by J. C. Staudt
Halfway through the meal, Darion got a wistful look in his eye and asked, “Have Master Triolyn and I ever told you about the time we—”
“Yes,” Draithon interrupted. “Yes, I’m certain you have. Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ve told me about it.”
Darion paused. Then he grunted and went back to his food.
“I found this today,” Draithon said, handing his father the ovular stone.
Darion held it before the fire for inspection. “Whereabouts?”
“I was retrieving an arrow, and I noticed it lying in the dirt all by itself.”
“It couldn’t have been there long, then. The rain would’ve buried it.”
“What do you think it is?”
“It looks like some sort of primitive talisman. Couldn’t tell you from where, though. Untouched peoples have been living in the wild places of the realms for centuries. This could be a relic from an ancient society, or one nearer our own. Probably worthless, but one never knows. Hold onto it. A memento.” He handed it back.
“Let me see that,” said Triolyn, setting his bowl aside. He studied it in the fire with an inquisitive look. “I know what this is. It’s a madstone.”
“What’s a madstone?”
“They form in the stomachs of deer and other leaf-eaters. There are legends about these stones and the sorts of creatures who make them. Pure white stags and the like. Some say they’re otherworldly; to catch sight of one is a lucky omen. Should you hunt one down and steal its madstone, carry it with you and you’ll be safeguarded against illness. Poisons, and such.”
“I’ve no idea what sort of creature this one came from,” said Draithon. “I found it on the ground. Must not be very lucky. What do the markings mean?”
“Folk will oftentimes carve protective runes into the stones to enhance their potency. Looks as though someone found this lucky once. Mayhap it’ll rub off on you.”
“Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me,” said Darion.
“If a spellsword calls it nonsense, nonsense it must be.”
Darion gave the archer a curious look. “Surely you aren’t admitting you actually believe in such tales? I’ve never taken you for a superstitious man.”
“There’s superstition, and then there’s folklore.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The one is built on fear, the other on things passed down; traditions sprung from old truths.”
“One might consider religion a kind of folklore, yet you’re skeptical enough about the gods.”
“I’ve never disparaged the existence of the gods. Only their propensity for meddling in our affairs.”
“You think they idle about in the heavens the day long without a care for our lives?”
“I think they’ve got better things to do.”
“You are a man of many contradictions, Triolyn.”
The archer shrugged. “I know what I’m about. Can’t be bothered if no one else does. Anyhow, an interesting find. Well done, lad.” He tossed the madstone back to Draithon.
Draithon rubbed the grooved surface with his thumb. Strange to think this might’ve formed inside the body of a living creature. Even if it was just an ordinary stone, it was intriguing. Perhaps he would keep it just in case.
On the other hand, the stone reminded him of the elk he’d missed, and remembering the elk dampened his spirits. They would’ve met their quota today if only he’d loosed a better shot. Instead they were stuck out here for however long it might take to fill out their stores. When the deep snows of winter came, he knew he would be thankful to have venison stew and pork shoulder and roast turkey instead of an empty cellar. Yet he would sooner be spending his days studying spells and adding notes to his journal. He’d found scant opportunity for spellcraft while sitting silent in the bush.
When I’m old enough to leave home, I’ll go someplace with lots of people, he promised himself. A big city, where I’ll be sure to find others like me. Draithon knew why they lived so far from it all. He’d noticed how the adults took precautions whenever they ventured into town. They were outlaws in hiding. Unjustly accused, yet unable to absolve themselves of wrongdoing in the king’s eyes.
As unfortunate as their predicament might be, Draithon himself had never done anything to deserve exile. He wasn’t guilty of treason or murder, and he’d seen enough of all this hunting and trapping and survivalism to satisfy. He wanted to meet new people. To understand them. To feel what they felt, and dream as they dreamt. He belonged apart from the trees and animals and the terrible beasts and wicked races of creatures who knew no society or order or culture; he had no doubt of it.
