The Harrowing Path

by Cleave Bourbon

  Kimala scanned the area until she saw a dense group of dead trees in the distance. “In those trees,” she said. “Let’s make for them before the Defenders catch us.”

  “The Defenders? Do they not patrol the woods as well?” Bhavare asked.

  “The Blight is vast. I’m sure we will be gone by the time they patrol this area; besides, we are too close to the Enforcers’ keep for them to even worry about us.”

  “I hope you are right. I do not wish to be captured and thrown into a dungeon any more than I want to be eaten by that dragon.”

  “Bhavare, after I talk to our contact it is likely I will be taken away from you. I think you should find a hiding place and wait for me to contact you. We will need to get away from The Blight very quickly if our plans do not go as we foresee them.”

  “It may help if I know what the plan is, mistress,” Bhavare said.

  Kimala wrinkled her nose at the statement. “Help who, certainly not you. If you knew the plan and were captured, you would have knowledge that could get you killed.”

  “Good point, forget I asked.”

  “All is forgotten.” She knew Bhavare did not quite believe her explanation.

  The remainder of the day the two travelers sat under cover of the trees but did not talk to each other much. Kimala revisited her plans in her mind, and Bhavare entertained himself by scratching patterns in the dirt with a stick. At last, Kimala deemed it dark enough to proceed, and Bhavare began to search out a suitable hiding place. Kimala approached the keep at a full run once she cleared the trees. Two startled guards stopped her as she tried to run through the gates.

  “Halt, woman, what is your business here?” the left guard said.

  Kimala spoke in her most severe and desperate tone. “You presume to hinder me? I am Kimala, mistress of Naneden. He has gone mad, and I am here with a warning for Sir Yarbrille.”

  “What sort of warning?” the first guard asked.

  “Of an attack on the keep and on The Blight,” she said pleadingly. “Let me go to him. You are all in grave danger.”

  The two guards looked at each other for a long moment and then the second guard spoke. “I will take her and send Fanteen to replace my watch.” The first guard nodded. “This way, mistress,” the guard said, leading Kimala into the keep.

  The entranceway to the keep was a wide foyer with tapestries and implements of war lined along both sides. It led to an inter-chamber, which in turn entered into a large council room. At the rear of the council room was a long table with five men sitting behind it. The guard stopped and stood before the men. Kimala looked around the chamber; several columns supported the domed ceiling and in between each column stood a marble statue of people Kimala did not recognize.

  “What is your purpose here?” the man seated in the middle asked the guard.

  “I have brought you a messenger from Scarovia. She claims to be Naneden’s mistress bearing an advance warning of an imminent invasion.”

  “I never said invasion,” Kimala spoke up. “I said attack.”

  The guard became irritated. “All right then, she has news of an attack.”

  “What kind of attack?” one of the council members asked.

  “I will show you,” she said, taking a tome from her pack. “I have the plans right here.” She held up the book. “May I approach?”

  The council member seated at the middle of the table dismissed the guard and motioned for Kimala to approach the table. Kimala handed the tome over to the council member.

  “This tome appears to be a grimoire, mistress. Is it your intent to cast a spell over the Enforcer council?” The other council members gasped in shock at the tome.

  “How dare you bring items relating to the outlawed magic arts into this chamber,” another council member said. “Arrest her, Yarbrille, and throw her in the dungeon.”

  Kimala’s eyes narrowed with contempt at the belligerent council member.

  “Quiet, Jacum,” Yarbrille said in a raised voice.

  Kimala opened the book to a middle page that did indeed seem to be plans for attack by Dramyds. “You see, I tell you the truth; now read the caption there.” She pointed to some small writing at the bottom of the page. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead as she realized Yarbrille was reading it silently.

  “Well, what does it say, Yarbrille?” the far left council member asked.

  “It does not make much sense. It says something about a tree.”

  No one seemed to notice Kimala smile and take a step back.

  “What about a tree?” the council member asked.

  Yarbrille stiffened with irritation at the questioning. Then he read:

  “a tree in the forest is tall and true, chop it down and the army gets through, to see it fall is the doom of the keep, the Enforcers will soon sow what they reap.”

