17878265 (48 page)

Loric’s focus was on the aged man before him. The silent elder said nothing to name

himself, but Loric felt assured that he had found the hermit he was looking for. That could only be Nimshar the Old gliding along the path before him.

The aged one crested a hilltop and disappeared in full light of the morning sun. Loric rubbed his eyes and blinked, amazed by what he had seen--or rather, by what he could no longer see. He raced to the place where the old man had last walked, afraid that he had lost him. He was gone.

Loric scanned the area below him, anxious to see the least glimpse of his guide. His eyes shifted steadily back and forth, taking in the twisted ugliness of Dimwood, but there was no old man in sight. Loric spotted him. He was waving a bony arm from a shadowy hollow more than three hundred yards distant.

“That’s impossible,” Barag grumbled uneasily from his place beside Loric. “How could he just vanish and reappear like that? It’s....”

The big fellow simply could not bring himself to say the thing that Loric was also feeling.

Uncanny
was the first word to describe it, but that was altogether inadequate.
Odd
or
unusual
was neither one in the same realm as this thing. Loric shuddered and let the sensation in his spine finish for Barag, as he said, “Chilling.”

A face with bulldog features nodded in silent reply.

“Come along, friend,” Loric encouraged Barag. “He beckons.”

“Yes,” Barag agreed. “
It
is waiting for us.”

Warnyck dragged Marblin up behind them. “What is amiss?” he questioned.

Loric walked on. Barag turned dull eyes on the scout and shrugged. Then he too marched on. Warnyck sighed and tagged along with Marblin in tow. Down the hillside they went. As the companions hurried to follow the mysterious old man, he led them on. Troublesome vines parted before the elderly fellow, who shuffled along at a surprisingly quick pace. The companions found it difficult to catch up with him.

The travelers finally stepped in line behind the aged wanderer, who raised his arms from his sides and turned his palms outward. No sooner had he done so than a host of vines rose up from either side of the party to shield them from a hail of red-feathered darts that came from the left and right of them. The old man moved on as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Loric stared at Warnyck, hoping the scout had identified points of origin for those tiny missiles. Warnyck shrugged, held up his hands helplessly and sighed. Loric repeated his friend’s resigned expression, but little tension left him with that breath.

“Wow!” shouted Kelvion. “Did you see that?”

“Who are you?” Loric quietly demanded, ignoring Kelvion’s exclamations. “By what power do you do these things?”

The old man did not check his pace. Neither did he turn, or even glance sidelong at Loric.

He simply waved off his questions with a frail hand.

That answer was not good enough for Loric, who reached out to grab the aged fellow by his shoulder. The knight was dismayed to feel his arm go limp and numb with icy pain as he spun the man about. He forgot his questions in his agony. If the wrenching anguish he felt in his arm had not been enough to make him drop the matter, the terror he felt as he truly saw his guide for the first time was enough to convince him of his folly. Loric had gazed upon a face enveloped in flames, with flesh falling away to reveal bones and teeth.

Then Loric was on the ground, clutching his offending limb and writhing in pain. Three swords moved to intercept the man who had done this to him, with each respective wielder intending to punish the old man, but Loric commanded them, “Stop! I have affronted our guide, and I have received my just reward for my trespass. I should show respect and hold my questions until the appropriate time.” He buried his pain behind a stoical mask, and gave his arm a rigorous shake. “Besides,” he lied, “my arm is already beginning to feel better.”

The old man turned and offered a slight bow in response to those words. Then he was off again, without awaiting further discussion.

Barag reluctantly re-sheathed his blade.

Warnyck fiercely stood his ground between Loric and the old man.

Marblin was somewhat behind the scout, quavering with fright.

Their guide stopped and regarded them with a cold grin that may have been an expression of patience.

Loric clambered to his feet and put a firm palm to Warnyck’s shoulder, saying, “Friend, Warnyck, we have no quarrel with this man.”

“How can you say that after-?” Warnyck started.

