondering if it might ever speak again, Talulot shifted its head in the other direction.
“You are like him, are you not?”
A moment skipped past before Broedi responded, asking, “What do you mean?”
Rather than answer the question, Talulot extended its right branch-hand toward Broedi, spreading its woody fingers wide. Closing its black-orbed eyes, the thorn began to sway back and forth as a bush caught in a gentle Spring breeze. A moment later, it spoke.
“I sense the same great life inside of you that flows inside Aembyr. You shine bright.”
As one, everyone turned to stare at Broedi. Their arrival in the Primal Provinces grew stranger by the moment. Broedi crossed his arms over his chest and studied the thorn, a slight frown on his lips.
Tilting its head slightly, Talulot whistled, “Yet you are not alone.”
The thorn’s hand drifted from Broedi, moving to point in Nikalys’ direction. The young longleg stared at the outstretched arm, a nervous frown upon his face. After a few quiet sways, the thorn’s eyes snapped open.
“It flows within you, as well. Yet, it is brighter. Much brighter. Noteworthy.”
Nikalys shot a quick, questioning glance to Broedi. The White Lion’s gaze remained fixed on Talulot, his stoic expression revealing nothing.
Keeping his gaze on Nikalys, Talulot whistled, “Gather your followers, Light-From-The-West. We will take you to Buhaylunsod.”
As Nikalys shot a curious glance to Broedi, Nundle noticed Fingard’s hands were balled into fists, his knuckles white. Glancing up, he found the hillman glaring at the thorn.
Fingard rumbled, “Is that wise?”
The thorn turned to face Fingard and asked inquisitively, “You disagree?”
The hillman bowed his head.
“You know the Mataan do not allow strangers in Buhaylunsod.”
While Nundle wondered who or what the Mataan were, Talulot gazed at the sun, seemingly basking in its glow before saying, “The wind carries a shadow on its breath, Fingard. A dark and grim shadow.” Dropping its gaze to Broedi and Nikalys, the thorn added, “These two shine bright enough to cast light into the blackest of holes. The Mataan will understand that when they see them.” Facing Nundle’s group, Talulot whistled, “The time to leave is now. We shall wait for you in the trees.”
The thorn turned abruptly and shuffled toward the tree line, dragging its wooden limbs through the sand, barely lifting them off the ground. Fingard shot one last, hard look at the group and turned to follow Talulot.
When the pair was a dozen paces away, Broedi turned and, in a quiet voice, rumbled, “Sergeant? Captain? Gather the men and supplies. We are following them.”
The longlegs strode away without question, heading toward the huddled group of Shadow Mane soldiers, shouting orders as they went.
Left alone with Broedi and Nikalys, Nundle asked, “Am I right in assuming Buhaylunsod is a place?”
With a slight nod, Broedi answered, “In Argot, it might mean ‘Living City’. Or ‘The City Has Arisen.’”
Nikalys asked quietly, “Did you know Wren Aembyr was there?”
Broedi shook his head, rumbling, “I did not. While Nelnora showed me Wren amongst a tree city of the buhanik, she did not name which one.”
“Then Nelnora lied,” said Nikalys. His words were spoken with complete conviction.
“How so?” asked Nundle.
“All the luck in Terrene could not have brought us here at a more perfect moment,” said Nikalys. “To find a thorn who wishes to take us straight to Wren Aembyr? The Gods are meddling, I have no doubt.”
“I agree,” said Nundle. “Which leads me to wonder what else she lied about.” He eyed Broedi carefully as he added, “Or kept from us. At the moment, I feel as if I am reading a book with missing pages.”
The skin around Broedi’s eyes tightened slightly, confirming Nundle’s suspicion that the hillman was hiding something. Still, the White Lion remained quiet. Whether it was wise or not, Nundle decided to push a little further.
“You know, I’ve been thinking perhaps I should go back to the Seat of Nelnora and ask her some more questions. And now that we have arrived on dry land, I could easily port—”
“No!” interrupted Broedi. “We do not go back.”
