By Ways Unseen Read online

  Pladt leaned over, his eyes brightening.

  “What’s all those marks?” he asked, gesturing to the groves Haydren had sketched. Haydren shrugged.

  “I thought it might be useful to remember where we camped,” he said. He paused, and shrugged again. “I don’t know why; I have no intention of coming back here. I don’t know.”

  If Pladt was paying any attention, he didn’t show it. “What’s here?” he asked, pointing to the crossing.

  “A small crossroads,” Haydren replied. “Probably just an inn and one or two shops.”

  “Are we stopping there?”

  Haydren glanced at Geoffrey, and both of them grinned. “We might – yes, probably. It’d be a good place to sleep on a bed before Quaran.”

  “’Quanioliae Bay,’” Pladt read, north of Quaran. “I remember that name! I always wanted to go see it when we lived in Quaran. Can we go see that?”

  “Um, probably not, Pladt; we need to get to Frecksshire.”

  “Well, I know; but it wouldn’t take that long, would it?”

  “Long enough,” Haydren said, starting to roll up his map.

  “Wait, what about this place?” he said, pinning down the parchment with a finger.

  Haydren gazed at him. “That’s the middle of the Central Plains, Pladt,” he replied. “Now you’re just pointing at random things.”

  “What’s the point of an adventure if you only go straight from point to point?” Pladt asked, though he moved his finger and allowed Haydren to finish putting away the map.

  “Maybe we aren’t looking for an adventure,” said Haydren and Geoffrey together.

  Pladt sat back quickly. “Okay, then; I guess that’s unanimous.”

  But they all grinned as they mounted their horses and continued westward. The day passed, and here the land ran into itself, as broad hillsides covered with brown scrubgrass and scattered blue junipers curved eventually to abrupt valleys. The rough terrain forced them closer to the road; but from the higher way as it kept to the tops of the hills, it would be easier to spot waiting bandits or beasts.

  The land dived as they neared the crossing, and as evening approached they could see that the junction tucked below near the river was not a large town, and too much danger existed of Guntsen’s men - at least a small detachment of them - staying at the Inn and easily recognizing them as strangers. So instead the small band slept off the road in a narrow vale, within view of the junction, but still in the soaking plains.

  They made their crossing that night under a waxing moon that broke fitfully from under bunched clouds; occasionally a light drizzle would fall, then pass, allowing them to walk with their hoods drawn over their heads without appearing to even uncurious eyes to be hiding.

  As they went by the silent buildings, Haydren glanced over his horse’s neck as a candle burned in a low window of the small inn. His hood shifted, covering all of his face but one eye; just as he was about to turn away, he caught sight of a man bent over near the small flame as if he were reading something upon a table. The man looked out suddenly, and Haydren nearly missed a step; but it seemed his hood covered his face well, as the man swept his eyes over the party of three, hesitated, then went back to whatever had his attention before.

  When they had exited the junction, Haydren mounted. “We need to get further away, tonight,” he said, moving his horse to a trot before his companions could ask questions. They swiftly followed suit and caught up to him.

  “What is it?” Geoffrey asked as he came alongside.

  “Not what; who,” Haydren said. “Semmelle; lieutenant of the Mages.”

  “I thought mages were just magic users who could do all elements to a medium degree,” Pladt said.

  “Sorry; they are,” Haydren said. “But the Earl’s Mages is the unit of magic users employed by the Earl for his army. Semmelle is the lieutenant, and they are in a tiny junction in the middle of the plains; which means they’re following us, or at least looking for us.”

  “Well, I did say ‘make it exciting,’ didn’t I,” Pladt muttered. But no fears were realized, no ambushes sprung on the travelers in the following days.

  Two days after the crossing, though he had thought about it often and had come to no conclusion, Haydren found himself debating their next move after Quaran. He had assumed he would have to attempt to sneak through the lines around Fūnik; but as he was Rinc Nain, at least enough to be recognized, open passage was possible.