  Kimala jumped backward at the word reap, and Yarbrille realized he had read an incantation a moment too late. He stood to counter it, but again he was too late. In a flash of light, a blue, sparkling swirl, the council members all vanished. Kimala smiled with satisfaction. “I thought that old bugger would never read it aloud.” She walked to the only window in the chamber and opened it outward to a small balcony. A black creature stood there in the darkness. “It is done, Drasmyd Duil, where are the rest of your kind?”

  The creature did not move but in a raspy, guttural voice answered, “I have sent for them. They will soon be here. Your secret is secure.”

  “I have risked much for this; I wish you to realize that.”

  The creature’s voice became louder. “You will get your rewards soon enough, vile witch, now leave my sight and prepare yourself to receive the master.”

  “Naneden comes here?”

  The black creature laughed his unnatural laugh. “No, not Naneden. Drakkius. Drakkius comes to the Enforcers’ keep.”

  Kimala sneered. “Even better.”

  “Did he not instruct you to come here and do this deed?” the Drasmyd Duil asked.

  Kimala cocked an eyebrow. “He did, but he did not say why. I thought Naneden must have been behind it since he involved the tome,” she lied.

  “Step aside now, witch, and let me do my work.”

  Kimala let the Shadow Lurker slither past her, not knowing whether it believed her lie or not, but she expected it did not.

  Chapter 26: Shades in the Dead Forest

  In all directions lay ruin and lifelessness; The Blight had not known life for one thousand years. Vast forests of dead trees and broad patches of lifeless grass on either side of the path made Devyn feel uncomfortable and, to some degree, sad knowing the land was once vibrant and alive. No birds sang, no crickets chirped, not a creature stirred. Dicarion led the party on until nightfall and then stopped to make camp at the edge of a dead forest. The light of the full moon cast ominous shadows, and Devyn was glad when Gondrial started a warm fire at the center of camp.

  After a quick supper of dried beef and biscuits, Devyn watched Ianthill pack his pipe with tabac and light it with a burning twig. Thick puffs of sweet-smelling smoke filled the air around him, and he sat back against a fallen log, relaxing for the first time in a long while.

  “Ah, I wonder if I might borrow some of that fine tabac, Ianthill,” Dicarion asked.

  “Certainly,” Ianthill replied, handing his tabac pouch to the old man.

  “It has been far too long since I enjoyed a good smoke. Not many sailors bring good tabac to the docks of Old Symbor,” Dicarion said as he packed his long-curved pipe.

  Vesperin retreated to his prayers, and Rennon stayed near Gondrial.

  “Come, Rennon, we will scout around a bit,” Gondrial said. Rennon nodded, and the two disappeared into the dead woods.

  Being alone with the two old wizards made Devyn uncomfortable at first until he realized it was what they had intended. He moved to join the two elders, and Ianthill produced an extra pipe from his robes. He packed it and handed it to Devyn, who sat next to another fallen log cl
osest to Ianthill.

  “I know of your wishes, Devyn, and of your sacrifice. Your friends will not understand at first, but if they are true friends, they will come around.”

  “I hope what you say is true, Ianthill,” Devyn answered.

  Dicarion let out a great puff of smoke. “The way of the wielder is often lonely. Make sure you know what your full intent is before you take on that responsibility.”

  “I do understand it. I have always been fascinated by it. I feel a pull to it within my soul.”

  “Morgoran has foreseen this; he spoke of you over one hundred years ago. He said you were the blood of the ancient kings,” Ianthill said amusingly between puffs of smoke.

  “Me? How is that possible?”

  “How is anything possible? It just is,” Ianthill stated bluntly. “If you descend from Marella Arden, then it is true because she was a princess and heir of a long line of kings.”

  Dicarion eyed the young apprentice. “Do you know what you are getting yourself into, boy?”

  “No, not really,” Devyn replied stoically. Devyn was not about to give the two wielders an opening.

  “There is always so much mistrust from the Symborian folk. Are there any questions you wish to ask us while you have the chance?” Ianthill asked.

