He inhaled long and deep through his nose and released the breath slowly. “The god is in me. We are one.”
Chapter 18
The Black Horse
Twilight in the forest is darker than twilight in a field. There is an eeriness to it. Sounds seem louder in the darkness. They are probably no louder than the same sounds in the light, but they seem that way. They echo off the trees like shouts. That is what was so strange about the silent forest surrounding Maelich. The trees were there, the moss, the darkness, the leaves above moving against each other, but where were the sounds? It bothered him. The forest had distinct sounds, and he knew them all. Well, he knew them as well as any other traveler. There probably were sounds he had yet to hear in all his days, but he would not know that until he heard a new one.
The ground was soft beneath his feet as he stepped along the trail. At least, he thought it was a trail. The trees seemed a relatively uniform distance from each other, as if the separation were intentional. He could not see the trail itself, if it really were a trail, due to a thick fog hanging about the forest floor. It came all the way up to his waist. There was something familiar about the fog. What that familiar thing might be was elusive, but it felt like something he knew once.
Then a voice called out from the darkness, “Help me, Maelich.”
The sound was faint. It was impossible to determine whether it was a close whisper or a far shout, but he followed it just the same. It led him into the trees. The ground beneath his feet felt the same as he left the trail and started off into the foliage along the trail. Perhaps it had not been a trail at all. Trails had a specific feel to them under travel-worn boots. The ground there was harder than the soft mulch lining it beneath the trees on either side. No two trails were the same, but they had similar characteristics. Perhaps the trail-like thing he had been on was just a line through the forest where the trees separated for some reason. As he thought the thought, it occurred to him that what he was thinking about certainly sounded like a trail.
“Help me, Maelich,” the voice called out again.
The urgency in the pleas made his contemplations about what constituted a trail through the forest seem a silly conundrum. Whether what he had been on was a trail or something else did not matter. Whatever it had been, he was no longer on it. He slipped around trees with bark that seemed too smooth. Perhaps it was the dim light, but it was not like any bark he had ever seen or felt. The fog remained unchanged. It still clung about his waist and sprawled out forever in every direction. The weird thing about it was it remained stationary, unspoiled as he moved through it, like he was not even there.
Then the voice again, “Help me, Maelich.” It was louder than the last time which had been louder than the first. Fog, trail, who cares? He continued deeper into the trees.
The voice kept beckoning, “Help me, Maelich. Help me, Maelich.” It was louder each time, the tone growing more urgent with each subsequent plea.
He rounded a tree and happened upon a clearing. The fog was gone there. It still clung about his waist and surrounded the clearing, but the clearing itself was clear. A stone slab sat at its center. The thing was smooth except for etchings. It seemed to have some ceremonial significance. A body lay upon it, and bouquets of light purple flowers had been placed at each of its four corners. Maelich approached.
As he neared the altar, the features of the small shape lying on it became clearer. It was a dwarf. He was dressed like a king with a crown upon his head and red bows decorating the thick braids in his magnificent beard. As Maelich got closer, a name popped into his head, Doentaat. There was something familiar about the name and the face of the poor dwarf on the slab, but he could not place it. A reason for the recollection was absent. He was suddenly sad but could not understand why. Of course, death can always be sad, but that depends on your perspective. It is sad if you see it as the end of something. However, if you see it as a journey to the Lake, it could very well be a time for rejoice. Why did the idea of this Doentaat dying make him feel sad?
“You have lost a friend, Maelich,” a woman’s voice called out from behind him. He jumped a bit, startled. It was the same voice which had been calling for help, but he had not passed anyone on his way through the trees from the trail—if it were a trail at all—to the clearing which remained oddly absent of the thick fog which covered everything else.
He spun to see who owned the voice. A black horse stood before him. “Is it you who beckoned me from the trail?” he asked the horse.
“Yes, Maelich,” the horse replied. “I called you here to see your friend off to the Lake.”
