Swords of the Six (26 page)

Suddenly the girl cried out and stumbled, a stone and a log pinched her ankle between them. She laid still, a flat stone under her head. He swept toward her, observed that she was breathing, sighed inwardly with relief.

Other than hitting her head on the stone, Dantress seemed fine, and though her ankle appeared twisted it was nothing serious.

Standing still, Specter felt an icy chill creep up his arm, raising every hair on end. The forest froze into silence. Not even the crickets broke the spell.

Wispy tendrils of blackness, like smoke, snaked out of the trees beside the fallen young woman. They flowed from the shadows between the trees, entwining with each other and joining.

At first Specter thought his eyes were tricking him, for he saw hands without flesh grow from the blackness—bones as black as coal, fingers groping toward Dantress from beneath tattered black robes and a cavernous hood. And, clenched in the being's right hand, visible for only a moment, was a black scythe with an edge serrated either by wear or by design.

Though he disregarded it, Specter could not shake away the icy chill filling the air. He saw the bony fingers claw down, inches from Dantress's cheek. Her body went rigid, her face turned white.

Specter stepped forward, clenched his teeth, scythe raised.
Whatever foul creature this was
. . . but he didn't get a chance to finish the thought.

The being withdrew its hand and vaporized into nothingness. Not a trace, not even a footprint, could Specter find.

Dantress sat up, held her hand to her head for a moment, eyes half closed. Specter was tempted to show himself to her, but the color returned to her cheeks, and she soon stood and limped in the direction of the cave without his help. With a strong feeling of trepidation Specter followed, the sight of the bone-hand lingering over Dantress's face foremost in his thoughts.

* * *

The chirps of birds woke Ilfedo the next morning. He opened his front door and gazed outside. Yimshi's golden light bathed the treetops for as far as he could see. Their green leaves, speckled with dewdrops, seemed to glow with warmth.

Because he had built his home on one of the higher hills in the wilderness, he could look out over most of the treetops in three directions: east, south and west. A bird's eye view.

The scenery behind the house was obscured by a row of large oak trees on his hill's crest. Like wood sentinels, the trees overshadowed his home, camouflaging it from sight as well as taking the brunt of any sudden strong winds seeking to invade his yard.

Rolling into the distance the forests of the Hemmed Land dipped and rose with the contour of the land. If one looked at the trees long enough they could spot a Nuvitor or two. The beautiful, wild creatures did not customarily soar high into the sky like the eagles did. They seemed to prefer skimming the treetops, staying near the forests' protective curtain of leaves, branches, and vines, all untended by human hands and yet marvelously interwoven with creative design.

"Why . . . thank you,
Ilfedo
!"

"It was my pleasure to have you." Ilfedo walked with the lad as he approached the picketed horses. Tying the first horse's saddle to that of the second, Ramul linked the four creatures together. He grabbed the horn with one hand, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and jumped up to the saddle.

"Take the ride slow and watch the path I led you down to get here." Ilfedo patted the young man's shoulder and then handed him the reins. "These forests are not yet free of all beasts. It would be inadvisable for you to wander away from the trail. Follow the marks I made on the trees and you'll do fine."

Ramul nodded. His green eyes turned toward the path, and he departed into the trees, the horses trailing after him.

When the last of the pack horses was lost to sight amongst the trees, Ilfedo turned back to his house. He closed the door, sank into the hammock, and closed his eyes as the fire's heat washed under him. Because he'd not bothered putting more than a single window on this level of his home, the light remained dim and flickering. Above him, in the master bedroom on the second floor, the Nuvitors cooed their welcome to the new day.

But he drifted asleep . . ..

* * *

The tracks of a deer led Ilfedo upstream through a haze of milky white light that seemed to pull him with invisible hands along the water's edge. Not a single sound penetrated the air. He could not even hear the wet ground sucking at his boots. He sniffed at the air, a whiff of . . . nothing. Anyway, it didn't matter. All that mattered was running along the stream's bank and reaching his destination.

