Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches

by William Robert Stanek

  “I need… more rest,” said Vilmos, panting, “can you not use your magic on them?”

  “For every one I sent back to the pits where they spawned, two more would come. No, we run,” said Xith, launching Vilmos into a run by pushing him forcefully with both hands.

  He ran then. He ran for all he was worth. Fear mandated his every movement.

  On and on he ran. Soon he lost sight of Xith, then he stumbled, fell, came up on his feet again. For a frightening moment in his confusion, he thought Xith wasn’t with him anymore, but then he caught a glimpse of the shaman’s brown robe. Exhausted, he no longer ran. He simply plodded along, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, required great effort.

  Time progressed slowly. Most of the tormented howls faded to distant echoes and now it seemed only one of the strange beasts followed them. Vilmos heard its high-pitched howl sound off to his left.

  By now they had gone so far and so deep into the forest and strayed off course so many times that Vilmos thought surely even the shaman had lost his way long ago. The beasts were leading them, forcing them to take an increasingly easterly course.

  Vilmos could no longer determine shapes in the shadows. Everything was shadows and dull grays slowly turned black. Night was surely near.

  The touch of a hand to his shoulder caused Vilmos to start. He jumped and nearly screamed. Xith whispered in a low voice, “Tie this rope around your waist. It will keep us from being separated.”

  Vilmos took the offered rope and began tying it about his waist.

  “Follow where I lead you,” said Xith. “Keep your hands out in front of your face protectively.”

  Vilmos finished securing the rope. He caught sight of a soft glow from the shaman’s eyes. They were glistening silver once more. “Do your eyes allow you to see in the dark?”

  Xith grinned. “It is the gift of Oread to her people.”

  Vilmos stretched his sore muscles, and eased the fire away from aching legs, then finally asked the question that had been bothering him for what seemed hours. “Are we lost?”

  “The sense of direction of the peoples of Under-Earth is keen. Do not worry, my young friend. Soon we will leave the Forest of Vangar and all of this will be behind us for a time.”

  Xith said nothing more, except that they should begin moving again.

  Vilmos followed where the pull of the rope lead him, the world around him was now so black that he couldn’t discern anything from the darkness that surrounded him. Not knowing when they would come to a rut, a hill, a ravine, he placed each foot down softly and uncertainly. He tried to keep his thoughts from wandering and think only of placing one foot in front of the other. This was a difficult chore as he fought exhaustion.

  The single hunter continued to follow them, howling out at seemingly regular intervals—perhaps telling companions that followed silently that the hunt was still on.

  Staring into the darkness and not being able to see anything was at times overwhelming and during those times, Vilmos felt utterly helpless. He could only follow the tugs at the rope and hope that the person tied to the other end was still Xith—for exhaustion made him doubt even that.

  His thoughts did wander though, even as he fought to keep them focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He thought of home, the villagers, and Lillath and Vil. Surely if the powerful shaman feared the creatures that chased them, the three villages were in danger. Yes, days of forests separated them, but how far did these creatures roam?

  Vilmos answered the question for himself. Far enough to chase a great black bear south. Far enough to make it attack and kill the girl from Olex Village.

  He groped his way around a tree that seemed to suddenly sprout in front of him. The ground beneath his feet was now damp. Vilmos knew this because of the thick mud clinging to his boots, making heavy feet that much heavier. Far off he heard the sound of running water as if a stream lay somewhere ahead. For a time his thoughts filled with a longing to drink of its cool waters.

  They were coming down a long, long hill when suddenly the rope went slack. Vilmos’ mind filled with alarm. Xith normally signaled with a double pull on the rope when he was going to stop.

  Vilmos groped with his hands about his waist until he found where the knot in the rope began. Then he began to take up the slack in the line. When he had pulled in about five feet without the line going taut, he stopped. He was almost afraid to keep pulling. His hands way ahead of his thoughts kept working though and he soon found the end of the line in his hands.

  He tried to rationalize. He told himself Xith must have untied the rope from around his waist. Perhaps the stream was just ahead and Xith wanted to tell him this. The running water did sound awfully close.

  Bravely, he took a step forward into the darkness, then another, and a few more. The stream was there all right. He found it by stepping into it with a slosh—the water was cold.

  “X-Xith,” Vilmos whispered, “where are you?”

  No answer.

  He whispered in a slightly louder voice, “X-Xith?”

  He heard movement behind him and spun about, nearly losing his balance. He saw the dull glow of a pair of eyes about halfway up the steep, forest-covered hill—but the glow wasn’t soft silver.

  He stood deadly still. He heard growling now and then a howl, joined by many more. Confusion, exhaustion and panic mandated his actions. Instinct and human nature took over his thoughts. The will to survive became his only objective. Blue sparks danced across his fingers tips without him even realizing it.

  The light only served to fill in the images missing from his mind’s eye. Halfway up the hill he saw them, a pack of the creatures that though they looked like wolves he knew they weren’t. No wolf he’d even seen had two heads. No wolf he’d ever seen was as large as a bear.