“Friend?” Maelich asked. “The face stirs feelings in me, but I do not recall. Who is Doentaat?”
The horse smiled at him. It seemed strange for a horse to smile. It reminded him of something, but the memory was elusive. He only had a moment to trouble over it before she said, “He was your friend once. When you met him, he was just another dwarf living under the rule of a giant. You helped him, freed him really. Because of your good deeds, his people crowned him their king.”
Maelich shook his head, “I have met a dwarf or two, but I do not recall knowing any well enough to consider them friend.”
“If not your friend, how do you suppose you know his name?” the horse asked.
“I am not one for riddles, horse,” Maelich grew irritated with the game. “If you have something you would like to tell me, please say it plainly, and we can both be on our way.”
“I speak no riddles,” the horse continued, “and I have no plainer way to state my message.”
Maelich scratched his head, “How you state your message will not make any difference. The message itself is the riddle. It only just occurred to me, but the white horse…” he paused before correcting himself, “Maulom warned me about you.”
“The white horse warned you about me? What did he say?” she seemed genuinely concerned.
“Beware the black horse,” he replied flatly. “After speaking with you this short time, it seems good advice.”
The horse nodded, “Perhaps on the surface, but how do you know he is trustworthy?”
“He told me things,” Maelich shrugged.
“Things you knew?” she asked.
Maelich thought for a moment, “No, I suppose not. But he said they were things I had known.”
“How is that different from what I told you? These things I have said are things you have known. You need to wake up, Maelich,” the horse spoke softly.
The horse had a point. She was at least as frustrating to speak with as Maulom. Perhaps they were both the same. If it were a game they both played, why must they include him? He was deep in the midst of concocting his next reply when the earth began to quake. The black horse stomped about as Maelich did his best to keep from losing his feet.
“You are unwelcomed here,” Maelich could not see Maulom among the trees, but the white horse’s voice was unmistakable.
A moment later, the altar on which the old friend Maelich could not remember lay dead vanished in ball of bright light that expanded quickly before shrinking to a spec and disappearing. The white horse stood in its place. He reared back and kicked at the black horse. She responded in the same fashion. When their hooves connected, the ground beneath them split open and both were consumed in bright, white light.
A moment later, Maelich woke with a howl. Ymitoth sat directly above him shaking him. “You’ve been shouting in your sleep,” Ymitoth said. “That horse has been in your dreams again.”
Maelich sat up and wiped the dampness from his forehead, “He was, but this time there was another. It was a black horse, a mare. She spoke in the same confusing fashion as Maulom.”
“Another horse? Is it the one Maulom warned you about?” Ymitoth asked.
“Yes,” Maelich nodded. “The two battled when the white horse arrived. But not before she showed me a dead dwarf laid out on a stone altar. She said I knew him, called him Doentaat.”
“Doent
aat,” Ymitoth repeated the name. His black, dead eyes failed to reflect any recognition, but his words did, “That sounds like a name I maybe knew one time, but I couldn’t say from where.”
“It was the same for me,” Maelich stared toward the edge of the smooth stone wall beside him. Not much light made it that deep into the cave, but he focused on the dim glow at a point where the cave bent sharply away from its entrance. “There was something familiar about his face, and I knew the name. But I am certain I do not know him.”
Before Ymitoth could respond, Maulom charged around the corner with his finger wagging. “Beware the black horse, Maelich,” he began. “She is evil and wily. I have done my best to hide you from her and hold her back. Obviously, I failed.”
Maelich’s eyes narrowed, “It seems you know her well. She reminded me of you with her confusing talk, all the words she uses while saying very little.”
“That hurts, Maelich,” Maulom seemed a bit crestfallen. “I have been clear with you from the start.”
“You say a whole lot of nothing, as far as I can see,” Ymitoth always tended to be a bit more direct.
Maulom ignored the jibe, “The sun is up, and the men are ready to train. You worry about them and leave the black horse to me.”
