Voltari’s rough, guttural growl.
“But—” Angus began, taking a step back.
The other sentinel lowered its poleax, and they both stepped forward, their armor clattering noisily against the fleshless bones. They were the skeletons of giants nearly half as high as the tower, armed with poleaxes and wearing mirror images of incomplete plate armor. The one on the left wore the right half of the suit of armor, while the one to the right wore the left half. They moved another step forward.
Angus turned and hurried south, looking backward several times until the two sentinels had finally given up their pursuit and resumed their position by the door. He slowed and looked for a comfortable place to sit down, a place where he could study the map Voltari had given him. The scrolls would have to wait.
What am I to do now? he wondered, looking at the black tower jutting above the small maple trees threatening to reclaim the land. How could you do this to me?
His lips trembled as he fought back the urge to cry. Was he angry? Afraid? Grief-stricken? Or was it just self-pity? Maybe all of them, he decided, as he sat down on the fallen trunk of an old maple and recited the mantra to calm his mind….
6
Angus took Voltari’s advice and headed south. He had quickly dismissed going north or west; Voltari’s tower was near the northwest corner of the old map, and he had simply written DEATH SWAMPS—FISHMEN across the northern border. Along the western edge were mountains, and he had scrawled XENOPHOBIC MOUNTAIN DWARVES—IMPASSIBLE over them. That left east or south. East of the foothills of the western mountain range was a wide open space labeled KINGDOM OF TYR. It was an expansive plain that ranged from the Death Swamps in the north to the mountains hugging the edge of the map’s southern border. An east-west road split the kingdom in two and led to the capital, Tyrag, in the heart of the kingdom on the eastern edge of the map. He briefly considered going to the capital, but when he thought about doing it, he broke out in a sweat and felt a nearly irresistible urge to run in the opposite direction. That left south. The mountains in the southwest corner were topped with smoke plumes, and Angus was leery about going there. But Voltari had said to go to Hellsbreath, and the name was hastily scrawled near an X nestled in among them. Not far from there, to the northwest, there was an ominous symbol he didn’t recognize, a sort of teardrop superimposed onto a flat pyramid. It was vaguely similar to the runes representing flame magic, which were variations of a candle flame, but this one was far too smooth—and the pyramid was meaningless to him. Still, there was a thin line leading to it—a road? trail?—from near Hellsbreath, and it was the only thing on the map that wasn’t a label or didn’t represent some kind of terrain. What is it? he wondered, scratching it lightly with his fingertip. No matter, he decided; I have to go to Hellsbreath, first, anyway.
Hellsbreath looked like a major hub for travel. From there a road went into the mountains to the west and another sloped southeast along the edge of the southern mountains. A third transected the town, heading north and south. Those and the east-west road through Tyr were the only ones on the map, and the only other town Voltari had identified was Wyrmwood, which was located at the spot where the east-west road from Tyrag intersected the north-south road from Hellsbreath. The road continued north a bit further, nestled against a squiggly line that Angus took to be a river, and stopped a considerably distance from Blackhaven Tower. Or it could be nearby; there was no sense of scale or distance on Voltari’s map. The river continued all the way to the Death Swamps, and Angus decided he would meet up with it and follow the road south. If he were lucky, there would be human settlements on its banks that Voltari hadn’t bothered to mark on the map, small villages that were of no importance to him. Once he was underway, he could decide where to go from there. First, though, he had to find civilization.
Voltari had built Blackhaven Tower in a secluded little valley surrounded by steep foothills plagued with nettles and thorn-encrusted bushes. At least the latter had ripe edible berries; tart little black and red ones that had pinprick seeds that stuck between his teeth. There was a small stream running through the valley, its waters flowing east. He followed it, expecting it to eventually meet up with the river or one of its larger tributaries. It was narrow, barely three feet wide, and meandered through thickets, shrubs, and intermittent maple groves. Along its banks grew clumps of tall grass, fully half his height, riddled with snakes, spiders, and a wide variety of small birds and insects. There were no fish larger than his finger—and not enough of them for a meal—but they helped to ease his hunger a bit. At least the stream was shallow enough that it didn’t top his boots, and wading through it was easier than dealing with the thorns or having his legs smothered by the thick growth of tall grass.