  He slowly backed into the stream. The creatures inched forward. He inched backward. When the waters swirling around him were knee deep, he stopped. The lead creature, the largest one of the whole pack, stood no further than ten feet away from him now. He was suddenly sure this was the beast that had hunted and howled after them while the others in the pack had hunted silently at its side. It seemed to signal to the others to wait as it approached.

  Instinct and the will to survive still at the forefront of his thoughts, blue sparks continued to dance across his fingers. He waited, staring down the strange two-headed creature, wondering why it did not attack him, wondering if it could lunge ten feet in a single, swift move using the powerful legs he saw.

  He began to back up again, and the creature continued to approach. Each took one small step at a time, and stared the other down. His two eyes matched against the creature’s four, each daring the other to make a move.

  The water about his legs was now only ankle deep but he gave it little thought. He dared not waver his eyes from the position they held locked to the creature’s. Soon he found that he was no longer sloshing backward through water. He had come to the far bank. The strange beast waited on the opposite bank, only a few precious feet away.

  In the soft blue light, the creature’s double set of fangs glistened white-blue. Two heads meant two mouths filled with up-turned and down-turned canine fangs. Vilmos and the creature stared each other down, seemingly to find out whose will power was stronger.

  Something brushed against his shoulder. He let out a scream that echoed long into the night. He whirled about, fists poised ready to fend off the unseen attacker, only to find soft gray eyes fixed on his.

  “Xith!” Vilmos shrieked, “Thank the Father!”

  “Do not thank him yet,” Xith said, “back up slowly now. The Wolmerrelle will not normally leave such a place, but let’s not give them any reason to think they should.”

  “W-Wolmerrelle?”

  “Suffice it to say that species from different realms were not meant to mate, for when they do, the result is not for the greater good.”

  “Where did you go?” Vilmos asked as he inched backward.<
br />
  Xith held out something in his hand that the boy didn’t dare to look at. “They were leading us all right. Another pack was shadowing us, waiting until they had us cornered.”

  Xith put a heavy hand on Vilmos’ shoulder, indicating they should stop. Vilmos noticed there were no trees around them. He stood in tall grass that stretched to his chest. The lead Wolmerrelle was still staring them down, but now it was a good twenty to thirty feet away. Vilmos groaned and put his hands to his face to rub bleary eyes. As Vilmos did this, Xith lost the support he had been using to keep upright. He staggered and fell.

  Vilmos grabbed Xith’s waist to help the shaman to his feet. He felt moisture against his hand. Xith’s robe was saturated from his neck down.

  “Don’t worry.” Xith’s voice was weak. He coughed. “Most isn’t mine.”

  Vilmos knew then that it was blood he touched. For a moment, a small sliver of the moon shined down upon them as it broke through heavy clouds. He saw the shaman’s prize. It was a head of one of the beasts; up close it was far larger and even more frightening than he had imagined.

  Vilmos tended to Xith’s wounds. He did as the shaman instructed and cleaned the wounds against infection then touched the stones of the river to them. “The stream is a tributary to the distant river Trollbridge that divides the Free Cities of Mir and Veter. It runs a long way from Rain Mountain in the center of the forest to where it joins the Trollbridge and helps feed the swamps. Its stones are healing in their own way,” Xith had said, and Vilmos did not question that they were.

  For the next several hours, Vilmos lay at Xith’s side, afraid to let sleep take him. Several times as he stared through gaps in the tall grasses to the far side of the stream, he saw the strange creatures Xith had called Wolmerrelle. Xith had been right about one thing; they were best left unnamed. Putting a name to the horror he saw only aided their terrifying grip on his mind. Somehow he was sure that one day he would return to Vangar Forest and when he did, the Wolmerrelle would be waiting for him.

  Next time Vilmos knew he would not be so lucky. He would not escape as easily.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  The Bottoms

  Captain Brodst called the company to a halt. The low road that lead down into the murky lowlands, aptly dubbed the Bottoms by both those few who dwelled there and by those who frequented these southerly lands, lay before them.

  He cast a glance heavenward, the sun was well past its zenith and the storm clouds of morning were gone. His customary frown lengthened. He reconsidered his alternatives, to take the king’s road or to skirt the mire. He had discussed these choices with Keeper Martin, Father Jacob and the other captains the day prior. The obvious choice was to take the short cut through the swamp. They were already behind schedule, yet something Duke Ispeth had told him the night before last was bothering him now.

  “Not a single messenger—and few travelers—have come north for more than a week,” the duke had said, “‘tis a strange occurrence indeed.”

  At the time Captain Brodst hadn’t given it much thought, he had been tired and angry. Duke Ispeth could be a stubborn man when he wanted to be. Captain Brodst remembered that just after the duke had said that he’d scratched his head and said, “It’s

  probably nothing. In another week or so, I’ll probably find that the roads were washed out again… Damned rainy season approaching, you know.”

