Feynard (17 page)

“Useful indeed,” he commented at the end of this. “So then, the Dark One has scented your trail at last. That is not unexpected, given the nature of recent intelligence we have received and the reported activity of his many agents these last lighttimes.” And his great eyes shrewdly appraised them all.

The Unicorn audibly caught his breath at this mention of the Dark One.

“These few,” Alliathiune put in, “are aware of our alliance, good Lurk. If they were not, they are now! You may address them as freely as you are able.”

“Very well. Hearken to my words
.” The X’gäthi shuffled closer to the mountainous Lurk, but Kevin noticed that their hands hovered near their weapons. He himself did not dare approach such a huge creature–why, one misstep and he’d be squashed like a bug! That said, Mistral Bog was full of them. He slapped his neck. Especially the sort with bites disproportionate to their size. Drat it all, he had enough trouble with persistent spots without the red lumps of insect bites added to the collection!

“We have recently learned of an apprentice to the Dark One,” began the Lurk, causing Zephyr to exhale a tiny whinny of dread. “In the seasons when last the Dark One strode the Seventy-Seven Hills, good outlander–it is for your benefit that I recount this history–it was as though the pains of childbirth had gripped all of Driadorn. Race rose against race and tribe against tribe. Many and bloody were the battles fought to restore peace beneath these leafy boughs, for the Dark Wizard’s ambitions knew no checks or bounds. He openly declared the objective of subjugating all races to his tyranny, following which he would overmaster the very Forest itself and claim that most ancient and puissant magic for his own. I fail to adequately describe to you, noble creatures, the horror and desperation of those evil
lighttimes, the bonds that were sundered between the peoples of Driadorn, how betrayal was heaped upon betrayal, how exploits of the greatest heroism and follies of grandiose desperation were pursued by greedy rulers, the many perfidious plots and acts of the basest treachery, and the apparently unstoppable march of the Dark Wizard’s armies! How nearly he succeeded–for divided, the races fell one by one. Old alliances failed. Friends deserted each other at critical times.”

Zephyr nickered softly, “The scars remain.”

Snatcher nodded gravely. “The sacrifice of that most noble of Unicorns, Whimstar, will always be spoken with honour and respect when those days are remembered. It was she who, when all seemed lost, wrought the trap that brought the Dark One within reach of her horn, for at the arrogant zenith of his power he believed that nothing was impossible, that not even the unique power of a Unicorn’s magic could withstand him. No creature, save a Unicorn, by my reckoning, comprehends what exactly Whimstar did to Ozark the Dark, but somehow in the yielding of her own life she was able to destroy him–and with the destruction of the Dark Wizard, his armies were routed and scattered to all corners of the Forest.”

Kevin
nodded. “I had a Unicorn tutor who taught me the rudiments. But you tell it better than he, Snatcher.”

“Excellent!” The Lurk turned now to Alliathiune and Zephyr. “We Lurks sent word to the Dryads of the assembling of an army of Men in the north–bands of strange, armoured Men, bearing weapons and methods of war foreign to the Hills. Our scouts described a metal-armoured beast breathing fire and other wonders their small minds are unable to grasp. Even as we speak
, their envoys parley with the Fauns and the detritus of their tunnelling to the Trolls reaches mountainous proportions. Need I remind you of the Trollish lust for killing and their insatiable appetites for power and destruction? Though they command the vast underground realms, to the detriment of the other subterranean races, the Trolls have always yearned to return to the world of light, to the land of the Seven Rivers, to claim what they believe is their birthright.”

“We
hadn’t received these ill tidings,” said Alliathiune, in a small voice that clearly communicated her alarm.

“Good
Dryad, I had hoped you would receive this intelligence during your sojourn at Thaharria-brin-Tomal. Furthermore, we have learned of an apprentice, a mysterious newcomer to the Forest who does not yet appear to be allied with these armoured Men from the north–but it can only be a matter of time. There are rumours of wizardly doings deep in the Old Forest, nothing more substantial than whisperings and fragments, I fear, but the omens of
anyukkê
–in your tongue, the ‘movements-of-power’–are dire, for the Forest senses those who perform works of wicked magic within her leafy halls. We holders of the ancient knowledge are gravely troubled. The taint of the Blight now reaches our sluggish waters. Even the Lurks are restless.”

