Enchantment's Reach (Book 1)

by Martin Ash

  ENCHANTMENT’S REACH

  MARTIN ASH

  VOLUME ONE:

  THE ORB UNDREAMED

  Enchantment’s Reach Volume 1: The Orb Undreamed

  Copyright © 2013 Martin Ash

  © 2013 Outside Publishing

  Cover design & artwork: Alexia Dima, Michail Antonellos

  This publication is protected by international copyright law. All rights are reserved, including resale rights. No part of this document may be reproduced, distributed, resold or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, other than brief quotes for reviews, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  Other works by Martin Ash available in eBook

  Enchantment’s Reach 2: The Orb and the Spectre

  Enchantment’s Reach 3: Orbelon’s World

  Enchantment’s Reach 4: Into The Dark Flame

  Enchantment’s Reach 5: What Lies Within

  Enchantment’s Reach 6: OrbSoul

  ‘The finest emotion of which we are capable is the mystic emotion. Herein lies the germ of all art and all true science. Anyone to whom this feeling is alien, who is no longer capable of wonderment and lives in a state of fear, is a dead man. To know that what is impenetrable for us really exists and manifests itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, whose gross forms alone are intelligible to our poor faculties — this knowledge, this feeling ... that is the core of the true religious sentiment. In this sense, and in this sense alone, I rank myself among profoundly religious men.’

  Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

  …the universe is under no obligation to make sense…

  Robert P. Kirschner (1949 - )

  I

  The child had been playing contentedly by the water's side for some time, oblivious of the eyes watching from the concealment of the surrounding forest. The day was warm, barely a breath of breeze stirring the early autumn air, and the child's warden, a bow-kneed man some years past his prime, had lowered himself onto the soft grass, his back propping the trunk of an ancient, sprawling oak. His eyelids had grown heavy and his thoughts had begun to drift. He dozed now, his head tipped back, mouth agape, snoring as he wandered in dreams.

  "This is the one?" demanded the woman, Arene, in a curt whisper. She was old and her body was heavy and bent even when not crouched in concealment, but she was not without a degree of strength, and her eyes as they watched the infant next to the water were bright with a curious fever.

  Her companion nodded a touch impatiently, as he had answered the same question more than once. "Yes."

  "You’re sure, Hal? You must be certain."

  He rolled his eyes upwards. "I’ve told you, there’s no other child of this age hereabouts, not with the background you described."

  Her lips formed a tight smile. "This is the one I’ve searched for, then. And the moment offers itself. Look-" she nodded towards the sleeping man " - irresponsible to neglect his charge like this. A child so young and trusting, unaware of the world's myriad dangers. So easy to slip there upon the bank. And the water, even at the edge, is deep for one so small. A child of such tender age. . . a terrible accident. . . it might so easily have been avoided."

  She rose slightly from her uncomfortable position and made as if to move away. Hal had turned to her with a sagging jaw. "Mistress?" He laid a hand on her arm to stop her. "Mistress, what are you saying? What do you intend? You can’t mean--"

  Arene stiffened, turning an outraged glare at the hand that touched her. Hal withdrew it as though scalded.

  "What is it to you, Hal?"

  "Mistress, I agreed to show you to the child, but this. . . I had no. . . I can’t be party to infanticide!"

  "What do you know, you fool!"

  He gulped, taken aback by her venom, and ever conscious that he could not defy her. "I know nothing, Mistress. Only what you have told me. But--"

  "Nothing, that’s right! I take no pleasure in this, Hal. I’m not a murderer by choice. But you really can know nothing of what’s at stake here. Let me tell you this, I act to avert a disaster the scale of which you can’t begin to imagine. That child, that innocent who you see playing so happily there, is not what it appears. Be sure of this, Hal. Be sure."