“Again, I remind you that he has done no lasting harm to me,” Loric explained. “I simply overstepped my right place and received a due lesson in humility. It would be best for all of us to respect this man,” he warned. “Maybe he will help us find Nimshar. Perhaps he
is
the sorcerer we seek.”

Loric felt tension melt from his friend’s muscles, so he released him. To the silent elder he offered, “A thousand apologies, worthy guide. Show us what you wish to show us.”

Loric had many questions for the old man, but he had to be patient. Whatever his guide was, it was clearly not something to trifle with. Loric would only receive such information as his guide wished to give him, and only in the time of his choosing. It had been a terrible mistake to press him, especially to lay hands on him. Loric came away from that experience troubled to know that the aged wanderer could take his life on a whim, but likewise encouraged, knowing that he had not chosen to do so. Questions would have to wait.

Waiting was not in Kelvion’s nature. “Are you the King of Dimwood?” he asked. Taking the old fellow’s silence for an affirmative reply, he asked, “Then why do you live in such a scary place?”

The old man ignored the boy and waddled on.

Loric said, “Be silent, Kelvion. We should only speak to our elders when spoken to.”

The old man continued moving at a breathtaking rate, with brambles, shrubs and trees

parting before him. The companions hustled to prevent being left behind, with Kelvion sometimes riding one of the grown men piggyback fashion. Their guide took them up a winding path, which climbed steadily and only took an occasional downward turn. Loric peered over his shoulder to see trees and tendrils closing like infinite doors behind Warnyck, who had posted himself rearguard. To Loric’s relief, there was no sign of pursuit.

The party ascended a steep hill of loose shale. The way was difficult to traverse, until the ground finally leveled near its crest. The journey was easier for a time, as a seemingly never-ending descent followed. After what felt like an eternity of angling downward, the path took another upward shoot. The sudden climb lasted for close on an hour before they at last came to a large clearing.

In the midst of the wretched, lifeless forest, which haunted the land for countless miles in every direction, was the grandest tree Loric and his companions had yet seen. It was perhaps the largest tree in all of Beledon. It was in full bloom, with its countless green leaves laying a heavy burden on its many branches. Loric finally understood why the entire floor of Dimwood was thick with brown carpet. A tree of such immensity could easily shed enough foliage to compensate for that which other dead growth in Dimwood lacked.

“The Father of the Forest,” Loric whispered, awe-stricken.

The others stood stupefied by the truth. They had come to the most visible of all trees in the forest, which they had never seen. Yet, they knew it for what it was, for what Loric had named it.

Moreover, they had come to it on the heels of a mysterious guide: the apparition.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Keeper Speaks

Aside from the great size and apparent good health of the tree, there was something else unusual about it. Set in the center of its great bole, upon three stout hinges, there hung a door, which looked to have been carven from the trunk itself. Higher up, to each side of the entryway, there was a window looking down on the newcomers and their mysterious guide. The Father of the Forest was a strange tree indeed.

“Wow!” Kelvion exclaimed. “Look, Loric, look!”

Loric did not need the boy to tell him to do that. In fact, it was hard to take his eyes from the phenomenon.

The wizened old man hobbled up to the door, opened it and entered. Four men haltingly followed him into the unlikely tower, while Kelvion urged greater and greater haste from them.

Loric took in his new surroundings as his host barred the door. To his surprise, it was more spacious than it appeared from without.

Loric and company were in a capacious room that served as both kitchen and living area.

Off to the left, there was a small wooden table surrounded by chairs. To the right, there were two rockers with a small table set between them. Straight ahead, there was a staircase ascending to the upper level. As the wispy-haired old man lit the oil lamp on the table, Loric noticed that countless shelves of books lined the walls. Finely woven rugs covered the wooden floor for warmth. As a whole, the place was neat and tidy, almost homely.

The host motioned for his guests to sit in the dining room, near the hearth. The old man joined them at the head of the table and pointed to a tattered book at its center. The book was of ordinary dimensions. Bound in a worn leather jacket, it bore no title.