“You mentioned you were retrieving an arrow,” said Darion. “How did the day’s hunting go for you?”
He finally asks. “I didn’t see a thing all day. Only a few songbirds and a woodchuck running for his den.”
“Curious. That platform is usually one of our best spots. Better luck on the morrow.”
Luck won’t make me a better bowhunter, Draithon thought sourly. “I hope so.”
“Why did you loose an arrow if you didn’t see anything?” Triolyn asked.
The question caught Draithon short. “I—I was only practicing.”
“Practicing with my good arrows? The ones with the broadhead tips of castle-forged steel, of which only a few remain to us?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think you’d ruin it? Or you didn’t think it was worth waiting for a real animal to show up?”
“I didn’t think it was so big an issue.”
“Triolyn has the right of it, son. Arrows of this quality are hard to come by. That’s why we reserve them for the hunt. You ought to be more careful with them.”
Draithon hung his head. It was too late to recant his story now. No doubt he’d get another earful for his trouble. “I’ll be more careful, Father.”
“Say, why don’t you and I man that perch together tomorrow while Master Triolyn goes off on his own? Who knows, maybe we’ll have better luck working as a pair. What do you say?”
Draithon would’ve groaned but for the strident howl which pierced the night air at that very moment. The sound was loud, nearer than the ones they’d heard on evenings prior. His blood turned to ice.
“Timber wolves,” said Triolyn. “They’re close. Seems they’ve found a way into the Table. They’ll be moving through our hunting grounds, I’ll wager. Competing with us for game. Not to fear, lad. They never attack unless they’re desperate, and there’s plenty of game in these woods for all.”
Draithon had seen wolfpacks crossing the plains near the hamlet a time or two. The nearest they’d ever come was to observe the houses with marked curiosity before moving off to other haunts. He wasn’t afraid of them. Not with steel and fire and magic on his side.
After supper Darion passed around one of the ale skins he’d been saving. Soon they’d forgotten about the wolves and were nodding off toward sleep. When they ducked into the lean-to shelter and climbed onto their bedrolls, Draithon was out in seconds.
He was awoken by the sound of footsteps in the dry leaves. It was dark. Moonlight shone mottled through the swaying trees. The only other light was the glow of the embers in the fire pit. Draithon propped himself on his elbows to scan the forest around him. Father lay to his left, snoring. Triolyn was on his right, breathing slow, heavy breaths.
Something moved off in the trees, slipping past a sliver of moonlight. Draithon sat up fully and almost reached over to wake his father, then thought better of it. If the wolves were encroaching, perhaps drawn by the aroma of the smokehouse, he could scare them off himself.
He crawled out of the lean-to shelter and belted on his sword. He began to sing a spell to himself as he approached the fire pit, intending to take up a burning brand. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see a huge gray shape circling to his left. Another moved right, through the trees toward the smokehouse.
Draithon
finished his spell. He frowned when the mage-song appeared before him nearly too faint to see. When he took it in hand, it flickered weakly. He searched the fire pit, but the best branch he could find bore only a few inches of ash beneath a glowing red cherry.
The wolves closed in. One of the horses gave a frightened scream and bucked on its tether, shaking the branches of the tree standing over the camp. Draithon looked from the horses to the lean-to, then to the smokehouse. His spell could only protect one of the three, and the mage-song was dying off quickly. If he could wake the others, the horses might hold their own against the wolves for a time.
“Wolves,” he shouted. “Father. Master Triolyn. Wolves.”
He hurled his spell at the smokehouse. The mage-song struck the wooden siding and spread across its surface to cloak the whole of it in a dull yellow shroud. The first wolf who came to sniff at the door yelped and drew back. The shroud began to fade. Draithon drew his sword and moved to defend the smokehouse.
Darion and Triolyn stirred in their bedrolls, still drowsy and trying to make sense of the commotion. Draithon shouted at them again, half to get them moving and half to startle the wolf he was approaching. The animal bared its teeth and growled, refusing to back off.
