by J. W. Webb
Corin recalled the pretty child in the tree by the smithy. He winced. The bog faerie was related to those two? This was getting worse by the minute. Corin slung Biter in its scabbard and eased his hunting knife into his palm. He commenced oiling and wiping—anything to avoid those sharp, coaly eyes.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Corin muttered after a few minutes at the knife.
“Nor I,” Ariane agreed. “Mystery surrounds you, long-
swordsman.”
Corin was about to respond when Bleyne suddenly appeared at the entrance of the cave. The archer stood calmly watching them with his impassive gaze. The great wooden bow was slung diagonal across his back, together with a full sack of grey fletched shafts. His tattooed right hand rested on the bone handle of his long curved hunting knife. He’d traded his sumptuous cloak for one of faded fur-capped leather.
“We had best be leaving,” Bleyne announced. “I’ve scoured the lands north of the forest for brigands. I found several tracks leading away. Hopefully, they’re spooked enough and will return to Morwella.” Corin raised an eyebrow in the archer’s direction.
Not if I know Hagan, they won’t.
They snatched a hasty breakfast and broke camp quickly. Within minutes, they’d reassembled outside the cave. Ariane sighed as she left the Caverns of Caromanya. She doubted she would ever encounter such beauty again.
Outside, autumn sun spangled through the russet mantle of the forest. Corin glanced up. A strong breeze stirred the trees, and crusty leaves whirled and danced to the forest floor. It felt colder this morning. He wrapped the heavy green cloak about his shoulders, for once grateful he had it. The air carried the pleasant odor of leaf decay, and Corin shivered. Winter was approaching fast.
Bleyne guided them north throughout that cold morning. The archer had resumed his punishing pace, but after their rest they had no trouble keeping up. Even Galed was relatively cheerful. This part of the forest was rockier, more open. Great pines crested ridges, wuthering in the chilly breeze. They thinned like old man’s stubble as the terrain grew steeper.
At noon they topped a final ridge. The forest broke ranks behind them as if held fast by invisible bonds. The companions studied the new landscape ahead. It wasn’t a cheerful sight. Their way was blocked by brooding hills, stark to the eye after the lush canopy of the trees.
Corin turned on a whim, whispering farewell to the forest and she who resided within its demesne. For a moment he stood watching the multitude of trees swaying in the breeze and fading into hazy distance. He rubbed his scar and turned away.
To the north reared flinty hills. These were the grim heights that skirted Morwella. Beyond that troubled country heaved the Gulf of Leeth until it met the vastness of the country it was named for. A wild region that was rumored to be, a huge country ruled by bloodthirsty kings. Barin’s enemies. Leeth. Legend spoke of giants and trolls and of terrible dragons that guarded stolen gold in long forgotten caves. A few days ago Corin would have scoffed at the existence of such beings, but not now.
At least they were not going that way! Their journey led northwest, to the sea. It was only a half score miles from the northern fringes of the forest to Kelthaine’s rocky coast. The town of Kashorn lay hidden somewhere beyond those hills. They studied the road ahead for a while. In the middle distance a gap yawned between two hills. Through it showed a faint glimmer of water.
“That must be the Gulf of Leeth,” announced Corin. They had decided to stop for a brief lunch, and he had taken over as guide again from Bleyne, the archer having lost interest now that they had left the forest.
Corin was baffled and irritated by Bleyne’s attitude, his acceptance of everything and fey belief that the Goddess warded his every step. It wasn’t a consensus Corin subscribed to.
“Kashorn cannot be far,” he added, frowning at Bleyne. “Let’s hope the road isn’t watched.” He turned to Roman. “Do we dare it or else stab out across country?”
“Why not chance the road?” replied Roman. “That way we can be in Kashorn before evening settles. Hopefully Bleyne’s arrows have driven the mercenaries away for the moment. Let’s hope also that Barin’s ship is waiting. We can vacate port without much ado.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “We had best be careful, though. Kashorn might be watched.”
Ariane nodded in agreement. “We must be wary, yes. Those cutthroats could still be around.” She turned to Bleyne, who was leaning on his bow and scanning the hills with mild disinterest. “Did Elanion reveal anything about our journey to you?” she asked him.
