by J. W. Webb
“Hello big lad! Still hanging about, then?” He turned, feeling Tommo’s heavy palm on his shoulder.
“I’ve a gift for you if you’ll take it, Corin. Wait here a moment.” Tommo left Corin with Thunderhoof and faded off into the drizzle.
“Well, have you missed me?” Corin asked as he slung his worn saddle over Thunderhoof’s back and lashed the steel coat behind it. The horse just looked at him mournfully. “I thought not. Anyway, we’re off on our travels again.” Thunderhoof snorted. “Don’t ask,” continued Corin, shaking his head. “And don’t look at me like that. You know you will only get fat if you stay here.”
The blacksmith returned laden with a sack of supplies and a stout bow together with a quiver of twenty goose-fletched arrows. “Polin’s old hunting bow,” Tommo said. “I’m a crap archer, and besides, wherever you’re off to I’m sure you will need it, if only to bring down a deer for supper in the wild. It’s a good weapon made from yew. The shafts are ash and fly true.” Tommo thrust a meaty palm forward just as Kyssa reappeared and smiled across at him.
“Farewell, Corin, stay in one piece. And thank you once again.” Corin grasped the offered hand, thanked Tommo for the gifts. Kyssa he hugged and cuddled warmly for a minute longer than he should have, ceasing only when he noticed Tommo’s lowering expression. At that point, Corin hastily untangled himself from the grinning lass and heartily wished the pair well.
Thoughtful, he led Thunderhoof out into the lane. Corin was secretly delighted with the bow. He wasn’t an expert at archery, but it was a fine gift. He stowed the weapon in a holster fashioned for the purpose on the side of his saddle and slung the quiver across his back to hang alongside Clouter’s scabbard. Sure, he had a lot of clutter, but you needed such stuff to stay alive these days. At some point the bow would prove useful, he felt sure.
“Come on, big fellow.” Corin grinned, launching himself into the saddle and no longer caring about the rain. He felt raffish, adventurous. It wouldn’t last. “Let’s get some miles behind us before nightfall.” Thunderhoof snorted but obliged.
As Corin cantered east, the countryside changed little. The bleak moorland of central Fol offered small cheer for wayfarers, especially today. Now and then a stone dolmen loomed out the fog, but the spirits that dwelt therein were sleeping and Corin, relieved, passed them without event.
Dismal morning dwindled into sodden, dreary afternoon. Rain continued to drench both horse and rider. But as evening approached, the deluge finally ceased, and far behind in the west, the clouds broke to reveal a pale autumn sun.
Corin urged Thunderhoof on, heartened that the rain had ceased. He wanted to cross the river Fol before nightfall. That would allow him plenty of time to reach Waysmeet at the appointed time.
Some while later, Corin recognized an old standing stone and knew he was close to the river. Soon after that, the road became steep, winding sharply upward toward a rocky ridge. Cresting that, Corin stopped to observe the terrain. Some miles ahead, half occluded in a steep, wooded valley, glistened the twisted ribbon of the River Fol. Beyond the river, the dark hills of Kelthaine waited to greet him like a host of ill-tempered giants.
Corin abruptly reined in Thunderhoof as a sudden wash of uneasiness swept over him. He loosened Biter at his side and turned in his saddle to stare back down the road behind him.
Once again, that unpleasant feeling of being watched had crept upon him, but the road was empty, the only sound the constant sigh of wind through heather.
Corin shook himself into movement, goading Thunderhoof on until they reached the edge of the steep bank leading down to the river below. Gripping the stallion’s reins tight and leaning back on the saddle, Corin began descending the narrow track.
Once beneath the ridge Corin plunged into a dark mass of stunted oaks. Here it was much more sheltered and very quiet. He concentrated hard on negotiating Thunderhoof down the steep descent. Some way ahead there was a bend in the river, and at that point a ford had been constructed so a rider could cross without difficulty.
As horse and rider approached the ford, Corin tensed. He spotted movement below. Something stirred amongst the tumbled rocks strewn along the riverbank.
He peered closer.