Miles of ground passed effortlessly beneath his feet, miles that brought him out of the forests of the Hemmed Land and into the Western Wood, a stretch of land west of his home territory untouched by humankind.

He followed the stream to a pool of water partially shaded by trees on all sides. A waterfall fell in silence over a face of smooth stone to the pool. Ripples spread outward from the falling water, building outward a series of watery half-rings breaking around olive-skinned legs, smooth as oil.

A feeling of ecstasy overpowered Ilfedo. The reflecting solar rays painted themselves on her legs and her silken skirt was held out of the water in one small hand, fingers clutching the fabric with the grace and strength of a swan. And her hair, dark and wavy, fell down her back almost to her waist. She was short of stature, yet all the more beautiful for it.

He prepared to call out, to make her turn to see him there, so that he could look at her face. But she vanished and the waterfall froze, the pool beneath it froze as well. A sphere, as smooth as glass and as yellow as polished gold, dropped from the heavens. It plummeted through the icy air and then broke onto the ice. Innumerable cracks spread from the point of impact like strands of a spider's web. The cracks covered the frozen pool, spreading up the frozen waterfall. At once the ice exploded into billions of fragments that tore into the surrounding forest.

"Ilfedo!" the shattering scene seemed to say. He heard his name pronounced several times, each time more forcibly.

* * *

"Ilfedo!" The man's voice carried a note of urgency.

This time the dream dissolved and he opened his eyes. The full light of day flooded through the lone window. Outside he could see, by the angle of the sunlight through the glass, that it must be late morning.

"Hey . . . look who's
finally
waking up!" Ombre grinned down at him boyishly. His unkempt light brown hair covered his ears and some of it spilled over his forehead. The blank eyes of the wolf's head atop his scalp seemed to look back at Ilfedo in silent accusation.

Two years ago, while searching out a killer bear, Ilfedo had been attacked by the wolf. It had been one of the largest he'd ever seen, its shoulders almost reached his hip. Fortunately, Ombre had been with Ilfedo when the animal landed on his back. He'd reacted with a stroke of his sword across the wolf's jugular. Ever since that day Ombre had kept the wolf's skin with the head attached as his personal trophy, in much the same way as Ilfedo'd garbed himself with a coat made from the black beast that had killed his parents.

"Ombre . . ." Ilfedo blinked his heavy eyelids. The fire crackled warmly in the fireplace, enfolding his body in its warmth.

"What?" Ombre laughed. "Did you want to sleep the day away?" He gestured out the window where their planet's sun, Yimshi, rose near the sky's zenith.

Ilfedo got out of his hammock, taking a few moments to completely wake. When he was more alert he walked into his kitchen area. Seivar and Hasselpatch had already cleaned the dishes, arranged them on the shelves and cleared last night's mess.

"Have you eaten, Ombre?"

"Hours ago," his friend said, dropping into a chair by the table. He flipped the wolf's head off of his own so that it hung over his back. He drummed his fingers on the table as Ilfedo retrieved a cast iron pot, filled it with water from a barrel set on his counter, and hung it over the flames in the fireplace.

When the water boiled, Ilfedo tossed in several generous scoops of oats, pulled it away from the flames, and set it on the counter. The simmering oats smelled wonderful to Ilfedo—and familiar. Much better than the food he'd received while in the coastal town. Not to say he didn't like waffles. No, he loved them. But oatmeal . . . well, it served the triple purpose of satisfying his taste buds, filling his stomach, and providing him with a healthy burst of morning energy.

Bringing one of the packs from town and setting it on the counter, he fished out a couple slices of dried, smoked snake meat.

"What is it?" Ombre caught a piece Ilfedo tossed to him, sniffing it before sinking his teeth in.

Ilfedo tasted a bit of the Sea Serpent meat. A bit tough—too dry, but otherwise rather good. Not as rich a flavor as beef. It had a slight fishy taste to it.