“Why not?” asked Nikalys with a frown.
Broedi stared out at the sea and let a soft sigh slip past his lips.
“There are reasons.”
“I see,” said Nikalys. “And those reasons are…?”
“Not ones I can share with you now.”
His frown deepening, Nikalys asked, “Truly, Broedi? More secrets? Here? Now?”
The hillman continued to stare at the ocean, perfectly silent.
“Broedi?” muttered Nundle. “We know you are withholding something.”
“Of course you do,” said Broedi. “I did not expect to hide the obvious from you. I am surprised, however, that it took you so long to mention it.” Pulling his gaze from the sea and resting it on them, he rumbled, “Yet you should know I will not share more than that. It is not yet time.”
Nikalys crossed his arms and sighed.
“So, what then? We just nod our heads and follow you?”
“If you will,” rumbled the hillman. “For a while longer, please.”
Nikalys glanced to Nundle, a thin frown on his face, and lifted an eyebrow, apparently asking for Nundle’s opinion. Holding the young longleg’s gaze, Nundle asked the obvious.
“What else are we going to do?”
After a moment, Nikalys looked back to Broedi, nodded his head, and said, “Lead on.”
“Thank you,” said Broedi. “I appreciate your—” He cut off as a loud shout rang out over the beach.
“Turn around, you blasted fools!”
Jumping at the cry, Nundle spun around to find Captain Scrag standing in the surf, water up to his calves, waving his arms and screaming.
“Go back to the blasted ship!”
Looking out to where the Sapphire was anchored, Nundle spotted two other shoreboats rowing toward the beach, filled with sailors.
Nikalys mused, “Probably coming to come help us when they saw Talulot.” He paused, then added, “The large and scary version, that is.”
Turning back around, Nundle stared u
p at Broedi and asked, “How is it they did that? I’ve never heard of a Weave capable of doing what we saw.”
“It is a variation of one that Wren discovered. One he used on plants, shaping them as they grow. I expect he has refined the pattern and taught it to the Titaani Kotiv-aki.”
Nikalys asked, “And how did you get them to stop the attack?”
“I told Fingard that if he did not release the Weave that I would kill him.”
Nundle stared at Broedi, surprised at the response.
“You threatened his life?”
Broedi fixed his brown-eyed gaze squarely on Nundle.
“Would you prefer I had reasoned with him? It would have taken longer, I think.”
With the shriek of the massive thorn echoing in his mind, Nundle shook his head.
“No. I suppose your method was just fine.”
Hearing voices approaching, Nundle turned to find Nathan and Captain Scrag walking back toward them, the soldiers trailing and laden with packs of supplies. Out on the sea, the other shoreboats were in the midst of turning back to the Sapphire.
Nikalys said, “It seems we’re ready.”
“Then let us go,” rumbled Broedi. “We have a long walk ahead of us.” He turned and began to stride to where Talulot and Fingard waited by the forest’s edge.
As Nundle hurried to follow, he said a silent prayer that he would be able keep pace with everyone over the next few days. Scurrying across the sand, he mumbled, “I wish I had my horse.”
Chapter 39: Awaken
13th of the Turn of Maeana, 4999
Jak awoke, the scent of charred oak smoke filling his first conscious breath.
As he drew in a second breath to confirm, he noticed the persistent popping and cracking of logs aflame. Without a doubt, there was a fire burning. A detail he found odd as his room did not have a hearth. Through the fog of leftover sleep and pain, he noted that he was lying down, but not in his own bed. His mattress was a straw one, scratchy and cold. This bed was soft and warm. He lifted his right hand and grazed lightweight blankets that would be much too thin to hold back the chill of his room.
Apparently, he was not in his room. He considered opening his eyes to inspect his surroundings, but the pounding in his head warned against additional sensation. He wondered if there had been a festival last night. Perhaps he had too much wine. Like a barrelful too much.