The archer shrugged his shoulders. “The Goddess speaks in riddles. It is not my place to question her wisdom but rather to obey her.”
Corin and Roman exchanged skeptical glances, but neither spoke. Doubtless, the archer had his reasons for joining them aside from the Goddess’s wishes. They didn’t really swallow that devout stuff. They were fighters. They trusted cold steel more than riddles. Corin coughed. Enough conversation. Time to get moving again.
He set the pace, striding through tussocks of couch grass, leading them on toward the stark slopes ahead. Alone with his thoughts, Corin recalled his former life. Wenching and fighting had covered most of it, not much of a legacy, really. And now this trip…
“Come on Galed, keep up!” Corin turned back to vent his grouchiness on the squire, who as always was struggling several yards behind them. Galed muttered something obscene beneath his hood but quickened his pace nonetheless.
They reached the road. It was well trodden but in reasonable repair, and so their progress was good. To the north bulked the bleak hills of Morwella. This open country felt uncomfortably exposed after the security of the forest. Southward, the smaller hills of Kelthaine hurried to meet their bigger cousins, forcing the land into a narrow valley pierced by the grey twisting ribbon of the road.
Something about that valley felt wrong.
An invisible menace resonated from its stone-piled slopes. The way looked clear as far as they could see, but that did little to reassure them. Large boulders lay strewn and disorderly close to the path; each one could hide a dozen men. Smaller stones were scattered and piled across the ground like broken toys. These they would have to clamber over. It was not a comforting thought.
Corin and Roman exchanged a look, neither liking this place. Ariane looked worried and Galed stressed. Only Bleyne looked indifferent, casually content with his own thoughts.
As the five approached the valley’s entrance, their uneasiness grew into trepidation. Corin felt his skin crawl in a familiar way. He pictured a big ugly dog slavering over his sleeping body and shivered.
It were though they’d entered the invisible web of some insidious spider. Nobody spoke, their faces taught with tension. Galed’s teeth rattled noisily. Only Bleyne appeared relaxed, infuriatingly so, Corin thought.
Bastard isn’t afraid of anything.
Stone faced, Corin led the way into the valley’s cleft. Behind them the Forest of Dreams had dwindled into smudgy distance. Corin looked back that way, feeling a sudden compulsion. He started as movement caught his eye at the forest hem.
What’s that?
It was no more than a glint, but Corin knew they were being watched. He shielded his eyes and stared harder. Then Corin saw him. Hardly visible beneath the tree line—an old man wrapped in a billowing cloak, features shrouded by a wide-brimmed hat. The afternoon sun glanced off the polished tip of a spear. Corin turned away, muttering.
“What is it?” Roman had joined him and looked back at the forest. “Are we being followed, Corin?”
Corin shrugged. “I don’t know—just a feeling.”
The valley yawned to greet them. Through it the wind strengthened cold, accompanied by a new sound, the distant roar of breakers. The sea! Once past these hills they would arrive at the ocean, providing they got through these hills, Corin couldn’t help thinking.
The terrain was rough, the vista remote, and that bitter wind whistled down from the hills, whippin
g cloak, numbing faces, making eyes water. The oppressive feeling grew with every reluctant step they took.
It was a tangible thing, like the enchantment of Vaniel, only far more sinister. Each traveler, save perhaps Bleyne, suspected a hidden threat waiting nasty around the corner. Corin lead the way.
They entered the valley. A hostile cold hemmed them in. Galed swallowed incessantly as he struggled to keep his teeth together, whilst Corin and Roman scanned every nook and rock barring their way.
To their right towered the heights of Morwella, resembling cruel, crooked giants of stone. No one said a word. Roman and Corin kept their hands on their weapons, whilst Bleyne, his dark eyes alert and body tuned, calmly notched arrow to bowstring.
Behind him, Galed fingered his small axe and muttered obscenities. Ariane loosened her rapier in its scabbard. She stole cat-wary, now and then glancing anxiously up at the menacing slopes to either side.
A sharp cry, remote and cold. Looking up the Queen saw strange birds circling high above, their alien voices pitiless in that place.