He pulled out another slice and tossed it too in Ombre's direction. The man caught it and repeated his question. "What is this stuff?"

"Sea Serpent." Ilfedo grinned, watching Ombre's expression turn from pleasure to disgust.

Gliding into the room from the stairway, Seivar landed on the table, across from Ombre.

"Here, take it!" Ombre tossed the jerky into the bird's open beak and rubbed his hands against his trousers as if to rid them of any residue the meat might have left. He frowned at Ilfedo. "You did that on purpose."

Chuckling, Ilfedo grabbed a large wood spoon and stirred his oatmeal. He bent his face to the pot—letting the steam wend its way gradually into his nostrils.

Ombre leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head. "I should have known," he said. "Is this because of that last hunting trip we took?"

"Which one?" Ilfedo feigned innocence.

"Oh don't play that game with me!" Ombre chuckled. "Just because I led you into a little mud—" He threw up his hands. "Okay, we're even.

"But speaking of hunting . . . how'd your trip to the coast turn out? I heard rumors flying that someone from these parts got tangled with a mess of Sea Serpents and killed them with a sword." He stood, walked to the counter, peered into the bag, pulling out several long slices of meat. "What've you been up to, Ilfedo? Playing hero so that you can win some woman's heart and leave our little bachelor's club?"

"I just happened to be there at the right moment." Ilfedo picked out a large bowl from those stacked on his shelf. Dipping the spoon deep into the pot, he dished out the oats, moist and hot. With the heaped bowl in one hand and the spoon in his other, he sat at the table and ate.

"So," Ombre chuckled again, "it
was
you." He sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. "All right . . . I'm ready." He folded his hands and sat opposite Ilfedo. "What happened? And don't leave out any details."

It took Ilfedo the next half hour to relate, between mouthfuls, his encounter with the Sea Serpents. When he'd finished Ombre shook his head and laughed.

"First the bears, now Sea Serpents . . . one can only wonder what will be next. Dragons perhaps!"

"Don't be silly," Ilfedo said as he cleaned the last of the oats from his bowl. He chewed them with deliberate slowness. "Dragons are myth. Every child knows that."

"Well I wouldn't be so certain of that." Ombre paused to swat a fly away from his face. "Remember the stories my father told us of where our people came from."

"You mean"—Ilfedo pointed at him with the dirty spoon—"where our people are
supposed
to have come from."

Ombre shrugged. "I agree that certain elements sound like pure fiction."

"Yeah," Ilfedo stood, "do you think?"

"Well, the part about our ancestors flying into the sky at will—that was a bit sketchy—but what of the Chronicler of our history? No one knows what became of him. He just vanished. Not a word, not a clue, not a hint.

"But Father left the Chronicler's scrolls in my possession, and I've read through some of them. Its information often seems ambiguous, yet there are details of other places that can only be explained by either his being an out and out liar
or
that he actually did explore the lands beyond our borders."

The subject was soon dropped. They'd talked about the Chronicler on several occasions, but the truth was that no one knew the truth when it came to the Chronicler. So the conversation could only go so far.

Ilfedo served the remainder of the oatmeal to Seivar and Hasselpatch. Then, as the birds ate, he sat back down. "My food stores are getting a bit low. I was hoping you might like to start out tonight."

"A hunt?" Ombre smiled.

Ilfedo nodded casually. "Ganning and Honer'll probably want to come along. We can divide whatever we catch and give them the larger portions . . . as usual. With all the mouths they have to feed they'll need it." He stared at the wood slabs on the ceiling. "How many is Honer up to now?"

"Well"—Ombre counted off silently on his fingers—"five kids and then his wife. Ganning has a few as well."

"Yes, I'm starting to feel like an old bachelor."

"You're a little young for that, Ilfedo." Hasselpatch landed on the table and Ombre stroked her fluffy white chest. She cooed her appreciation, half-closing her silvery eyes.