Good this and noble that,
Kevin thought, looking between the strange creatures which surrounded him. Was it mere politeness? Or did Alliathiune trust the Lurk as instinctively as he did? There was a quality in his voice and manner, he felt, something truly honourable, not just a mere form of words.

“We had sensed a shadow rising aga
inst Driadorn, good Lurk,” Alliathiune whispered after a long silence, “but you have painted a fuller picture. Has our lack of belief in a Dark Apprentice impaired our service to the Forest? Have we failed before it is begun?”

“This sinister Blight is merely a foreshadowing, noble Dryad,” agreed the Lurk. “But while creatures who love the Mother Forest yet live and breathe, there is hope.”

Thigh-deep in viscid swamp water, the Dryad bowed to the Lurk.

Zephyr
said, “We would not be mired in the midst of Mistral Bog, good Dryad, were it not for love of the Forest. I do not see many other Dryads similarly engaged in defeating this evil.”

“Perhaps so–but I still feel foolish.”

“As do I. Blind, and foolish. Did I not yester morn argue that the Black Wolves’ attack was random and unpremeditated?”

“If anyone is foolish around here, it is I,”
Kevin piped up. “You two at least foresaw Driadorn’s need. I kept trying to fight you off–and today I put all your lives in danger. Snatcher, with every part of me not currently digesting in that plant over there right now, I thank you.”

A second time, a great bellow shook Mistral Bog, causing a flotilla of tall, wading water birds called
tothiki
herons to launch into ponderous, honking flight. But this bellow was all laughter.

“
Good Lurk,” said Alliathiune, when she could hear herself speak again, “does it strike you that a Council of War is called for?”

“Mylliandawn would never countenance a Council of War–with my apologies, noble
Lurk–on such flimsy evidence and rumours of armies assembling,” Zephyr argued. “But surely a Council represents the only means of gaining widespread co-operation between the creatures?”

“And
the Blight is insufficient reason?”

“Good Dryad, as it stands with my people–”

“They’d surely not accept the word of a Lurk!” she finished for him, muttering several choice imprecations under her breath.

Zephyr bowed his head stiffly. “
True. Mylliandawn will require additional proofs if the Unicorns are to be drawn into this matter, for her complacence in matters of the external world is stifling. Until then–”

“If the outlander’s conjecture is correct,” the Lurk interposed, “such proofs shall be discovered at Elliadora’s Well.” There was such an air of piratical cunning in his tone that
Kevin looked up, startled. He seemed extremely well-informed! “If at the Well you are able to determine the source of this Blight, that would surely constitute reason sufficient to convene the Council–and what better place to host such a conclave, than at Elliadora’s Well itself?”

“Neutral ground?”

“Indeed, noble Zephyr.”

“Brilliant! Simply brilliant!”

“Moreover,” agreed the Lurk, looking pleased at this praise, “it is
central
ground to all the concerned races, for both geographical and historical reasons. Who would dare foment trouble at the Sacred Well? How better to stimulate curiosity in those traditionally, shall we say, less inclined to attend the Council? And should good Kevin’s intuition prove accurate–may the Forest our Mother be protected–then these proofs will be self-evident and unanswerable. The Blight must be stopped!”

“Aye, by the Hills!”

As Alliathiune, Zephyr and Snatcher debated the merits of this idea, Kevin was left to contemplate the nasty suspicion that no matter how he tried to deflect the focus from one Kevin Albert Jenkins, it somehow returned to him like a devious itch that refuses to accept that it has been amply scratched. Why had he
ever
put his hand into that sack? What had possessed him to explore the cellar in the first place? Disaster piled upon disaster. Goodness, life could have been much simpler if only he had ignored that letter! He could have been pining in the Library and rattling with pills. He would not be muddy, wet, and shivering in the middle of some misbegotten swamp talking to a green-haired vixen, a shapeless oaf, and an overgrown horse!