  But Fūnik would be a month-long detour around the southern tip of the Kalen Woods. He had as much money now as he did when he left Hewolucs, which was none; and once they hit the Low Moors – boggy, disgusting terrain with few creatures on which to sustain themselves, and plants that were barely better than poison – they would need supplies of some sort.

  On the other hand, if they traveled through the Kalen Woods – known more widely on the eastern half as the Northern Forest because it sounded more romantic and mystical – they could come out the other side only half a day’s journey from the High Moors, and it’s abundance of edible foods. There would be only one problem with that route.

  “If you gaze any deeper inward, Haydren, you may collapse within yourself.” Geoffrey said, glancing up from the pot he stirred the morning they expected to arrive in Quaran.

  Haydren smiled. “Sorry, just trying to think.”

  “You don’t have to think alone,” Pladt said, standing behind him. The sun had finally broken through the interminable clouds, and Pladt was star-eyed as he surveyed the plains sweeping away around them. On top of a great, golden plate of prairie which rolled and curled like the sea with the wind upon it, and underneath such a grand blue bowl as the sky, Pladt was again in high spirits. “My father always said thinking alone is a great way to commit all sorts of blunders. He said it more profoundly than that, though,” Pladt added with a grin.

  “I was considering what route to take,” Haydren said. “Both present problems. If we go south, we need supplies for which we have no money. If we continue west, we have to go through the Northern Forest.”

  Geoffrey’s stirring stopped short. “You do not plan on the second option, do you?”

  “Geoffrey,” Haydren started; Geoffrey’s raised hand stopped him.

  “I have been in this country only a year, Haydren, and even I have heard those rumors; no one who enters comes out. And you propose to cross at its widest point! Why don’t you just try to find Haschina while you’re in there?”

  Pladt leaned over and spat, gazing at Geoffrey solemnly. “I would not say that name so easily, Geoffrey.”

  Haydren glanced at Pladt quizzically. “It is the name of the first month of the year,” he said.

  Pladt gave him a withering look. “Haschina the month is not hard to find,” he replied. “You know very well what he’s talking about: the mage’s home, the birthplace of the evils that are killing Burieng.”

  Both looked at Pladt in surprise, but Geoffrey’s words came first. “You never spoke of such things to me!” he said. “I assumed you did not know, or didn’t care.”

  Pladt shrugged. “It’s not the most fun topic,” he replied. “I assumed you would hear it from others. Why do you think my father moved us to Quaran in the first place? He thought the hydras were a result of L’s campaign.”

  “You call him ‘L’?” Geoffrey asked with a slight grin.

  “I don’t like speaking the full name,” Pladt replied somberly. “The only reason we went back to Werine was because of the Northern Forest. The hydras had worsened, but they weren’t walking through the streets of Werine on a daily basis. Besides, I had figured out the way to kill them, and Werine was my parents’ hometown.”

  “I just don’t see how we can travel south,” Haydren said, bringing them back to the problem at hand.

  “I brought you two horses, Haydren,” Pladt said. “Did you think I brought them with empty purses?”

  “You brought money?” Haydren asked incredulously. “How?”

 
; Pladt shrugged sheepishly. “A lot of people are grateful for the service I provide,” he said quietly.

  “But besides that, Haydren,” said Geoffrey, “we should wait till we get news at Quaran. The land is surely changing quickly, in these times. For now, we will need water before breaking camp; would you mind, Pladt? There should be a stream just to the south.”

  Pladt agreed, and Haydren got up to help him carry the skins. As they made their way across the plain, Haydren strode beside Pladt with his eyes bent unseeing on the grass. “You lived near the Forest once?” he asked.

  “It was many years ago, Haydren.”

  “I understand; but the nature of the Forest itself has probably not changed, correct? Can we make it through?”

  Pladt shook his head. “Not from anything I remember hearing. But can’t we wait to find out until we get to Quaran?”

  Haydren set his jaw, and said nothing. Pladt glanced sideways at him.

  “Or were you hoping for my support in going against Geoffrey’s advice?”