There was someone moving at the water’s edge. A huddled figure garbed in featureless rags. Corin guessed it must be some old peasant woman scratching about, though why she was alone in this remote place gave him cause to wonder. There were no hamlets nearby. He stared closer. Beneath him he could feel Thunderhoof’s unease.
“Steady boy, easy now…”
Corin steered clear of the figure as he approached the nearest bank. Closer inspection revealed an old woman, emaciated and wretched. But that wasn’t all. There was something not quite right about her, and Corin felt the small hairs stiffen on the back of his neck.
“Come on, Thunder, let’s not linger here!” Corin dug his heels in, and the big horse commenced wading through the strong current. Corin gasped, feeling the icy water splash around his knees. He kept a constant watch on the ragged figure on the far bank. She was closer and appeared to be searching for something in the water. Her black rags were soaked as they trailed behind her in the rushing current. She seemed oblivious to horse and rider, so intent was she in her search.
After an icy time, Corin reached the far bank and shook the excess water from his garments. A wary glance in her direction revealed the old woman had seen him. She watched him in silence. Her face and features were buried beneath what had once been a shawl, though now it resembled nothing so much as a featureless sack.
Corin ignored her, willing Thunderhoof up the far bank in haste. He heard movement behind him and could feel the woman’s raven eyes boring into his back. He turned warily and, seeing nothing, faced forward again.
Shite!
The woman was standing right in front of him. How she had caught up so quickly Corin had no idea. Thunderhoof’s eyes rolled in fear and his nostrils flared.
“Steady, boy.…” Corin clung to the saddle desperately as the big horse reared in alarm.
“Let me pass, old woman!” Corin yelled at her. His knuckles were white as he gripped Biter’s bone hilt. “I mean you no harm!”
She didn’t reply, just stared up at him, oblivious of her rags dripping and pooling at her feet. Corin made to free Biter, but the woman raised a withered hand and pointed at him. Corin froze: her bony fingers were covered in blood.
“Heed my words, Corin an Fol, lest you ride to your death!” the old woman croaked, startling a host of distant starlings into sudden flight.
“What words, witch? I’ve no fear of you,” Corin lied.
“Seek out your father beyond the High Wall! He will need your help before the end!” Corin gagged at the stench radiating from her breath.
“My father is dead!” Corin yelled at her, watching in fascinated horror as the blood seeped down her spidery arm and came to rest in steaming puddles at her feet. Whose blood? Surely not hers.
“Dead, do you hear me, hag? Now, be gone, or I will put an end to you! I care nothing for your words, old woman!”
“Then you are a fool, Corin an Fol. Oroonin the Corpse Gatherer will claim you as his prize. He watches you with hungry eye!”
She reached out toward him like a lover and Corin backed Thunderhoof away in disgust. The horse’s eyes were wide with panic and he frothed at his bit.
“Oh, my sister will try to save you,” she cackled. “In her folly, she deems you worthier than you are. She is such a trusting soul. If I were younger...” She shrieked in delight at the horror in Corin’s eyes.
“Have a care, Corin an Fol. Enemies stalk you at every turn. Only with your father’s help can you avert the will of Caswallon and the evil one he serves.”
“Did you not hear, witch? I said my father is dead!” Corin’s face was bleak. “I have no other kin. I’m an orphan, cursed to travel these lands alone. You are mistaken, witch. Now, let me be!” He made a show of reaching for his sax again
, but she laughed until Corin dug his heels into Thunderhoof’s flank, urging the big horse up the steep bank into the woods beyond. The beast needed little encouragement.
Behind them the old women’s weasel laughter was dry as winter leaves.
“You disappoint me, son of Fol. I don’t know what Vervandi sees in you! Be careful lest Old Night come claim your soul!”
Corin covered his ears with his hands to dispel her dreadful cackle. He urged Thunderhoof gallop furiously toward the dark slopes ahead, but still the old crone’s horrible voice followed him.
“Have a care in the Forest of Dreams. Your way is already watched!” Corin wasn’t listening. He brought the sweating horse to a halt when he cleared the woods and crested another rise.
Summoning what courage he could muster, Corin stared down at river and ford, now far below. The witch had vanished from sight, but the dwindling echo of her laughter could still be heard rising above the distant gurgle of rushing water.
