by Ted Neill
The noises they made, hoof beats, bird tweets, and the shared word here and there, were muffled, and did not travel any farther than the barrier of foliage that walled in the road. It was just as well—the woods imposed silence, demanded it. Once they were quiet, Haille realized that the forest itself was full of sounds. Clicks, songs, even throbbing, which was something like distant thunder, but with the regularity of a fading heartbeat. For the moment however the noise inspired more wonder than fear.
They tracked along the road for hours, but it didn’t feel like they went anywhere. The path twisted and rose so that there was only a small portion visible at a time, and it was impossible to look back and judge one’s progress, for each turn looked no different from the last. Sometimes the woods would open up, vines would thin, and so would the medium-sized trees, so that they were looking into great clearings where mists floated about the round columns of the immense black trunks. Haille came upon these places with an expectant feeling, certain that such a change in the foliage meant something was ahead, perhaps a pond, a lake, or even a ruin. But that was never the case. The larger trees closed in again, the vines returned, and the forest retained its secrets.
Sometime in the late morning—Haille could only guess it was still morning for the sun was lost—they heard the patter of what sounded like feet overhead. The jays gave out cautious twurps. and Haille turned to look. He saw a tree branch shaking, much in the same way it would after a squirrel had run across it, but he saw nothing that could have left it shaking so. Katlyn noticed it too and reached down to the handle of her short sword.
“They are harmless,” Val said.
“But ugly,” Cody added.
“What are?” Katlyn shuffled her feet to catch up to Val who followed right behind the elk.
“I suspect we will see in the next clearing,” Val said.
Up ahead, Haille could see pale daylight filtering onto the road from a break in the foliage. At first he saw nothing, except a few waving vines and nodding branches. Then against the bark of one of the great trees he saw something gold. He gave a gasp. Before he could say a thing, he went silent—for he saw another. Now he watched the creature’s progress by the branches and vines it disturbed. There was another break in the foliage and he saw its body clearly.
It was clearly an animal, about the size of a cat, and yet it had two legs and two arms like a man. The pathways were remarkable: the creature could run along the branches as if they were trails and bridges. Haille was used to seeing squirrels travel so, but to see creatures whose walks mimicked humans was more striking.
There was a commotion right before them. Two of the creatures had slid down vines and stared back at them. The sight was disconcerting. Their faces were animal, with hair and leathery skin, but they also looked vaguely human with round, forward facing eyes. They were hideous, only because they were close to human and yet clearly not. There was no question that they were studying them, with what level of intelligence Haille could not guess, but he would have preferred creatures that just ran away, terrified.
The jays took up perches deep inside the elk’s antlers.
“What are they?” Katlyn asked.
“Tree-walkers,” Val said, turning and falling back in line behind the elk.
“Aptly named,” Haille said, a bit glad they were leaving. As he looked over his shoulder he saw that the two creatures had scampered onto the road and watched them from behind. Then with a few hoots, which were answered from the trees far above, they leapt back into the bushes.
“Cody is right, they are hideous,” Haille said.
“Only because you are not used to them. You look the same way to them I’m sure,” Val added.
He imagined Val was right. The intelligence of the creatures was fascinating to him. No one back in Antas would even believe him if he tried describing them. But the more he thought about them, the more his fears of the forest were assuaged; if these were the most hideous creatures the woods had to offer, he truly had little to fear. And if these small tree-walkers, with no quills, spikes, or fangs, could live in the trees, playing about, indulging their curiosity at strange passersby, how dangerous could Sidon be? Maybe the legends and stories of Sidon were overly embellished. For the first time Haille felt that their journey would be uneventful. Perhaps there was a chance that he and his friends had somehow stumbled onto the one lost path right though Sidon, and would emerge on the other side, proof that the stories were only that: stories.