  Hal gaped at her, terrified now. Her eyes brimmed with an intensity of emotion more complex than he could fathom. He recalled how she had come to him in his cottage in the forest, questioned him near-obsessively, and when satisfied that he had the information she sought, offered good payment for his cooperation. He had been nervous, aware from the manner of her questions and the tale they almost told that he was being asked to embark upon a business he would have been wiser to stay clear of. But he was a poor man, and the money. . . .

  Arene scoffed. "You see, you do know nothing, yet you have the gall to try to judge me! Do not even dream of doing it, Hal, for I speak of matters that are far beyond your ability to judge or even comprehend." She gave a sigh, as if relenting slightly. When she spoke again her tone, though still laden, was softer, and she looked suddenly weary. "I am acting now only because I must. The child may look like an ordinary child, but it is not. It is vile born, a cursed thing, and it carries a destiny. If it is allowed to live it will in time bring incalculable suffering in this land and beyond. Vileborn: it has come from--" she broke off. Hal's expression told her all she needed to know.

  Arene gave herself a moment to gather her thoughts. She had said more than was necessary. It was a consequence of age and of the loneliness of her station that on those infrequent occasions when she found herself in the company of others her words tended to tumble forth more loosely and willingly than she intended. It was as if, in their eagerness to leave her and attract the attention of others, they possessed a will and volition of their own. She feared this tendency in her, aware that one day it could bring about her ruin.

  And in this instance a minimum of words was all that was necessary. Hal was a simple man raised among fearful folk. He had lived his entire life here in the wild, wooded, mountainous fringes of the land called Enchantment. His was a strange world, where the inexplicable was commonplace, where terrors and wonders abounded, where the fabulous and miraculous became almost a part of everyday life, never understood and best left unquestioned. Gods warred in Enchantment, and had done so for longer than anyone knew. Weird and mighty beings whose bitter feuds ravaged the surrounding lands and brought havoc and, sometimes, strange gifts into the lives of humans. Arene needed only suggest the involvement of elements beyond Hal's knowledge. Imagination and his own experience would do the rest.

  "You’ve done what I asked, Hal, and have been more than adequately rewarded," she said. "If your conscience or better judgement bids, you may go now with my thanks. Perhaps it’s preferable that way."

  Without waiting to see whether he heeded her she turned and slid from the bushes. She crept near-silently to the edge of the glade and paused, appraising the child, then its slumbering warden, then the narrow path along which they had come, which meandered away into the depths of the forest. She listened. A crow cawed in the high trees, some small woodland creature shifted in the undergrowth, the man snored and a fly hovered above his open mouth; a bee hummed across the glade, the child burbled quietly to itself. Arene stole forward, with a lightness of being surprising for her age and bulk.

  Her quarry had its back to her and had no inkling of her presence. Arene looked down at the small fair head, crowned with a floppy blue cap of stained cloth, and the little muddied hands. A dragonfly, incandescent in the bright sunlight, glided past. The child coo-ed and leaned forward to investigate this wonder
as it settled upon a nearby frond of creeping willow.

  Arene's eyes went to the dark, silent water reflecting the overhanging trees, barely more than an arm's length away. It was so simple: a swift movement, the Vileborn would be too surprised to cry out, then hold the head and body still beneath the water so that its small thrashings did not rouse the sleeping warden. It would be done in moments; none would be the wiser.

  But could she be certain? She experienced a sudden jolt, a spasm of doubt. A torrent of emotion shook her. Truly she wanted no part of this. Must it be this way?

  Her hand went to her cheek; tears brimmed suddenly and spilled from her eyes. She swayed, felt the aches of her joints, weakness in her limbs.

  I am not a murderer!

  But no other course existed, she knew it. She had been set this task, with the absolute certainty that she could not allow herself to fail. With a terrible effort she quietened her thoughts and gathered herself, taking the final step, lowering herself, hands extended, for the small, perfect body.

  There was a crashing in the undergrowth. She glimpsed a movement across the water.

  "Ho there!"

  Arene spun, stepping back.

  "Ho, Mother! Don't be alarmed."

