17878265 (46 page)
Authors: David
Marblin and Barag strained against the current in an attempt to bring their craft ashore. They pushed their poles into the muddy channel with rapidity, until the weight of human efforts bent long shafts to the brinks of their breaking points. It was as though the poles themselves were resistant to entering the forest. With the grinding of pebbles against wooden boat bottom, the vessel came to a stop on the south bank of the Enchanted River.
While the very foulness of misshapen growth all around them awed other travelers in the group, Warnyck the scout quickly adjusted to his new environment, seemingly regaining his quiet confidence as his feet touched shore. He looked more inquisitive than frightened, his eyes wide and curious, which helped his friends overcome their fears and doubts.
All of them found calm in Warnyck, except for Marblin, who began rambling nonstop, as he was apt to do when he was nervous or afraid. “So this is Dimwood,” he commented. “Many are the stories that I have heard about this place,” he said, with his head turning on a swivel, “and not a one among them that won’t curdle your blood. I suppose a lot of people let those sorts of things bother them, but not me. I’m not shaken by mere myth or legend, or much of anything at all, for that mat-”
About that time, a prickly vine relinquished its hold on the knobby tree it called home and swung down within inches of striking the Moonwatcher. Marblin cried out, dropped to the ground and curled into a tight knot. From that position, he prayed to every god known to the peoples of Beledon. The humbled guardsman remained that way for several minutes, refusing to be comforted or reassured.
Kelvion giggled wildly.
“Well,” Warnyck said, with a mild laugh, “what do you have to say for yourself now,
fearless one?”
“Oh, I guess I have to admit I believe most of the tales I’ve heard about this place,” Marblin groaned, with his face still pale from his fright.
Warnyck suggested that he should assume point, during their trek through the forest, as party scout, and Loric agreed to let him do so, knowing his keen eyes would serve them best until nightfall. Then Loric would lead them, if they still had the heart to tramp through dense woods after dark. It was slow going. There was no clear trail to follow, and the forest floor was so thickly overgrown that Warnyck was obliged to cut his way through with his sword. He hacked furiously at tangled underbrush and thorn-ridden vines; with the latter being the worst part of the task, for they were as unyielding as stone. The scout struck those prickly plants with all of his might; and still, they barred the way and impeded progress.
Occasionally, Warnyck’s efforts entangled his blade. It was as if the briers sought to stop his onslaught against them by holding onto his weapon. He tugged and pulled, but vines clung to his sword, until he finally threw his entire weight against them. Then they released his steel and Warnyck had to pick himself up from the ground to renew his assault, with pain in his backside providing wrathful energy to his strokes.
Hundreds of times, Warnyck attacked spiky tendrils, only to have them remain rigid and hold firm. He struck them with swift fierce strokes in succession, but still, they resisted him. He slashed once more, and without warning, they snapped and lashed out at him. Needles ripped into Warnyck’s clothing and flesh, causing him to send forth from between his tightly drawn lips a sally of muttered curses. The scout labored on with marked diligence.
At first, members of the party moved along behind their guide with ease, but as time passed so did their strength. Teeth of braided plants bit into them as well, nipping at their trousers, tunics and skins with equal eagerness. Their every effort to escape those hungry barbs was vain.
Finally, a fang-ridden cord tripped Marblin. He stumbled and remained where he fell, heaving with fatigue, defeated by his frustration.
With their remaining strength spent and the sun plunging toward the wooded west, the
companions felt compelled to rest. Marblin examined his ankle to find deep scratches in his leather boots. The vine entwined about that torn leather provided further proof that the old Moonwatcher had also fallen prey to those clawed rootlets that were so unwilling to allow passage through Dimwood.
Marblin grumbled, “Damn this evil place!”
“This place definitely reeks of evil,” Loric said making an effort at restraint, “but do not call more curses down upon it.”
“I must agree,” said Barag. “There is already enough evil in the world without damning this wood further.”