Loric sat opposite the aged fellow and reached for the book with an unsteady hand. He drew it close before him and set his fingers to the cover. When Loric flipped the book open, the pages were blank. He fanned through it to discover that it was a collection of empty leaves, whereupon he frowned at his unusual host and asked, “What game do you play at?”

A trace smile broke on the old man’s face as he pointed back to the book. Loric glanced down to see words forming on its pages, as if by magic. There was no quill, no hand, just ink bleeding onto the page from an unseen source. Loric drew back his hand from those bound leaves, as if from a den of asps.
What do you know of the Father of the Forest?
the book demanded.

Loric looked up from the magical writing and answered, “My father, Palen--Sir Palendar, that is--wrote in his knightly log that,
....the Father of the Forest holds a keeper, and the keeper
keeps a secret.”

“Sir Palendar,” Barag murmured in disbelief. He stared at Loric as one betrayed. “The bravest knight of Sir Logant’s line, save perhaps Logant himself....
He
was dwelling amongst us commoners in tiny Taeglin,” he mused. “This is the first I have heard of this. It doesn’t make any sense to me. To think that a legendary figure, such as he came to dwell among farm folk....” The bulky warrior wagged his head, refusing to accept the illogic of it.

The old man’s eyes tightened as they darted toward the book, bidding Loric to read.
Sir
Palendar sent you?
it questioned.

“No,” Loric answered without hesitation. “I came to finish what my father started,” he explained. “I came to do what he left unfinished for my sake.”

The weight of that truth made the burden of Loric’s task heavy to bear. This was the first time he had thought about the sacrifice that Sir Palendar had made to see him grown in relative safety. His father had given up his quest for the greatest of all treasures to try to keep him safe.

Now Sir Palendar was dead, betrayed by Loric’s sense of right and the nobleman he had angered in protecting Marblin, one Garrett son of Garrick, the Prince of Durbansdan.

The silent elder nodded toward the book.
Has your father abandoned his quest then?

“Nay,” Loric answered. The truth stuck in the back of his throat. “A noble lord, lacking both nobility and honor, murdered him, along with all of my people,” he answered.

Again, there was no reaction from the old man. Loric checked the page before him. There were more words.
Therefore, you have taken it upon yourself to finish his work?

“Yes,” Loric replied.

What is your reason for doing this?
the book wrote.

“I would recover the Great King’s Sword, the one known as the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye, the Sword of Kings, and sometimes the Fire of Kings, that I might place it in capable hands that would set Beledon to rights,” Loric answered sincerely. “The kingdom bleeds,” he went on, his eyes flooding with pains of war and death, tragedy and suffering, “and great lords revel in slaughter, while common folk surrender everything to gain nothing. It frustrates me!” he growled.

A creepy half-smile formed on the old man’s countenance, so Loric eyed the writing on the pages.
Who is worthy of this sword, Loric son of Palendar? Whom would you have as your king?

Loric considered the lords he had met in his travels. Garrick had shown terrible weakness in the face of great tragedy and he lacked a suitable heir to continue his line, even before Garrett fell. Aldric was exceedingly cunning, but he barely showed honor above King Hadregeon, with his tangle of lies ever to be distrusted. Hadregeon was treacherous and King Turtioc was downright wicked. Loric despaired of finding a worthy suitor for the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye.

“I cannot think of a single deserving candidate,” the Knight of Shimmermir and Taeglin said aloud. “The answer to that question is a quest of greater challenge than the one upon which I have already set myself, but I am no less willing to pursue it to its ultimate end. There are lords I have not yet met. Surely, there is someone worthy of this great honor. I would continue my search for this man; and when I find him, I would make him king.”

Can you think of no one?
the book questioned.

“There is not one nobleman I know who is worthy of kingship!” Loric declared.

Each of his companions named his respective lord as deserving of said honor, but Loric disregarded the argument he had started to say, “They have all fallen into petty squabbles and dishonorable deeds.” Loric’s companions stifled, as they realized they were mirroring actions of their leaders. Loric felt shame for his ignoble acts. He had disobeyed his father’s wishes, stolen his knightly gear and allowed others to believe countless numbers of Aldric’s lies about him.