  On the other side of the pool a figure had appeared from beneath the trees. A young man, perhaps eighteen years of age, twenty at most. His limbs were long and lean, not yet hardened or moulded with the blows of full manhood. His hair was the colour of tow and he wore grey hose, a loose blouse of pale olive, a leather jerkin and wide, calf-high boots. A shortsword in a leather scabbard was buckled at his waist.

  "You- you made me jump," accused Arene, struggling for composure. Her skin tingled, suddenly clammy, and her heart hammered so hard it almost choked her. What had he seen?

  The newcomer was smiling. Possibly he had perceived nothing sinister in her actions - but if he had come a moment later! Arene glanced aside. The child's warden was sitting up, roused by the voices, blinking and rubbing his cheek, peering blearily at her, then at the newcomer. He began to scramble erect. She noticed, ridiculously, the silence now that his snoring had ceased. The child looked up from beside her feet, mild bewilderment on its face as it took in the two intruders upon its play.

  Addressing the young man, Arene pretended indignation, though her voice quavered. "Crashing out of the wood like that; for all I knew you could have been a bandit, or a grullag come to carry me away."

  "And for all I knew, Mother, you might have been a witch or a harridan intent on doing harm to this child. But naturally I assume otherwise."

  Arene caught her breath. But his blithe demeanour still revealed nothing to heighten her alarm. Had it been just a chance remark?

  "Mother, you are pale," the young man observed, picking his way around the edge of the pool, carefully avoiding the water. "Plainly I’ve given you a fright. Please accept my sincere apology. It was unintentional, but I didn’t know anyone was here." Standing before her he offered her his hand. "Let me assist you, Mother. Here, sit before you fall."

  "I don’t need assistance," snapped Arene. "And I am not your mother!"

  He stepped back as if stung, proffering two open palms in appeasement, but the corners of his wide mouth quivered, his head tilted slightly to one side, and a wry humour lit his eyes. "I’ve offended you. Let me make good, then. I shall drown myself now. It will better this way. Say the word, Moth-- ah, lady, and I will consign my flesh to the murky depths of this tranquil pond, and my spirit to whatever darkness may await it beyond."

  Lady. Such a long time since anyone had called her that, even in jest. Arene looked him over, his broadening smile, teeth strong if a little crooked, jaw firm, slightly over-pronounced, and deep blue eyes. His hair was fringed high across the forehead and fell neatly over his ears, as was the current mode. He was tall and straight-backed, the shoulders wide and loose, chest deep, tapering to a narrow waist. His clothing was worn but far from threadbare, and he spoke well. The sword-hilt had a standard, reliable grip, but a feature caught her eye: the tips of the crossbar extended downwards in a pair of blunt metal tines. Arene had little knowledge of weapons but she knew this to be uncommon, perhaps a foreign design. The hardened leather of the scabbard, though aged and well-used, revealed good quality workmanship. This stranger was neither noble nor peasant, if appearances were to be believed. Perhaps the scion of some moderately-sized steader or manorial bailiff. But appearances in this land were frequently deceptive.

  Arene grew conscious, even in the shock and confusion of his sudden appearance, of a deep inward pulse, a warmth low in her belly, an almost forgotten sensation, mingling with pining and regret. It filled her with yearning, and with loss. Ah, she thought, with a longing that echoed back through the years, if I were thirty years younger, the beauty I still was then, I would love you, here, in this dappled glade. We would pleasure one another long and passionately, for I see in your bright sapphire eye that you would be of a similar yen. The woods would resound and we would love till we could love no more, then lie together wrapped in sweet, moist exhaustion; ah yes, if things were different.

  She smiled a weary, private smile. The irony of it: his eyes beheld only a crone. Flabby, withered flesh and almost more hairs upon her chin than her crown. Even 'Mother' was a compliment, for Arene was too advanced in years to have squeezed from her womb someon as young and fresh-faced as he.