  Devyn decided to ask the obvious. “Who is the more powerful, you or Dicarion?”

  Ianthill laughed at the question, which surprised Devyn. “Power is in the eyes of the beholder, each to his own gifts. Dicarion is a different kind of wielder than I.”

  “Who can cast the most powerful spells then?”

  Ianthill puffed his pipe. “Surely you can think of better questions to ask than these.”

  “No, not really, I want to know.”

  Dicarion also puffed out a bellow of white smoke. “I will answer the boy, Ianthill. The most powerful spell is blackfire. It is not only the most powerful and the most destructive but also the costliest to cast.”

  Devyn was confused. “The costliest? How does it cost you?”

  Dicarion grinned. “Essence, my boy, all magic uses essence, and blackfire draws more than the land can withstand. You see, not only does it drain all the essence around you to cast, but if it doesn’t find enough essence in its surroundings, it will use the essence of the caster and his nearest companions. Friend or foe, it doesn’t distinguish between the two.”

  “What happens if it uses the life essence of the caster?”

  “If the caster is skilled enough in its use, it will only drain him, and then he is vulnerable. If he is not skilled, it will put him in a deep sleep, a sleep of the dead. Sometimes the caster will awaken and sometimes he dies. If the caster has no skill, the blackfire will kill him as soon as he tries to use it. I would suggest that you never try to use it at all.”

  “What does blackfire do exactly?” Devyn asked.

  “Some things are best left to the imagination. I would not tempt you with an explanation of how it works,” Dicarion answered. “Just don’t take it lightly and do not try it until you gain a bit of skill. No, a lot of skill!”

  Ianthill nodded in agreement. “Enough about the blackfire. What is on your mind, Devyn?” Ianthill asked sharply.

  “I just wanted to know...” A strange noise behind him interrupted his train of thought. “Did you hear that?”

  Dicarion sat up alert. “It came from behind Devyn, in the tent.”

  Ianthill sat back, puffing on his pipe. “It’s probably just Parlane and the Defenders returning from patrol, or Gondrial playing tricks again.”

  Devyn stood up from the fire and slowly stalked around his tent, then stopped.

  “Be careful, boy, it could be a wild animal,” Ianthill cautioned.

  Dicarion scoffed. “In the Blight? I don’t think so.”

  Ianthill did not reply; instead he puffed his pipe again. He winked at Dicarion who nodded back at him.

  “Why don’t you go and find out what it is, boy.” Dicarion said. “We are both right here to help if need be.”

  Devyn reached the rear of his tent. He realized the dead forest beyond had become quite ominous as the cloak of night descended upon the land. The leafless branches reached into the dimly lit sky like twisted arms pleading to a silent god for redemption. The moon was still low and orange in the sky as low clouds began to roll in above the trees. A feeling of dread welled up in him as Devyn searched for the source of the noise behind his tent. The sound occurred again, and Devyn reached out with his mind to it. Immediately, Devyn reeled his mind back. He had touched the core of evil. His senses burned, and his nose began to run red with blood. Dizzily he stumbled back to the fire where Ianthill and Dicarion jumped to his aid.

  “Something is out there, something bad,” Devyn said, still feeling dizzy.

  Ianthill looked to the direction Devyn had indicated and then turned back to Dicarion. “That’s not what I had planned! Something really is out there. Do you feel that Dicarion?” he asked.

  Dicarion handed Devyn a white cloth for his bleeding nose. “I do now. Something is indeed wrong, and I think the Defenders have been ambushed.”

  “I feel it as well. Get rid of that fire before we are next,” Ianthill said. “I’m sorry my boy, I had a low essence incantation ready for you to explore behind the tent, but I have apparently drawn something else to us by constructing it.”

  “What is it?” Devyn asked.

  Dicarion flinched. “I can’t say. Something stirs in the dark of the forest though.”

  Devyn shook his head to clear it. “What of Rennon and Gondrial?”

  Ianthill extinguished the fire by kicking dirt over it. “Gondrial can take care of himself.”