They continued onward. The forest had become monotonous and to fight boredom Haille and Katlyn exchanged riddles. She was much better at them than he. Even with Cody’s help, she stumped him more often than not. They ate a midday meal while on the move and pushed forward until early evening when the little light that filtered down in the woods began to fade. Haille’s feet hurt and Katlyn was scuffing the soles of her boots with each step.
“Can we stop to rest?” Haille asked Val.
“Not yet. Not here. The smell of the forest has gone foul,” Val said.
Haille took a deep breath. He could only smell the same mildew, sage, and charcoal scents that had accompanied them on the entire journey. If anything, he felt that he could detect a new odor, one that was sweet like candy. He wondered what kind of tree bud or flowering plant made such a smell.
“What do you mean? I smell a pleasant perfume here.”
“Yes,” Val said, “I noticed that.” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose we have already walked a great distance; we can rest.”
Since it was dinnertime they indulged in some smoked beef and honey cakes that were going to go stale if they did not eat them. Katlyn surprised them with a small jar of raspberry jam that Annette had packed for them. Katlyn, Cody, and Haille spread it on the cakes as a dessert, the jays fluttering down among their feet to pick at the crumbs like hens in a barnyard. The jam brought Haille back to the comfort of Pathus and Annette’s home. For their first day in the forest, he thought things had gone quite well.
“Val, why don’t you join us,” Haille said.
Val was a few steps farther down the path, sniffing the air. “You don’t smell that? It’s almost like something … dead.”
“It’s the woods,” Cody said. “Something’s always dying, rotting.”
Val relented, sat, and bit off a piece of smoked beef. The ease and comfort Haille was remembering from Pathus and Annette’s was making him feel relaxed and safe. Combined with the long day of marching, he soon felt drowsy. His lids fluttered but he snapped them open and jerked his head back. Haille knew he should not fall asleep so soon. They would surely march a little farther after dinner. He turned and looked about for something interesting to study to keep him awake. One of the black vines he had seen before hung nearby him. He leaned close. It was moist with some viscous oil. White hairs poked through the fluid, and beads of the substance hung on their ends. Haille’s breathing must have been harder than he thought, for the branch jerked suddenly. He held his breath, but the vine moved again on its own, a slight tremor, that followed all the way up into the boughs where it came from.
Odd.
He turned back to his jam and cake and finished them. His hunger quite satiated, he leaned back, relaxed. A quick nap would not hurt, he decided. After all, the others would wake him if he slept too long. Haille yawned. It would just be a brief nap. In Sidon of all places, how shocked everyone would be when he told them he had slept there. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
In his dream he pictured himself being cradled, rocked gently. Strong arms held him from all directions. What a pleasure, to be looked after with such care. Was this a memory? The answer seemed to be no. Somewhere he remembered there had only ever been one person who cared for him so and she was quite distant.
Was that a feminine voice, telling him to wake up?
He shook his head. Now the gentle touches turned firm, even hurtful. This did remind him of a memory, one he had forgotten: being a toddler and strapped to his crib during st
orms. It was not until Yana had come that they had stopped the practice. He did not want to remember it. It was time for this nap, this dream, to end. Now he felt a tight sensation around his body. He could not move. He fought. Along with all this was music, a chirping he at first thought was soothing, for it was familiar, but then as the strangling increased he realized it was an urgent, desperate melody. The sound now seemed to be something he could feel against his face. He went to wave it away but his hand was stuck.
Now his paralysis panicked him. His dream was a nightmare. He strained to wake up, but his eyelids were heavy, it was like lifting leaden shades. Finally they came unglued. There was a mass of angry, squeaking feathers flying at his face, trying to wake him. At first he thought he must still be dreaming for when he looked down he realized the forest floor was far below. Then he saw Cody next to him, doubled over, held in the air from the waist, black shapes coiled about his body, his face relaxed and unconscious.
“Cody!” he cried out. He shifted, a fly caught in a spider’s web. A petite hand dangled next to his face. He could not turn any more to see her, but he knew it was Katlyn hanging alongside him.