Corin an Fol, Corin an Fol… came the words. Corin urged Thunderhoof on as if the witch were strapped to his back, his head still reeling with her chilling words.
My father is dead, murdered years ago. He was my true father, there is no other!
Corin bid Thunderhoof maintain pace throughout that afternoon, but when evening beckoned he eased him back to a walk, allowing the horse to crop at tussocks along the way. Corin shivered as last light faded from the valley behind. He was back in Kelthaine and drew little comfort from the fact. From what Silon had told him, this was now enemy country, and no one he encountered could be trusted. Corin reached down and gave Thunderhoof a hearty pat.
“One last trot before bed, heh.”
As the horse’s hooves beat out the miles, the crone’s words danced around Corin’s head. He felt dizzy and tired. He wished he were back in The Last Ship with a hand up Holly’s thigh and the roaring fire to warm his soul. Gold and a Queen. Both factors had lost their appeal. Corin rode east into the deepening dark, and the shadows followed close behind.
Chapter 10: Fugitives
Beyond Fol, the hills of Kelthaine rise ever eastward until they meet the mountain range known as the High Wall. These towering heights march south for over three hundred leagues, from the Gap of Leeth to the river Liaho that borders the desert realm of Permio.
Beneath Kelthaine’s stark terrain lies Kelwyn, a country of round wooded hills and gentle mists, stretching from the ocean to the foothills of the High Wall. Thrust deep into a wooded vale at the mountains feet lies the silver city of Wynais, home of the royal house of Kelwyn. Wrought entirely of white granite, the city commands a fine view westward across fertile fields, toward the great glittering lake that shares its name.
It was the morning of the seventh day after Queen Ariane’s departure from the city. A lone figure looked out from a high balcony, his long ashen hair ruffled by the autumn breeze. Behind him the many rooms of the palace lay silent and still, for the hour was early.
Dazaleon leant heavily on his oak staff, weariness and worry wearing hard upon him. Another sleepless night. Even constant prayers to her Holiness had brought him little solace.
I shan’t find rest until I know she’s safe.
The High Priest let his gaze drift down from the lofty walls of the city to the distant water beyond. Autumn sunlight danced off the polished surface of Lake Wynais. Ripples drifted outwards, whilst the mountain’s reflections stared up from the water. Dazaleon cast his trained mind toward the reed-covered shoreline and down into the blue waters beyond, but the old spirit that dwelt beneath was asleep. Dazaleon found no answer in those beguiling depths. Perhaps there was no answer.
He looked up suddenly when the morning quiet was broken by the sound of brisk footsteps approaching rapidly from behind. Dazaleon recognized the crisp tread of Yail Tolranna, the newly appointed Captain of Guard. He sighed, being in no mood for confrontation today.
“A quiet morning, Captain Yail,” Dazaleon offered eventually. “Is all well in the city?”
The young captain coughed and shuffled awkwardly, averting his gaze from the High Priest, who watched him with those unsettling eyes.
“The people are uneasy, my lord,” Tolranna reported. “What with the bleak news from Kelthaine last week and our Queen’s sudden decision to vacate the city. They feel abandoned and alone.”
“Understandably so,” replied the High Priest. He placed a hand on the young captain’s shoulder. “Queen Ariane does what she must, Tolranna. The council approved of her actions—not that their disapproval would have stopped her.”
“But to journey north alone.” Yail tugged at his braided mane with characteristic zeal. “Was there no other way, Lord Dazaleon?”
“She is not alone.”
“But my brother, your eminence. You know what a wastrel he is.” Yail spat down at the gardens below. “And Galed the squire, of what use is he?”
“Queen Ariane chose Galed herself, she knows him well,” replied Dazaleon. “Do not underestimate his courage, captain.”
“I should have gone.” Yail wasn’t listening. He could never fully convince himself that his burning love for his Queen was purely driven by duty, despite his efforts in that direction.
“You are needed in the city whilst our champion’s away. You have been promoted, Tolranna. You should be honored.”
Dazaleon offered no more. Instead, he turned to resume his study of the lands beyond, ignoring the tension radiating from the young captain. Tolranna was like a cat on coals today.