Draithon began another spell and heard his father do the same. Triolyn scrambled for his weapons as wolves emerged from the shadows to harry the lean-to from every side. The horses whinnied and stamped, desperate to escape their leads and flee under the threat of snapping jaws.
Triolyn delivered a well-placed arrow to send one wolf away whining, only to be flanked by two more. The pack numbered at least a dozen full-grown animals by Draithon’s count. When his protective shroud faded from the smokehouse walls, he feinted a sword thrust at the waiting animal in hopes of breaking its nerve.
The wolf flinched but held its ground. Draithon flung his spell, only to watch it sputter and die before reaching its target. When the wolf lunged at Draithon’s leg, he sprang back and felt a scrap of his leggings tear away. The wolf wrung the cloth between its teeth and tossed it aside. A second wolf skulked from the shadows to Draithon’s left, forcing him up the rise and away from the smokehouse.
“Forget the meat,” Darion called, holding off an encroaching wolf with a sword slash. “Something’s wrong. The mage-song refuses to be summoned.”
“I know,” Draithon yelled, backing toward the lean-to. “What are we going to do?”
“What we must.”
Darion made a dash for the horses, leaving Triolyn unprotected from behind. A huge black wolf leapt onto the archer’s back and sent him toppling forward. Wolves converged on him, tearing at flesh and clothing alike. Draithon clambered up the slope and waded into the gray morass, hacking and swinging with sword and firebrand. He skewered the wolf on Triolyn’s back through the flank, then gave a second wolf a heavy blow across the snout with his smoldering branch.
Triolyn drew his knife and slashed wildly, kicking his attackers away before picking himself up off the ground. Blood flowed from a dozen tooth and claw wounds across his arms and legs. “Get yourself ahorse,” he screamed. “I’ll deal with the rest of them.”
“Don’t be daft,” Draithon shouted back. “I’m not leaving you here. We’ll go together.”
“Not without my bow.” Triolyn bent to pick up the weapon, reeling back as a wolf lunged so close it nearly took off his nose.
Back to back, they fought their way up the slope toward the big winnower tree where Darion lay on a shoulder-high branch, attempting to untie the horses. So far the animals had put up a stout defense, but their tangled leads were proving a nuisance. When Darion got them loose, he dropped into his saddle and stampeded down the hill with the other two leads in hand.
Draithon and Triolyn were nearly there.
“Ready?” Triolyn called back to him. “On three.”
They counted, fled, and leapt to horseback as Darion came down the hill to meet them. A wolf clamped its jaws around the foreleg of Draithon’s horse, sending the animal into a bucking frenzy. Draithon could only hold on as it kicked the wolf away and barreled down the slope, charging through the wolves gathered round the smokehouse and scattering them like pigeons.
No sooner was he through than the wolves regrouped to dig at the walls and scratch at the door. One wolf managed to jam its snout inside and force the door open.
Then it was over. The whole pack swarmed the hanging meat, tearing it from the racks and shaking the smokehouse on its meager foundations. Meanwhile, Darion and Triolyn circled the camp to meet Draithon on the other side, where he’d succeeded in slowing his wounded horse to a halt.
“What are we supposed to do now?” asked Triolyn. “I’ve got my bow, but no arrows. You’ve got your swords, but no magic. The horses are spooked, and I don’t recommend we return on foot, lest we be mauled to our deaths. My thanks to you, Draithon. You’re the only reason I’m sitting here, bleeding or no.”
“I must offer you my regrets,” said Darion, appraising the archer’s wounds. “I left you vulnerable.”
Triolyn waved away the apology. “We were all thinking on our toes. We did what needed done. Without the horses we’d all be finished. Else we’d be up in that tree right now, looking down on all our hard work gone to waste.”
Just as he said the words, the smokehouse went down in a heap of kindling. Wolves yelped and whimpered, growling and snapping as they fought to escape the fallen timber with their ill-gotten gains.