“The vines,” he choked out. The very vines he had noticed before had wrapped them all in a cocoon of sorts. He struggled, his mind still slow as if he were drunk. He whipped his body about. Some vines came loose but they were strangely powerful and persistent. One slithered across his face and a deep whiff of the oil on them made him dizzy with sleep again. But Sapphire slamming into his face roused him. He kicked again. The vines gave him an angry shake and squeeze. The pressure was excruciating, his breath coming hard.
He continued to rise into the trees. Now he could smell the foul air Val had mentioned, a rotting, vomit-inducing odor. Tears of panic blurred Haille’s vision. As he blinked them away he recoiled. He was high up in the boughs now, where it was darker, but even in the dim light he could see broken faces looking back at him. At first he thought they were human, for they had the same eye sockets and square toothed mouths, even blond hair still sticking to the places where flesh remained; then he realized they were too small. These were the bodies of the tree-walkers, crushed in the embrace of other vines, so many other vines, twisted around them. Their faces were corroded and skeletal, but each one looked anguished and surprised. One had a vine that snaked into its mouth and out its eye, as if the vine was in search of the secrets trapped in the creature’s mind. As his gaze darted around he saw other animals of varying sizes and shapes, a deer-like creature, a warthog, rodents, all in various states of decay, bones protruding, fur falling, skin going taught, mouths open in silent screams, answered only by the engulfing greed of the vines.
Farther down Haille could see Val asleep in the middle of the road, the vines slithering about him, too. Only the elk had been unaffected, but he was behind a curtain of the vines that darted and snapped at him like snakes. He slashed at them with his antlers, but for each one he cut, two more would slip past and try to wrap his legs. Haille cried out Val’s name, but the captain did not stir. The elk turned his head and Haille heard a voice, “Your sword!”
Haille was not sure whose voice it was, Val’s, or perhaps Cody’s. But he remembered his sword, Elk Heart. His hand was pinned, but it was close to the handle. He was not sure what good it would do but he pulled on the crossguard with his fingers and he heard the blade slide from its scabbard.
The bully of the vines released his grip, almost dropping Haille completely. Haille snatched the sword before he tumbled to the ground. The vines were whipping off him so quickly he had to grab a limp one in order to keep from falling. He held himself up with one arm and swung the sword with the other. Even those vines he did not touch went limp just in its proximity. He turned and swung towards Katlyn. The vines unfurled, rolling her gently down to the ground. Haille put his legs together and shifted his weight towards Cody. With a swing of the blade, the vines relaxed around him as well, lowering him back to the place in the road where they had eaten, and slept, in the first place.
Haille slid down a limp vine, hit the ground, and rushed over to the elk and Val. He flew recklessly into the vines. He didn’t care. He swung the sword with abandon and this time the vines did not have the opportunity to retreat. He hacked through them and in response all the boughs above them trembled as if the trees were shaken by a great gust of wind. The coils unwound from Val, dropping him a short distance to the ground. He landed and woke with a start. The severed vines about him wrapped themselves into tight coils, much like a spider would curl its legs around its egg sack.
Haille shivered. He wrapped himself in his own arms but stopped for the enclosing sensation was too similar and too reminiscent of what he had just felt while trapped in the trees. He wondered if he could ever be embraced again, or had this forest stolen that from him, along with any sense of time, direction, even daylight? He looked to Val, Cody, then Katlyn as they gathered close to the elk.
“Nice work,” Val said, panting, his voice empty of the usual bravado. “That sword, is . . . something. Praise be to Pathus.”
Katlyn sniffed and wiped tears from her eyes. Cody jumped and grabbed at his neck at an imagined vine returning. Finding nothing he shook his head and cursed again. They were alive and Haille knew they were all thankful for it. But there had been a shift. It was as if they could feel it in the very air.
They were trespassers and the forest had turned against them.