  Dicarion hunched down low beside Devyn’s tent and pointed into the forest. “There, I see movement.”

  Devyn squinted in the darkness and saw something white fluoresce between the trees. It glided along as a boat on a clear pond, trailing white mist behind it. “What is it?”

  “An abomination,” Dicarion said. “Creations of a twisted mind bent on destruction. Toborne used them as generals for his cursed army. Clerics of the War of the Oracle defeated them at great cost of life, and the mindwielders were completely decimated by them. They are called Shades.”

  Ianthill said a curse under his breath. “I thought their kind had been exterminated by the mindwielders.”

  “Mindwielders?” Devyn asked. “That’s what I was going to ask you. I heard you use that term before. What is a mindwielder?”

  Ianthill looked as if he had eaten something sour, and Devyn realized he had not intended to bring them up in the first place. Ianthill shook his head and pursed his lips irritably. “They were the forbearers of what you call wild magic. Their art was lost when the last one died on the battlefield. No one knows how their art works now.” He paused and then sighed, “Well, except Dicarion, he is the last true mindwielder. I wasn’t going to tell you, but you need to know. He can get rid of the shade.”

  A sudden revelation struck Devyn. “So that is what Morgoran meant when he told Rennon to remember it. He was talking of the wild magic.”

  “Most likely,” Dicarion agreed. “It’s the reason I came along. If I can get him to accept it, I can teach him how to use it.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s stubborn when it comes to magic. We were taught all our lives to fear and hate it. We were taught it was evil.” Devyn said.

  Ianthill put his hand up. “That’s enough talk. I have not seen a Shade since the War of the Oracle. You must be mistaken, Dicarion.”

  Dicarion clenched his teeth. “We have underestimated Naneden and his plans since the beginning. He has outsmarted us, and he has remained one step ahead of us on every turn.”

  Ianthill sighed. “We need to find Gondrial and Rennon and head for the monastery. We cannot afford rest now.”

  “Where did Vesperin go?” Devyn asked urgently.

  Dicarion glanced around in the darkness. “He was praying just outside the camp to the
west last time I saw him.”

  “Go and get him, Dicarion. If there are Shades out there, they will sense him first of all of us and come for him,” Ianthill commanded.

  “Why Vesperin first?” Devyn questioned.

  “Because he is a cleric of the Goddess of Life, and Shades are creatures of death. They would sense and hate him the most of all of us. He can also channel the power of his goddess and dispatch it.” Dicarion headed out of the camp to the west. A few moments later, he returned with Vesperin, and Devyn sighed in relief.

  “What’s the matter?” Vesperin asked.

  Devyn beamed at his friend in spite of the grave news he had to tell him. “There are Shades lurking about in the dead forest.”

  “Shades? I thought they were all destroyed a thousand years ago.”

  “They were,” Ianthill said matter of fact, “but Dicarion believes they may have reappeared.”

  “Could they be holdovers from the War of the Oracle?” Vesperin asked.

  Ianthill nodded. “I could believe that. The land is slowly reawakening; it is possible some of its more colorful remnants may be resurging also.”

  “We have been getting reports of strange creatures and occurrences in The Blight for months now. There was a rumor of a patrol near the border villages being attacked, but every time we dispatched an investigative team to the trouble, they found nothing.” Dicarion said.

  Vesperin looked around the dark camp. “Where are Gondrial and Rennon?”

  Ianthill took an uneasy puff on his pipe. “I am hopeful they will return to camp soon. I think the Defenders have fought off something, but I am unsure if they prevailed or not. Parlane has shown me the way to Vetell Fex, so I believe I can lead us there.” Ianthill put away his half-smoked pipe. “As soon as Gondrial and Rennon return, we will go.”

  “What if Parlane and his men are still out there and need my attention?” Vesperin asked concerned.

  “Parlane is used to The Blight. He will be fine without us; besides, it is likely he will track us and join us later anyway. The Defenders have protocols for the dangers of The Blight.” Ianthill motioned toward the campsite. “Let’s pack up this camp and make ready to travel.” Devyn could see Ianthill was fuming with anger.