Marblin waved a hand at them, “Many long years I’ve lived. I have cursed as I pleased, and I have blessed in like kind.”
“Have a care, Marblin,” Loric cautioned. “It is not in our best interests to curse the very forest in which we are walking.”
Warnyck looked up from the cloth he was tying about his torn and bloodied forearm. His eyes disagreed with Loric, but he said nothing to oppose his words.
Marblin paused, with a puzzled look on his face. “I never thought of it that way before,” he remarked suddenly and with such surprise, his fellow adventurers knew it was true.
They had a scant meal, during which they discussed their destination. This they did without hearing a curse from Marblin. None of them could be certain of their heading. Their primary goal had been to reach Dimwood Forest as speedily as possible, but none of them knew where within the wood they were to look for Nimshar or the Father of the Forest. All eyes came to rest on Loric, for he had sworn himself to this quest and it was his duty to lead them.
Warnyck asked, “Where do we go from here, Loric?”
“Tell me how I should know,” Loric returned with a heavy sigh. “I have no idea where we are to find Nimshar or the Father of the Forest.” He shrugged. “Like you, I have only heard it said that both dwell in Dimwood, and that is where we are now. My best ideas are to camp here for tonight and strike out on the straightest course possible tomorrow. The Great King willing, perhaps under light of a new dawn, we will find clues concerning the whereabouts of Nimshar, or we will learn where the Father of the Forest may be found.”
“Does anyone have any other suggestion as to how we might find this mysterious sorcerer?”
Warnyck begged. Marblin interjected something about a mad conjurer, before the scout went on,
“If so, now is the time to speak up. My arms feel like they’re going to fall off from hacking at damnable vines.” He worked his whetstone along the edge of his sword and muttered, “That is to say nothing of my poor blade.”
“Let me lead in the morning,” Barag suggested. “No offense, Warnyck, but I am much
stronger than you are. Maybe I can cleave our way more quickly than you are able. That should speed us along.”
“You battle those infernal ropes of thorns,” Warnyck eagerly conceded. “Thank you very much for doing so,” he added. “I am quite weary of them.”
“There is no use worrying over it tonight,” Marblin said in a low voice. He pointed
westward to punctuate his meaning, saying, “I, for one, would not like to get lost in this wicked wood after nightfall.”
Party eyes followed the imaginary trail from his fingertip to Solari, whose fingers were pulling the blanket of the world comfortably up to Her face, ready to sleep. Before long, She would dream the moon and stars into being and darkness would settle over Dimwood. The forest was already starting to come alive with startling calls of its wild nocturnal residents, so the companions dared not think what the wood would be like once their remaining light abandoned them.
“You are right, Marblin,” Warnyck agreed. “I have done my fair share of traveling under moonlight,” he continued, “but none of it in a place as miserable as this. We would get lost if we went groping about at night.”
“We are lost already,” Loric reminded them, “but I am of like mind with you. We must
travel by day and camp at night.”
The companions positioned their bedrolls in a tight circle around a fire of dead logs. They found fuel in abundance, for the forest was so dry and withered that a stiff breeze or a collision between any two branches snapped them off. By Loric’s orders, they were not to lay a sword to any standing tree, whether it was dead or not.
Loric was no longer afraid of the forest as a living entity, but his uneasiness had not diminished. Aside from noises he and his companions had made all afternoon, they had only heard creaking and grinding of tree limbs. It made him feel as though his party was being watched. Now that darkness of night was creeping in around the companions, woodland wildlife was stirring to activity. Crickets chirped. An owl call occasionally descended from naked boughs above them. Then again, many were sounds the companions did not recognize, with most of them bloodcurdling noises they had no wish to identify, outbursts that were more unsettling than the dreadful silence they had known all day. Those eerie disturbances troubled Loric.