  “Isn’t this my journey?” Haydren spat, glancing quickly at the archer. “Don’t I get to decide for myself when and where I go?”

  “I suppose if you want to,” Pladt replied simply.

  Haydren let Pladt walk a little ahead. But I don’t want to, he thought. He wanted to know he was making the right decision, and to gain that assurance from agreement with others. But Geoffrey seemed content to ignore choices in the pursuit of his God, while Pladt enjoyed the novelty of making choices too much to be worried about making a wrong choice.

  The more companions he gained, it seemed, the more he was abandoned to himself; that strange instinctual whisper had not even helped him since Pladt rode into the camp.

  “We shouldn’t need much water,” Haydren said. Pladt glanced back at him quickly. “We’re almost to Quaran; can I leave you to it? I’ll head back and start breaking camp.”

  Pladt nodded and took the skins from Haydren, who flashed a grin of thanks and started wandering back toward camp, leaving the archer to continue alone.

  Pladt approached a fold where a shallow, clear stream ran along its bottom. At turns running and sliding on the steep slope, he made his way down. He knelt and scooped a handful of the clear liquid to his mouth. It was sweet, and he felt an invigorating surge through his body; their water previously had quickly warmed in sun. With a long sigh, Pladt uncapped a skin and submerged it, bubbling, into the stream.

  “Glirp?” came an inquisitive sort of yip behind him. Pladt dropped the bottle onto the bank, drawing an arrow halfway from his quiver as he turned. Behind him, a soft, furry, miniature-bear-looking creature peered at him, head cocked questioningly to one side. It took a few steps toward him as he drew the arrow fully from his quiver and nocked it to the string.

  “Glipper,” said the creature, hesitating and rising to its full height of little more than a foot. Pladt sighted down the arrow, unsure if he should shoot. It did not appear to mean him harm.

  Suddenly, the creature’s face contorted in rage, and its lips pulled back in a high-pitched, teeth-baring growl.

  “Gliiip!” it screamed, dropping to all fours and charging toward him. He loosed the arrow, and the creature flipped backward.

  “Glip?” came another yip, and another creature rose from behind a tuft of grass. With a chorus of yips, thirty more rose, similarly hidden behind shocks of scrubgrass. Pladt swallowed, pulling another arrow from his quiver. He glanced down and saw he had maybe fifteen shafts.

  Before he could contemplate his situation, the creatures charged. As fast as he could draw and shoot, he began felling them – sometimes two or three at a time, they came at him in such clusters. But, to his horror, more poured over the ridge above him and streamed forward.

  His hand buried in an empty quiver; he took a firm grip on his bow and began using it as a club, sending the little rodents flying with each swipe. But soon, his arms began tiring and his strokes were no longer as sure.

  “Higkil!” called a feminine voice.

  “Who’s there?” Pladt asked, planting his feet as he sent another creature flying.

  “Gaereth kann ik dena?” the voice replied, seeming irritated that he did not simply follow the strange command.

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he said, swatting at another creature.

  The voice growled in frustration, then spat: “Jump, you idiot!”

  “Jump where?” he asked desperately.

  “Up!” the voice replied, incredulous at his stupidity.

  Pladt growled, switching another creature out of his way.

  “Fine, jump across the stream then,” the voice said, exasperated. “Just get off the ground!”

  With another swipe, Pladt yelled, turned, and jumped. Lightning blazed from the sky, and the thunderclap deafened him as he landed heavily on the opposite bank of the stream.

  *

  Haydren and Geoffrey turned swiftly, gazing south as the last arc of lightning stitched the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky.

  “Pladt!” Geoffrey called, bolting toward the stream; Haydren followed close on Geoffrey’s heels.

  When they reached the stream, Geoffrey did not hesitate before charging into the valley. Haydren saw Pladt on the far bank, seated, staring blankly at the sea of bodies on the near side.

  “Pladt, are you okay?” Geoffrey asked, leaping across the stream and landing beside the dazed archer. Pladt started, gazed at him, and gripped him by the collar.

  “What?” he shouted.