Dazaleon would have preferred Tamersane as captain of guard. He knew both boys well and didn’t share Yail’s view of his younger brother. Tamersane was bright and resourceful, despite appearing indolent. It was all a charade—Tamersane laughed at life, but Dazaleon knew he had depth behind that sunny façade. Tolranna was too wooden, he meant well but lacked diplomacy. Still…
Below, a brisk shout announced it time to change watch and a score of blue-cloaked soldiers hastened out onto the battlements, their long spears shining in the sun. Yail leaned forward and rested his calloused hands on the rail. He thought of Tamersane, his younger brother, away questing with the Queen. It had always been thus; Tamersane had the adventures whilst he, Yail, carried the responsibility. Such was his lot in life.
Tolranna’s dark gaze narrowed, scanning the soldiers below and taking note of their actions as they talked casually amongst themselves. There would be a drill tomorrow, he decided, and by Elanion, there would be some sharpening up among the troops in Wynais. Roman had been too soft with them, and Yail was intent on making a name for himself.
Kelwynians weren’t natural warriors like their dour northern cousins; they shunned conflict, preferring to philosophize away the hours with soft music and wine, his brother a classic example. They were a light-hearted people, fun loving and intelligent, but Yail knew they would have been conquered long ago were it not for the vigilance of Kelthaine and the steadfast influence of the Tekara.
But his Queen was different. Her heart was solid steel. Her father’s daughter—strong, resilient, just like he’d been. Yet also beautiful and passionate, and Yail Tolranna would follow her into the pits of the Dark One himself.
But she was up there with Tamersane and Galed. Thank Elanion, Roman was with them.
It should have been me.
The new captain glanced down irritably at his gold embroidered tunic. He flicked invisible dust from his shoulder. It would not do to mope, for there was much to be done. He turned to leave, then hesitated. Two things still troubled him.
“What do you know of this Forest of Dreams, your eminence?” he enquired. “And what of this guide Silon spoke of, a common mercenary he met in the Permian wars. How do we know the man can be trusted?”
“We don’t,” responded Dazaleon, wishing the captain would depart and leave him to his thoughts. “But we have known Silon long enough to follow his guidance on this matter.
“As for the forest, what can I tell you? I have never been th
ere and know only this: that somewhere deep within its shadowy glades lies the answer to Queen Ariane’s Dreaming. But then, you know this also.”
“I”
“I will speak no more on this, captain. Good day to you.” Dazaleon showed his back, resumed his study of the lake.
“And to you, my lord.” Yail Tolranna fidgeted for a moment then spun on his heels and briskly vacated the balcony. Dazaleon sighed and leant harder on the rail.
Within minutes, the young captain emerged below to vent his frustration on the idle guards. The High Priest managed a slight smile; there would be more than one fellow with a thick lip and sore head by nightfall. Yail Tolranna was determined to make an impression.
Alone with his thoughts once more, Dazaleon let his mind wander, reach out to She who encompassed this green world…
Elanion, Goddess of Dreams, guide my Queen through her journey. My heart is heavy with foreboding that she rides into a trap!
Dazaleon closed his eyes, ignoring the keen breeze and instead focused on his inner vision. He trembled slightly, feeling the familiar rush of power surge through his veins. He summoned the fargaze…
Dazaleon’s dreamsight swept north to the border, where the river Kelthara wound its dancing course toward the sea. Beyond it lay troubled Kelthaine, mightiest of the Four Kingdoms, now ruled by a tyrant. His mind’s eye passed through the barren hills of that country, staying well away from the brooding towers of Kella. He shuddered at the dark sentience choking that distant city. Menace stalked those silent walls; an alien evil festered there, weaving its web with sable gossamer.
Dazaleon’s fargaze wandered north. Anxious, he sought the witch wood but found only the coast, where dark ships battled their way through restless seas. Beyond that loomed the cliffs of Fol. Dazaleon reached out further but found nothing…
***
Miles north, Ariane was feeling increasingly frustrated as she watched the two men battle with the horses. Their mounts had become more and more restless throughout the day and were now scarcely controllable.