Loric volunteered to take the night watch, because he could readily discern dark images that appeared as mere shadows to his friends. Besides, he had slept afloat in the early afternoon, which made him the freshest man among the group. Loric waited for his companions to fall asleep. Then he decided to test the stuff of legend by setting his back against a large stone, stabbing the Sword of Logant into the earth and sitting motionless, staring into its diamond hilt.
Using Knight Vision, he could see the entire perimeter of the camp round about him, as each facet of the gemstone gave him a view of the area captured therein.
“Aldric spoke truthfully, when he said,
Only time separates legend from reality,”
Loric mouthed thoughtfully. He whispered his passing regret, saying, “I would that he or my father had shown me everything of the Way of a Knight.”
This will serve me well in my travels.
The son of Palendar kept careful watch through the diamond hilt of his weapon, only
moving away from it to heap more wood on the dying fire. When flames jumped up to devour dry, lifeless branches, Loric watched dark shapes scurry into shadows, where even his night eyes could not detect them.
Midway through his vigil, Loric saw a ghost. He might have thought it a man, but no living man could have traversed tangles of Dimwood Forest as easily as this one did. Loric set both hands to the sword of Logant and prayed to Great Donigan for strength.
Loric first thought the ghostly figure before him was the conjuring of his half-wakeful mind, but he soon realized it was real, and not a dream. The apparition came as an old man, who floated into camp, passing through tangles of Dimwood with the utmost of ease. Loric’s initial reaction was to raise the alarm, but he checked his cry in his throat. The apparition moved like a sinister specter. Yet the Knight of Shimmermir and Taeglin sat unmoving at its approach.
Instead, he observed the otherworldly being, ever wary of its potential wickedness, but uncertain how to defend his friends against it.
The ghost stopped near the outer fringe of huddled travelers. From there it beckoned for Loric to follow it, whereupon it disappeared into the forest. The knight let out an amazed gasp and shuddered, but he made no move to go with the unnatural being.
Loric deigned to wait until morning to track the specter. His companions were counting on him to watch over them for the night. He preferred to begin at daybreak, with promise of coming light. Besides, the party would be rested on the morrow and noisome inhabitants of Dimwood would likely be settled down to sleep through the long day.
With that decision made, a slow, watchful night gradually passed into dim, gray morning.
Confident that Warnyck’s eyes could detect any hostile movements toward camp, Loric handed his duties off to the scout without making mention of his mysterious visitor. He thought it best not to speak of it, since he was still uncertain as to whether he had actually seen the old man or dreamt him into being.
Loric sat on a stump near the fire, huddled in his cloak. He gazed into the flickering light, watching the wild dance of flames as they leaped up and spiraled back down again. While those hot tongues were twisting and writhing, Loric’s chin fell to his chest and he slipped into a dream....
****
A ritual was taking place around the crackling blaze. Dozens of men were dancing. Their feet thumped in unison with drums. As the rhythm changed, they began leaping across the pile of burning logs, one man from one side and another man from opposite him. The beat changed.
Men pulled long sticks from tall wicker baskets. As they spun about the fire, they kept the ends of their sticks amidst searing heat, until each man was whirling about with two flaming brands.
The tempo of those drums changed its command. Dancers complied by thrusting their
ceremonial torches into their mouths, one after the other. Upon each rest, those men spouted hot tongues of fire, which they used to re-ignite their torches.
That is, if you would call them men. They had bodies of men, but they did not have heads to match. Their faces were hideous and frightening to behold. They were like demons, with evil red eyes, great curving horns and long sharp teeth.
Loric saw something beyond the fire that startled him from his dream....
****
heaved labored breaths, until his heart slowed. Warnyck was kneeling above him with his hand poised to stifle his outburst. The scout withdrew his open palm when Loric fell silent.
“That must have been some nightmare,” Marblin remarked, studying his friend from a short distance away.
“It was,” Loric replied sullenly. There was no reason to mask the sorrow he felt, he decided, for it was beyond him to do so in light of what he had witnessed.
“Do you see things?” Kelvion asked.