“Those don’t look like eagles,” grumbled Roman glancing up.
“Come on!” Corin said. “Let’s keep moving.”
The atmosphere grew even colder. The wind’s icy fingers probed deep beneath their garments, chilling them to the bone. Stronger and stronger, it whipped through the rocky valley, howling painfully in their ears and sapping their resolve.
“This is no natural wind!” yelled Roman with a curse. “Something works against us!”
“Aye,” groaned Galed. “I don’t like this place.”
“Shut up!” yelled Corin without glancing back. “We’ve not far to go! Just keep your mouths shut and move faster.”
They quickened their pace to a trot. The wind heightened its pitch, drowning out the distant grind of the sea. To either side, the valley had closed in with sheer sides forcing them into single file.
Bleyne raised his voice above the wind’s din.
“There is someone blocking the road ahead,” he said, catching up with Corin and tugging his sleeve. “Who or what it is I cannot see!”
“No point seeking cover here!” shouted Roman, crashing into Bleyne’s back and knocking the smaller man off balance. Annoyance flashed briefly in the archer’s eyes but vanished inside a second.
Roman was straining to see through the twisting jumble of rocks. The wind tore at his face and his eyes streamed salty rivulets. “It has probably spotted us already!” Roman announced helpfully.
But Corin knew what it was. He pictured a snarling dog on two legs, and unslung Clouter from its scabbard. He also freed the knife beneath his sleeve and eased it into his left palm but almost dropped it, so sweaty was his hand. This feeling of dread was horribly familiar to Corin. The others looked terrified. Even Bleyne’s face appeared blanched.
Urgolais.
It was an Urgolais, for sure. Perhaps it was Morak himself. Corin felt certain this was the same ghastly entity that had been driven off by the Wild Hunt outside the inn.
Corin’s loathing replaced his earlier dread. Once again he was being confronted. This time his new friends were in danger too. They didn’t know this shithead, but he did. Anger boiled up inside him, fury at the hold this creature had had over him that night. And rage, witnessing the fear it wielded over his comrades.
Time to die, Dog Face!
With a shout Corin ran forward and, glancing round, was pleased to see Roman Parrantios close at his heel.
“Be wary!” hissed Bleyne, matching their pace with arrow ready and bowstring taut. “I fear this is no natural foe!”
“You’re fucking right there!” Corin told him.
They came close. Corin recognized the thin shape cowled in its black, lifeless cloak, the famished, scarred Dog Face with its long snout half protruding from the deep hood. The spook’s substance was hard to define; it shifted like smoke, seemed to crawl and cluster like an ants nest spilling open on a hot midsummer’s day.
Corin’s skin crawled too. He ignored the icy worms eating into his veins, shut out the mocking voice in the wind. He would not be overcome a second time. Corin an Fol would master this creep or die.
He controlled his breathing with practiced discipline and slowed to a walk, leveling Clouter at his tormentor’s exposed snout.
“Yes,” Corin said with a snarl. “I remember you, courtyard lurker! Morak is it? Who cares? Giant dog turd you are. This time you don’t spook me. This time I’m ready!”
“Is it Groil?” gasped Roman, now at Corin’s side, his heavy blade gripped in either palm. The champion’s beard was coated with frozen sweat and his eyes were wide and staring.
“Something much worse.” Corin fingered the knife in his left hand. “Look out. Here it comes!”
They fanned out to confront the creature, the path being just wide enough for the three to stand abreast. Behind them forgotten stood Galed and the Queen. Ariane, steeling her nerves, ran to join them, followed by the terrified, panting Galed, who didn’t want to be left on his own. The squire’s teeth rattled in time with the wind.
“Your Highness, get back!” snapped Roman as Ariane pushed alongside. “We need room to swing!” Roman blocked her path with his big sword, stepping between her and the spook. Dog Face was scarce yards away, approaching fast with weird jerky movements.
“What the fuck is that thing?” Ariane hissed in Bleyne’s ear, ignoring her champion’s protestations.”
“An Urgolais, one of the witchy people,” replied the archer, pulling back his bowstring until the arrow’s fletch brushed his right earlobe.