“I’ve never seen wolves behave like this before,” said Darion. “For a pack of healthy, well-fed animals to fight off three men and horses for a few game carcasses is unprecedented. Alas, we’ve but two choices now. Either we leave while we’ve got the chance, or we wait around to see what they do next.”
“I’m for leaving,” said Triolyn, “though I don’t like it. With a full quiver and a sturdy branch to stand on, I’d feather every last one of the bloody bastards.”
“Let’s head to higher ground. Come back in the morning. See what’s left once they’ve gone.”
Triolyn scowled. “Little, I expect.”
“We’ll be able to retrieve our belongings, if not our foodstuffs. I’m sorry things turned out this way, Draithon. I wanted better for you on this hunt. Seems we’ll have to leave off home for now and come back again before winter.”
“It’s alright, Father. I’m only glad things didn’t end worse.”
“Let’s get moving and ensure they don’t. You’ll want to have those wounds looked at, Triolyn.”
“These?” He grunted. “Naught but a scrape or two.”
They started off through the dark wood, where every sound and shadow seemed to conceal some terrible nightmare. When they’d covered half a league with the moon their only light, they tethered the horses and set about building a fire. Triolyn produced flint and steel from his belt pouch, but Darion stopped him.
“I want to try lighting it with a spell,” he explained. “What happened earlier was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Something is interfering with the mage-song. Now that we’ve put some distance between us and the camp, maybe things will have changed.”
Triolyn tucked the implements back into his pouch. “Have at it, then.”
Darion chanted the sigils of a simple fire spell, which Draithon recalled was one of the first he’d been taught as a child. Darion sang each sigil loud and strong into the nighttime forest, yet only the faintest glow of mage-song appeared when he was done. It was enough to start the fire, but it died shortly after he took it in hand.
After they’d built the fire to a respectable blaze, Darion insisted Triolyn remove his tunic and leggings so he could examine the many scratches and bite marks he’d sustained. “There are wounds here deeper than scrapes.”
“Bugger off. I’m fine.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll dress them once we’ve retrieved the supplies in the morning. They’ll fester otherwise.”
“Have it your way.”
They slept on the hard grou
nd with only the cinders to warm them. Draithon woke several times upon hearing wolf howls in the distance. A few times he found Triolyn and Father lying awake too. When the sun rose neither man looked particularly rested, and Draithon didn’t feel it either.
They rode back to the campsite, where they found their food stores picked over and their carefully prepared game carcasses reduced to pink-stained bone. The other supplies were intact though, so Darion forced Triolyn’s compliance and dressed his wounds with thick salve and bandages. Triolyn griped all the while.
“That’s that, then,” Darion muttered when they’d packed what remained of their supplies and knocked down the lean-to shelter. “We’ll head home to regroup and find out whether the others have encountered similar troubles with the mage-song.”
“These things itch,” Triolyn complained, working his shoulder against the bandages.
“Deal with them. It’s a long way home, and you’re not to remove them until I’ve put fresh ones on.”
“I’ll remove them when I please. I’m no child.”
Darion smirked. “You might’ve fooled me.”
The day’s journey through the upland pass and into the densely forested surrounds of the Wayfarer’s Table proved more difficult than expected. Despite the looming chill of autumn, the foliage had flourished in the short weeks since their arrival. Late in the afternoon they came to the path where Draithon had blighted a way through the undergrowth. He knew Father had been dreading the spread of the blight, but such worry proved unfounded.
Instead of an expanded swath of decay, they found the way blocked by vibrant green leaves and healthy brown soil. Strong roots bulged from the earth; flowering groundcover blanketed the waysides in tiny purple blooms. Branches and brambles crisscrossed the path, forming a barrier thicker still than a few weeks prior.
“I must be bloody seeing things,” said Triolyn, blinking.
“You’re not. This forest is reclaiming its lost ground. It’s snuffed out the blight as though it never existed.”
“How?” Draithon asked.
“It’s the madstone,” said Triolyn. “Poisoned with ill luck.”