Chapter 7
Scouts
Gail was still coming down from the hills when she came across the stallion. He was a dusty brown but by his fine coat and broken bridle she knew he was no Thestos wild. He moved at a purposeful trot and thanks to the mist he was right ahead of her and Soot when the crow gave a cry from her shoulder and the horse spotted them. Her reflexes got the best of her, leaving no question of whether or not she would try to capture him. In one instance she was standing in the field, the stallion approaching, the next she was rolling—albeit awkwardly with satchels, swords, and skins—but she knew that to approach upright would spook him. Instead she came out of the roll, the animal nearly upon her, and popped herself into a standing position. The stallion reared. It couldn’t be avoided, but now she was close enough to reach out, extend her hand, and seize the frayed line hanging from the bridle.
He was a willful beast and did not like being restrained again, letting her know with a hard yank of his head that burned her hands with the rope and nearly took her off her feet. She had expected as much and was braced so that she maintained her balance and gave a firm yank of her own. He quieted after that, recognizing her dominance. She put a hand to his neck and stroked him in response. He was solid, muscular, too large for a mere farm horse. This was a horse of war. No saddle, but with the right persuasion she imagined she might ride him bareback.
She abandoned the notion when three riders crested the ridge and turned towards her. They each cut the same profile, wearing ringmail, surcoats, and helms with nasal guards and leather earflaps. She knew soldiers of the realm when she saw them and twisted the bridle rope in her hands, the stallion shifting on his feet. She offered no greeting, perhaps it was habit from long years as an outlaw, perhaps it was being a woman among three armed men—even if she was disguised as a boy. But the soldiers did not take an aggressive posture as they came to a stop in a row a few feet away. The one in the middle, a sergeant in the Antan army by the gold crest on his helmet and purple surcoat, spoke.
“Good morn’, young man. You have done king and country a service by capturing this horse.”
Young man. For now her short hair and martial dress were working. What young girl would be out in such a region alone, unattended, anyway?
“Obliged,” she said, pitching her voice low, standing legs apart as she imagined a young man would. “You are king’s soldiers, headed on a campaign then?”
“Marching south to aid our sister kingdom Karrith in repelling barbarians from the east.”
“Are any of you honorable men
in need of a squire? I can fence, shoot, and ride.”
“Good are you?” the sergeant asked rubbing a spot on the war hammer that hung from a sling on his hip.
“I can put an arrow in a crow’s eye at thirty paces,” she said.
“Not that crow,” one of the other’s said laughing as Soot landed on the rump of the stallion.
“You and every other boy from Rivertown are looking for adventure,” the sergeant said. “Do your mother a favor and go home to her.”
“I already come armed.”
“We can see that,” the third one said as he sidestepped his horse closer to her. “He has swords and arrows enough for a regiment. Where’s a boy like you get kitted out so?”
“I have a martial minded father,” she said, comfortable sharing the truth.
“Truly,” the sergeant said and nodded to the third. “Ramsey, take the captain’s horse, let’s be going.”
Gail stepped backwards, moving the bridle rope out of reach, the stallion following her.
“This horse belongs to your captain, perhaps there is a reward?” she said, grasping at straws.
“The reward is that we will not flog you,” the sergeant said. “If we had a reward for every stallion led up into these hills by the scent of wild mares in heat, the king’s coffers would be empty.”
“Give it here, boy,” the closest rider, named Ramsey, growled.
“Perhaps the captain needs a squire?”
“You try my patience boy. Ramsey, get the horse.”
Ramsey pushed forward on his mount as if to trample Gail, but she was too quick. She pivoted, grabbed a fistful of mane and was up bareback and galloping in the direction of the camp before the soldiers had turned their horses about. Their shouts rose up and carried over the hills in the thick misty air but she ignored them, straining to remain on the bouncing back of the stallion and follow the path of parted grass that was the soldiers’ trail back to the camp. Lose them in the mist, return to the camp, and find the captain herself, and perhaps she would have an opportunity for work. If nothing else she could simply slip off the horse and melt into the moving city of non-combatants that lived on the periphery of the army.