  But there was something in the way the old duke had said it that told Captain Brodst he didn’t really believe what he’d just said. It was true Duke Ispeth was eccentric and suspicious of everyone; even so, Captain Brodst had never seen anyone as agitated as he’d seen the duke that night. He had ranted and raved for hours. He had told them about reports of strange travelers passing through his lands at night, peasants complaining that whole crops were disappearing and many other things.

  Captain Brodst took in a deep breath. If the weather had been better, surely they would have been ahead of schedule and he could have opted to skirt the swamps. He had discussed this route with King Andrew because they both feared the closeness of the rainy season. Captain Brodst found it ironic that since the rainy season had arrived early, that he now seemed forced to make a completely wrong choice in an attempt to save time.

  None of this worrying will save time, he told himself. They were at least one day behind schedule and needed to make up for lost time. The only way to do it would be to turn south. He gave the signal, pointed to the southernmost road, then spurred his mount on. In a few hours Captain Brodst called a halt for the evening and, by mid-morning of the second day along this route, they entered the outer mires.

  The passage along the rolling hills that gradually sloped down into the dreaded Bottoms was moderately paced. Unfortunately, the seasonal rains returned with vigorous fury, forcing a deficient, sluggish rate upon the travelers. But fortunately, after several hours of intense storms, high winds carried the storm front away to leave the skies clear and the grounds muddied though passable.

  The group escaped from the confines of heavy cloaks, dropping hoods and loosening the ties about the neck as the air grew warm. Adrina had been in a pensive mood all through the morning. Her thoughts were with Emel. She felt so alone without him and what made this even worse was that everyone around her seemed to notice it, especially Keeper Martin and Father Jacob.

  Adrina’s unease began to grow as they moved ever closer to the Bottoms, and not only because the thought of traveling through such a place filled her mind with dread. She had been counting on the extra days the longer route around the mires would have provided. The road through the Bottoms would only hasten them to Alderan and this more than anything else filled her mind with alarm.

  Keeper Martin, who had been keeping a watchful eye on her and not letting her out of his sight, spoke, “There is nothing to fear, dear, the passage through the mires will be swift and we’ll be smelling sea breezes before you know it.”

  Adrina expressed a sour grimace in response. Keeper Martin may have had an intuitive wisdom, but she knew better than to think there was nothing out there. The putrid smell of rotting vegetation that the wind carried had to be hiding something.

  Father Jacob added to the keeper’s words, his voice trembling with emotion, “He is right, Princess Adrina. Tonight we will stay at a palace of such great beauty that it rivals that of Imtal’s. And Baron Fraddylwicke is a most excellent host.”

  “Imtal is hardly beautiful,” said Adrina.

  Father Jacob burst into laughter and said cheerfully, “The palace once belonged to King Jarom the First of Vostok before he lost the lands to the Kingdom long, long ago. At one time, it was the gateway into the whole of the South. The Lord and Lady Fraddylwicke await us…”

  His voice trailed off, but Adrina thought she had heard him finish with, “or so I do fear.”

  “And it has only fallen into the mire three times since then,” said Captain Brodst, adding melancholy to the cheer.

  Surprised at the Captain’s joining in, Adrina said nothing.

  “A trivial fact, I assure you,” said Keeper Martin, “it was rebuilt each time with increasing care and magnificence.”

  Adrina smiled and responded, “I can’t wait to see it. It sounds wonderful.” She added for the keeper’s benefit, “Full of history.”

  Her thoughts took a turn toward expectations and away from disappointment and unease. She was again surprised that Captain Brodst had spoken to her.

  “His scowl is his shield,” Adrina whispered to herself.

  Adrina relaxed in her saddle and soaked up some of the warm air. She undid the ties on her cloak and removed it. However, the warmth that had fed their momentary good spirits came to a quick and not-at-all-subtle end. The ground seemed to readily suck up the warmth and a chill rapidly returned.

  As the long file entered the outer mire, the coolness of the air entwined with the warmth of the ground caused wisps of mist to swirl underfoot even in the early hours of afternoon, giving the area an eerie haz
e. Adrina felt her body begin to shiver uncontrollably at the cool touch, a touch similar to the play of cold fingers along the exposed areas of her skin.

  She pulled her cloak tightly about her and brought its hood up stout, retreating far into the recesses of the cowl as she had this morning. Although the cloak was still moist from the rain, it did manage to provide a little bit of extra warmth. She was thankful for its touch of comfort and hopeful that they would reach the castle soon for she was growing very weary. She sank languidly into the leathers of a saturated, irritating saddle, almost wishing that she had heeded Emel’s words and her common sense and remained in Imtal.

  Torches were mustered from the supplies and spread through the long line as insurance that, should the mists turn to fog, the group would not get lost. Captain Brodst, using his flint and steel and a few pieces of his precious stock of dry kindling—some of the torches had gotten damp—lit the initial torch, which he passed to the sentinel to bear at the front of the column. For the present, this was the only one to be lit. The others were not yet needed.