Maelich glanced over at Ymitoth who shrugged and said, “Ain’t nothing better than clashing swords to clear away the ghost of a bad dream.”
Maelich nodded his agreement as he rose to his feet and began gathering his equipment. However, he was not completely certain he was ready to chase the ghost of that dream away just yet. Despite Maulom’s confident proclamations, Maelich still had no real proof anything the old man had told him since they had met was true. What if the black horse spoke truth? Why should he trust either of them? Ymitoth might not be the wisest, but he was the only one Maelich felt he could completely trust. Though he might not be quite ready to chase the ghosts away, clashing swords would definitely clear his head. A clear head seemed a great idea just then.
Chapter 19
New Friends or Old Enemies
The forests around Mount Elzkahon—the peak on which the castle at Havenstahl had been built—were known far and wide as some of the most beautiful and peaceful examples of the brilliance of Coeptus’ creation any traveler seeking to escape the crowded stone streets of the city, or even the hustle and bustle of the busy towns surrounding it, could find. You would be hard pressed to find a hunter who did not share the sentiment. But that was before invaders came from across the Great Sea to mow a large swath of those pristine forests down with massive contraptions built to eat the very trees. It was before thousands upon thousands were slaughtered in the waste those destructive machines left in their wake. Beneath the decomposing bodies which remained in that haunted place, what was left of the trees may have made for good kindling if not saturated in stale blood.
The bodies—still far too many to count—spread from that bloody waste deep into the forests remaining on any side of it. An honorable adversary would have allowed time for the dead to be removed and given proper ceremony. Giants were massive and horrible monsters, but they were wise, their minds far more sophisticated than those of men or dwarves. The fact did nothing to steer their actions toward peace or any form of spiritual enlightenment. Instead, it left them aloof and uncaring about trivial things like opposing beliefs or ceremonies. In fact, the only thing most giants cared about was ruling. Some of them so bold as to question whether they were even wiser and mightier than the gods themselves, or Dragons. All Ouloos belonged to them, and they should be rightly worshipped by all other living things.
Maomnosett Bom did not share the beliefs of the majority of his kin. He was smaller than most giants, but still massive and powerful. He was wiser than most. The difference was, he did not believe his size, strength, or wisdom gave him the right to rule over others. All living creatures should be free to find their own destiny, untethered by the rule of any creature over them. Of course, concepts like king or general seemed silly. The necessity was obvious enough. Any time you put a large number of any type of creature together in one place, there must be some kind of rule or law to guide the mass. It just seemed so stifling to the spirit. Life must be experienced, and all should be free to experience it in their own way and in their own time.
These contrary ideals Bom held so dear were exactly what had put him in direct opposition to his grandfather and his goals. Standing up to Ott had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Despite these differing ideals, Bom was a giant to his soul. He had been raised by Bok, one of the fiercest giants who ever lived, to be a leader among his kind. Walking through the bloody waste among the decomposing carcasses—all testaments to his late father’s passion to rule—it was clear to him why that life could never be his. All these souls sent back to the Lake for what? One side followed his father as he attempted to impose his will, and the other only wanted to live their lives the way they wanted to live them. For him, the white cloth tied to a thick stick he held aloft high above his head was the result. He could not stand by and watch his kin slaughter these men and dwarves. Nor did he wish for the desires of his kind—as misguided and wrong as he felt they were—to lead them to their deaths. Sadly, the latter group refused to be turned away.
As Bom led his small group through the gore, Kantiim led a smaller group through the trees just north of the bloody waste. He had nineteen mounted men with him riding two by ten through the trees. He did not know Bom as anything other than an invader, an invader with three giants and hundreds of trogmortem with him. Both the lack of thousands of grongs and the white flag the giant carried were strange, but Kantiim was not one to fall easily for a trick. Rash decisions without proper counsel were also not in his nature.
“Denigran, Ychorell, on me,” Kantiim said quietly as he raised his fist up to halt the group.