  No fool like an old one.

  "That’s more like it," he said. "Your smile enhances your beauty no end, even if it is a little distant. May I take it then that I am reprieved?"

  "No doubt your manner serves you well and has won you into the beds of many a gullible maiden, and will continue to do so," Arene replied, "but I am long in the tooth. Your charm is worth little here."

  "I will put myself among the tadpoles, then - never again to rise."

  "The tadpoles dropped their tails long ago, boy, and the frogs have fled. You would find it lonely down there among cold trout which have no wish for conversation. Nor are they passionate lovers. No, don’t wet yourself on my account. Your crime was not so great. There are beauties yet who must discover pleasure and heartbreak at your hands."

  The young man grinned and Arene caught herself. Old fool! A hag, charmed despite herself, flirting like a milkmaid!

  She was in danger, aware of the child's warden now standing a little way behind her, to one side, blinking and disoriented, his hand uncertainly gripping his stout longstaff. He was concerned as to where these two had sprung from. And this youth with whom she bantered: he apparently assumed her to be in company with the warden and child.

  Arene glanced down at the child. She was thwarted. Moments ago it had been as though fate had offered her a free hand. She would have set the future at rest; the wars, the bloody intrigues and betrayals, the terrible suffering that was to come - all for so little reason, and all could have been averted here with her single action. But not now. She had missed her chance. Now she could only endeavour to extricate herself, and wonder at the price to be paid.

  The Vileborn's eyes were on her and she held back a shudder as she recalled once more what she knew. She turned again to the young man, wondering. Was his arrival at such a crucial moment nothing more than coincidence? Could he be only what he purported to be? A shiver ran down her bowed spine. Here on the borders of Enchantment one could be certain of so little, least of all the true nature of a stranger who stepped unexpectedly out of the wildwood.

  The youth was nodding over Arene's shoulder to the warden, greeting him. Arene interrupted quickly, before things became clear to them both. "Who are you, boy, and what are you doing here?"

  "I am called Shenwolf, and my goal is Enchantment's Reach."

  "Enchantment's Reach?"

  "I became lost in the forest. But I see there’s a path that leads from here. Is this the right way?"

  Arene remained silent for a moment, troubled. His name was unusual, and if he spoke truthfully, what had caused him to leave the forest path?
A lone traveller stuck carefully to the marked ways if he had any sense, and this youth did not seem to be a slackwit.

  Shenwolf looked beyond her to the warden, who said, "It’s the great castle you mean, not the land, I take it?"

  "I don’t think I’ll find my fortune upon a blasted cliff, my friend. Aye, I seek the city-castle. Is it far from here?"

  "On foot? About two days. Maybe three. Aye, that is the way. The path joins a wider track about half a league on. Follow that northwest and it will take you to where you wish to go."

  "Thank you. I will leave you to yourselves then, and again, I apologise for having intruded so rudely upon you." Shenwolf crouched and stroked the child's hair. "Such a beautiful infant. You are the grandparents?"

  The warden looked affronted, and Arene almost cackled through her discomposure. Shenwolf looked at neither. He took from around his neck a narrow leather thong upon which hung a tiny white object. This he placed carefully over the child's head, to hang below the breastbone. "This is for you, little one. Should we ever meet again, I will know you by it."

  He straightened. "A humble gift. Now, I bid you both good-day."

  "May I enquire as to your business at the castle?" enquired Arene hurriedly as Shenwolf made off.

  He stopped. "A simple business. A desire for adventure, fortune and distinction, nothing more nor less. The Karai move closer, so I believe, and their appetite for conquest grows with every step. King Leth is keen to swell the army's ranks and reassure the populace. It’s a soldier's life I seek."

  It’s a soldier's death you will find, if everything is true, thought Arene, but she said nothing. Shenwolf bowed his head and strode away, whistling to himself.

  "Wait, young sir!" called the warden. "We will accompany you a short distance if we may. We’re ready to leave."