But no sooner had these
vexations crossed Kevin’s mind, than he felt wretched and heartless for thinking of his companions in such terms. Zephyr had been unflaggingly kind to him. The Lurk’s ghastly appearance belied a dynamic intelligence, as well as a touching concern for a land in which he dwelt in what must be its worst part. And Alliathiune could be very personable, save when she opened her mouth in anger–or when she was merging herself with a tree! It was all her fault originally, anyway. She had somehow wrenched him through to Feynard via his dreams. She had compelled him to undertake this crazy, dangerous journey. She had slapped him at their very first meeting!

That he could blame someone else made it in some obscure fashion, acceptable, and his despondency lightened.

“It’s decided, then!” Zephyr said brightly.

“What’s decided?”

“We’ll travel on to Elliadora’s Well making all possible speed. Snatcher has offered to guide us to the eastern border of Mistral Bog.”

“Which is not far by the secret paths,” he growled, doing the Lurk equivalent of popping one’s knuckles, which sounded exactly like bones snapping. Zephyr jumped a good two feet backwards before catching himself with an annoyed harrumph. “From there, the terrain rises swiftly towards
Yalkê-na-Têk
–the–ah …”

“The ‘Troll’s Teeth’ is an appropriate translation, I believe.”

“My pardon, good Zephyr. I bow to your linguistic prowess. Yes, it is broken and difficult terrain through which Küshar Ravine cuts like a jagged wound, but I will set you upon Lyredin’s Way, which leads up to–” and here he made an unintelligible gargle deep in his throat “–also called the Bridge of Storms by the Fauns, which may be the only sure way of crossing Küshar Ravine and gaining the Barlindran River beyond. I would suggest that Elliadora’s Well lies three to four lighttimes journey beyond, but only the foolish and unwise traveller would proceed forgoing due caution in that perilous country. Even the Fauns venture no farther than the Bridge. One wonders if they guard less against eastward passage, than against what dangers might rise from the dark mass of the Old Forest. The Fauns are not easily affrighted, as you know.”

The Unicorn nickered uneasily. “Are there no rumours of the Old Forest that reach your ears, good Lurk?”

“Rumours aplenty! Truth? That is scarce.” He cracked another knuckle, which made Zephyr exclaim crossly. Alliathiune giggled. “Suffice to say,” said he, oblivious to their reactions, “that there are signs of strife and turmoil deep within the Old Forest. Creatures whelped in the stinking depths of Shäyol itself are on the move, rising from their aeons of slumber–and the Fauns cast nervous eyes eastward. Perhaps, at the root of these troubles, we shall find this conniving apprentice. Until then, I humbly suggest that we continue our journey. This part of Mistral Bog is more unfriendly than most, and though I misdoubt not the competence of your tame X’gäthi, nought but ill stands to be gained through delay. I shall return anon.”

And the Lurk vanished with astonishing facility into the surrounding reed-beds, making even the X’gäthi warriors blink and mutter amongst themselves in their guttural tongue.
Kevin was glad he was not the only one who considered it worrying how a ten-foot monster could have tracked them undetected through Mistral Bog!

“
Thank you for rescuing me, Alliathiune,” Kevin said stiffly, scratching like a mole digging a new burrow. His arms itched ferociously.

The Dryad
pinned him with a glare that could have stunned a charging rhinoceros. “Don’t you dare wander off like that again, good outlander. You endangered the lives of your companions through your incaution. And I am not willing to waste my magic saving your worthless hide when there are far more important issues at stake.”

Kevin
’s shoulders slumped and his tongue became thick with unvoiced apologies. What could he reply? He was a useless burden to their cause, relying entirely upon his companions. It was a miracle they had trusted him thus far–a confidence in his word and abilities that he neither deserved nor desired. Already they must regret including him in this expedition to Elliadora’s Well. What would they say when he was proved wrong? His mind miserably dredged up all the flimsy assumptions upon which he had built his suppositions regarding the Blight’s probable source, and set about demolishing them one by one.