The two he had called out would provide the unique perspectives he sought. Denigran had served as rider of Druindahl for ten years before making the trip to Havenstahl, and Ychorell had spent an equal amount of time riding under the banner of Havenstahl. Both were as skilled with their minds as they were with their swords. Once the two had moved up the trail next to him, he asked Ychorell, “Well, what do you make of that?”
“A white flag is a white flag. After strolling through all my fallen kin, I’d rather be cutting them bastards down, but we ought to find out what they want first,” Ychorell shrugged.
Kantiim sighed long and deep as he peered through the trees at Bom’s group. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he finally agreed, “Your heart sounds to be in about the same place as mine. Though I am not keen on our odds of winning that battle, I would like nothing more than to rally the men and cut them down. However, that damned white flag demands investigation.”
“It could be trick,” Denigran offered. “These monsters from across the Great Sea, none of them have been what I would consider to be honorable.”
“Aye, pack of vile bastards,” Ychorell added. “You can send me in first. If that white flag don’t mean to them what a white flag means to us, I’ll cut down as many as I can.” He spit on the ground before adding, “And if that be the case, you’d best make sure you avenge me and get my body back from that bloody waste.”
Kantiim considered Ychorell’s words. They were full of venom and anger but carried a healthy measure of good sense. They were carrying a white flag, and that did mean something to the men of both Druindahl and Havenstahl—and any other city where honorable men dwell. “You are a brave man, Ychorell,” he finally said. Then he fished a white undertunic from his horse sack. A bit dingy, it was probably closer to gray, but it would suit the purpose. He handed the thing to Ychorell and added, “Fly this over your head as you ride out.”
Ychorell nodded his response and dismounted to grab a branch.
As Ychorell tied off his white flag, Denigran said, “Send me too. If their intentions are less than honorable, we will make a go of it. And my request is the same. Do not da
re leave my body in that bloody mess.”
“Thank you both. That will be our plan. The two of you will ride out under the white, and the rest of us will just breach the tree line. That way they will see you have support but will be unable to gauge our numbers,” Kantiim said.
Lito-Bi noticed the two riders emerge from the trees along the northside of the bloody waste first. One rode a horse dressed in flags of blue for the mighty fallon of Havenstahl. That one held a white garment tied to a stick. The other rode a horse adorned in the red flags of Druindahl. The trogmortem warrior touched Bom’s arm lightly, “Our mission has been noticed. Two approach. One flies the colors of Havenstahl and a white flag to match our own. The other flies the Dragon’s colors for Druindahl. I count eighteen more at the tree line. That may be the extent of their support, but we cannot know what lies beyond the trees.”
Bom looked toward Ychorell and Denigran, then to the trees, and finally back at Lito-Bi. “You and I shall go meet them and pray Coeptus their white flag carries the same meaning as our own.”
“We have nothing to fear from two men or twenty, or more if they have a trap for us waiting in the trees,” Lito-Bi replied.
Bom sighed deeply and looked at the sky, “We do not, but I would prefer not to color this already horrid place with the blood of anymore men, trogmortem, or giants. For their sake and ours, I hope they truly come in peace.” Then he turned to the rest of his group and added, “Hold here, friends. Lito-Bi and I will meet the delegation from Havenstahl. If they prove untrustworthy, please proceed with a measured response.”
Stekka-Ha, regarded as the finest trogmortem warrior alive next to Lito-Bi, replied, “If they move to harm you, we will crush them, my friend.”
“I know,” Bom frowned.
Bom held his white flag high above his head as he and Lito-Bi carefully picked their steps to avoid the bloody carcasses littering the ground at their feet. The men looked serious. The white flag could very well be a trick. It was quite possible one thousand riders waited in the trees to descend on them and cut them down amongst the rotting dead. His soldiers would fight. They would kill many men, and many of them would die. All of it would mean nothing except more souls for the Lake. He hoped they desired anything but more death.
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