Near dusk he belatedly sought shelter, but the hills on either side of the stream were lined with densely-packed impassable thickets. It was well after dark before he finally settled on a small knoll that split the stream apart for a few dozen feet. The ground was damp and mushy, held together by the grass’s thick entanglement of roots, and after he trampled down a swath of it, the grass provided ample cushioning for a bed. He set his backpack down and did a thorough search of the knoll. There were no snakes or spiders to worry about, so he returned to the small clearing he had made and sat down. The soggy ground squished beneath him, and he hurriedly stood up before the water seeping up through the grass could dampen his trouser bottom.
“I should have brought those robes,” he muttered. “I could have put them on the ground to sleep on.” He sighed and shook his head. “The present and future, not the past,” he finished. “Focus on what I can do, not on what I should have done. Don’t forget it, but no sense dwelling on it.”
He thought about cutting the grass and dismissed it. It would take too long, and a few more layers would only deter the water seeping up through them a little longer. Besides, it was a chill night, and a little extra warmth would be welcome. So, he took out the robe Voltari had given him and slipped it on over his clothes, clenching his teeth as he anticipated the inevitable, unrelenting itchiness it always gave him. But, this time, it didn’t aggravate his skin, and the odd intrusion of magic on his body was curiously mild, almost unnoticeable. The chill left him in moments, and not long after that, he lay down for some rest. A thick sliver of moon peeked over the mountains, and he was somehow comforted by its slim presence and the subdued light it cast upon everything. He fell into a light sleep, a part of his mind alert for anything out of the ordinary.
But everything was out of the ordinary. The hard stone shelf he slept on had been replaced by soft, soggy grass. The comforting echoes of his breathing bouncing off his chamber walls were gone. The rhythmic pulsing of blood rushing through his ears and the soft thrumming of his heartbeat were overwhelmed by the trickle of the stream, the whistles of a night bird, the rustle of the wind in the thickets, the distant scurrying of something small making its way through the thickets, the light touch of an insect on his cheek, the faint, rancid stench of a rotting log, the overwhelming twinge of fresh cut grass crying out for mercy….
Sleep would not come. If only he was nestled in the stark, quiet confines of his chamber in Blackhaven Tower! But he wasn’t, and he never would be again. Voltari had ordered him to never return, and he wouldn’t. Tempting his master’s wrath would be far worse than a few sounds and smells. He could tolerate the delicate touch of an insect’s brittle legs, a moth’s fluttery wing. But he still couldn’t sleep.
His muscles bunched up around his sternum and tension radiated outward from their center. Still the body, he thought, closing his eyes and mouthing the mantra. Still the mind. He was the master, now, and he methodically registered each sensation, categorized it, and let it pass through him. One by one they disappeared from his awareness until only two remained: the rhythmic pulsing of blood rushing through his ears and the soft thrumming of his heart. He listened to them, drew comfort from them, and let everything else slide away….
He had slept only a short while
when a new sound intruded upon him, gradually tweaking away the sleep until he brought it more fully into his consciousness. His body lay perfectly still, the heartbeat and breathing unchanged, but his mind was utterly focused, listening intently for the disturbance to repeat itself, trying desperately to identify the source of the sound. But there was only the murmur of the stream as it trickled past, the sound of wings flapping, the distant screech of a night bird. He had nearly convinced himself that it had been another nightmare when he heard a splash in the water near him, to the right. It wasn’t the arrhythmic melody of the stream, either; something had dropped softly into its waters.
Another splash, this time closer.
Something was approaching his little knoll, but what? To what end?
His left hand slid down to his belt, reached for the dagger hilt. But he couldn’t catch it in his grip; the robe was in the way. Stupid, he thought. I should have put the belt over the robe, like Voltari does. His self-recrimination was brief; whatever was on the knoll was working its way through the grass, toward the other side of the knoll. He eased up to a sitting position,