  Haydren approached more slowly, staring in wonder at the gremlins lying dead all around him. He whistled long and low. “What did he do?” he asked quietly.

  “He doesn’t seem to be able to hear,” Geoffrey said, looking concernedly at Pladt.

  “A little!” Pladt shouted. Geoffrey drew back a little and smiled.

  “What happened?” he shouted back.

  Haydren gave a short burst of laughter; Geoffrey ignored him. Pladt said: “I came to get water, like you said, and those weird creatures—” He turned, then, and saw Haydren laughing; he glanced back at Geoffrey. “Why is he laughing?”

  Geoffrey suppressed his own grin and shook his head. “Keep talking,” he said. “What happened then?”

  “I took out an arrow and shot it when it tried to attack me,” Pladt said.

  “Bad idea!” Haydren shouted, still laughing. “Prairie gremlins always travel in groups.” Pladt turned and looked at him solemnly, his eyes wide as he nodded.

  “Yeah!” he replied. “They came out of nowhere, hundreds of them. I ran out of arrows really very quickly. Then someone told me to jump.”

  Haydren sobered instantly. “Who?” he said.

  Pladt shrugged, palms up. “She wasn’t very happy when I was confused, though.”

  “She?” Haydren asked in a normal tone.

  Pladt didn’t hear him. “All she said was ‘jump,’ and she got mad when I didn’t,” he continued. “Like I’m used to disembodied voices telling me to do things. When I finally jumped across the stream…BOOM!” he finished, spreading his arms wide. He pressed a finger in his ear and shook his head. “It’s really loud,” he lamented in a more normal voice.

  “That must have been the lightning we saw,” Geoffrey said.

  “Probably; but did it really strike all of the creatures?” Haydren wondered.

  “Why would she have needed him to jump?” Geoffrey asked in return. “Perhaps the spell travels along the ground somehow.” His face twisted a little, and he spat. “Magic,” he growled.

  Sprinting to the top of the hillside, Haydren gazed across the plains; there was no one in sight – though, if folds like this were common, whoever had cast the spell could be hiding in one of them. And given they did not immediately present themselves, they clearly did not want to be found.

  “Get him back over here, and let’s return to the camp,” Haydren said. “I might have something to help him.”

  They returned to t
he fire, and Haydren made a quick salve and applied it to Pladt’s ears. They ate quickly, wanting to be on their way to Quaran; by the time they had finished, though a ringing persisted, Pladt was able to hear normal conversation. Relieved, and with a hopeful sun high overhead, the companions covered much ground by the end of the day. Whether they were not as far along as they hoped, or Pladt’s incident delayed them more than they wished, the walls of Quaran remained hidden on the horizon; by nightfall, as they despondently set up one more camp, Pladt’s hearing had fully returned.

  The next morning, the land smoothed out once more, and they were able to ride further from the road. By noon – the third day since crossing the Bawelen River, and the ninth day since leaving Werine – the walls of Quaran finally rose over the horizon.

  But something was wrong. As the party neared, they found the outlying farms deserted, the land ravaged: crops were burned or trampled, wells crumbled, and not even a cow or chicken could be seen or heard. The castle walls, a dark silhouette on the distant horizon, were dark with soot up close. As they neared the gates, a single arrow arched over the wall and buried itself in the road ahead of them.

  “Halt where you – don’t move one step closer!” a shaky voice sounded over the ramparts.

  “Hello there!” Geoffrey called back.

  A head peeped over the wall and surveyed the party. The head tilted up in an attempt to elevate the mouth over the ramparts. “Who are you?” the head asked.

  “He sounds…” Haydren said, looking at Geoffrey with concern.

  “Young,” Geoffrey confirmed with a nod. He called back up to the youth: “We are three travelers from Werine, seeking lodging for the night.”

  White eyeballs rolled, searching over the party. “You carry swords,” came the voice.

  Haydren closed his eyes briefly. What could have happened here?

  “We do not wish to be killed by bandits, or beasts,” Geoffrey replied.