“Here it comes!”
As Bleyne spoke, the creature’s smoky essence congealed before their eyes. It was weirdly tall and thin, emaciated even. Black cloak and hood clung to its brittle frame like a bat’s broken wings, and the dog snout twitched as though hungry for their scent. It halted a score of feet away, blocking their path.
It spoke something then, a guttural unpronounceable word. Then the hood slipped back from its head, revealing sickly yellow eyes and curved jagged teeth beneath that wolf-like snout.
The face was horrific. It didn’t resemble a dog at all, Corin realized, but a thing beyond description, with blackened scabby skin, human ears pierced with spikes and needles, and whirls and scars and pockmarks burnt deep into its flesh. Worse than that it stank like rotting road kill on a blazing hot day.
Fear assaulted them all. Ariane gasped as her fingers failed to hold her hilt. She watched silent as her blade clattered on the rocky earth. Galed weeping sunk to his knees, retching and puking, and Roman cursed as both callused hands failed to stop his broadsword from slipping from his grip.
Dark clouds smothered the valley. The hills shook with sudden thunder, and the wind shrieked and bludgeoned them with invisible fists of iron.
“I’m done with this,” announced Corin, facing down the creature with an iron will he hadn’t realized he possessed. He stepped forward, hurled his knife. Beside him Bleyne’s bowstring snapped taught, the shaft bolting free.
Roman, yelling expletives, regained his weapon and ran forward to confront their foe. He stopped short, momentarily blinded, as lightning struck the road ahead.
A wailing shriek trailed off down the valley followed by distant hollow murmurings. They froze, mouths gaping, unable to speak over the din. More lightning bolts speared rocks and stone, searing grass and scorching shrub; one struck Roman’s cloak, singeing his collar and sending him spinning.
Thunder boomed in their ears, and icy hail whipped their faces raw. Boom, boom, the thunder deepened. The valley shuddered and quaked. Rocks broke free from the steep sides of the hills. A stony torrent, they cascaded down upon the stricken mortals, some coming to rest scarce feet away. Of their tormenter there was no longer any sign.
Corin was the first to recover, his rage giving him strength.
“Come on!” he yelled as the rocks crashed and rolled, threatening to cut off their escape. The thunder deafened them.
It creaked and crackled overhead like a massive chariot driven by a reckless god.
Corin lifted Galed to his feet, shaking the witless squire back to life. He could see that the poor fellow had soiled himself. “We will be crushed to death!” he told him. “Quickly man. Get your arse mobile! Kashorn cannot be far!” Galed blinked up at him, then nodded.
“I’m all right,” he said.
Behind him Ariane rocked on her knees, her hands covering her ears.
“Are you all right, Queen?” asked Roman amid gasps. He helped Ariane regain her feet.
“I’m fine, Roman,” she lied. “Don’t fuss me! Just let’s get out of here!” Her jaw dropped. “Look out!” she cried as a great rock thundered down and her champion barely hauled her out of harm’s way.
They fled.
Above and behind, the hills boomed and echoed with the roar of tumbling stone. They ran like hunted game. Corin glanced skyward, braving the hail. He thought he saw faces carved in the hills. Cruel faces, stone giants stirring from timeless slumber, furiously seeking to crush the pathetic creatures that dared scurry like beetles below.
And up yours, too!
Breathless, drenched by melting hail and sweat, they reached the end of the valley as a final rock crashed behind, exploding on the road and blocking any possible return.
They left the valley behind, found sanctuary in the lee of a low rise, its heathery crown ringed by stunted trees.
As they panted and glared, the wind eased back, the clouds departed, and a pale sun reappeared, raising their rattled spirits. The hills still glowered at them, daring them return. A tepid but welcome warmth returned to the land, and a lone blackbird chided bravely in the twisted pines above.
They had escaped the valley, but Corin couldn’t help but wonder what was next.
Chapter 16: Kashorn
They took stock, regaining breath and calming racing nerves. Galed couldn’t control his shivering. He looked thoroughly wretched. Corin felt some sympathy for the squire, recalling the first time he had encountered that horror and how it had given him the willies too.
