Legend of the Ravenstone (16 page)

Once the mountains were behind them, their leader relaxed—if but a little. Arcturus was saddened by the announcement that they would be quitting the road for untraveled terrain; the end of his luxuries had come. No one expected, however, that their mode of transportation would be replaced by their own feet. Their supplies were condensed to the most basic necessities, and those were packed in bags fitted to their own backs. None of them wanted to be the first to complain about the burden, but their sighs and grumbles attested to their discomfort.

The turning of the season did not better their travel. Summer fled like a hunted fox, leaving in its wake fleeting memories of days of warmth and sunshine. Autumn was not shy in its advances. Grasses and flowers wilted and bent beneath the frost and its afternoon thaw, and the sun often hid behind masses of lumbering blue-gray clouds that rode upon the back of chilly gusts from the north. The extra cloaks the companions had been using as blankets became daily attire. Brisk nights were spent close to the fire, and they took shifts to stoke the embers and add fresh branches. Hawkwing’s hunting ventures were mostly made in Snowfire’s company, as Jinx admitted he was too tired to join him. The companions wondered more often than not at the lifestyle of a man who belonged to the Wild: to be awake and active before sunrise, trek for miles over hills and untamed terrain over the course of a day, hunt one’s every meal, and still manage to keep vigilant throughout most of the night.

“He must guard a secret,” Arcturus had said, “when he consumes some sustaining potion at those unmerciful hours of pre-dawn. There can be no other answer, and that would explain the subtle smile he retains.”

Kariayla awoke earlier than usual one morning to find Hawkwing already tending to breakfast. A couple of quail had been spitted above the fire, and a small pot rested near the tall man’s feet. Hawkwing sat upon the ground, a bowl and pestle in hand. Kariayla did not stir, though her eyes were drawn to the methodical movement of his large hands as he crushed the contents of the bowl. The motion was steady, but the hands were not. They shook noticeably, as though he could not help but shiver in the morning chill.

There was a soft flutter of wings as Snowfire lighted beside him, a sprig of greenery in her bill. The tracker murmured something to the hawk in another language, and she dropped the plant into his waiting, trembling hand. Then Snowfire flew away again, and Hawkwing added the sprig to the bowl.

“We have a long day ahead of us,” he said gently. “We will eat well this morning.”

Is he talking to me?
Kariayla wondered. Still she did not move, waiting to see if he would address her again.

His golden eyes remained focused on the bowl. “I will need your help, Kariayla. Every journey involves a certain amount of risk. We are coming to a place where we will need to be wary.”

At last she moved, keeping the blanket close as she sat upright. “What do you mean?”

“A danger that I cannot very well defend against,” he said. “One of magic.” He stopped working the bowl to produce a vial. He drizzled the contents—a thick, amber liquid—into the mixture.

“How can I help?” she asked, waiting for some important task to be given her.

“I will describe our danger to the others,” he said. “There are those who will heed my warning, and there are those who will not.”

Kariayla’s eyes moved to where the Markanturian’s large form lay snoring.

“You believe in forces unseen,” Hawkwing said. “You might be able to persuade the more reluctant members of our party.”

When she found his eyes upon her, she blushed. “I’m not sure I can be of much help.”

“He respects you,” the tracker said. “At the very least, he will acknowledge your concerns.”

“You want me to act afraid?” Kariayla asked, suspicious. She reached back for her braid, trying to intangle the meaning behind his expression along with her hair.

“It would be prudent for all of us to harbor a little fear, so long as that fear does not insensibly govern our actions.” He broke open a roll and spread the reddish paste from the bowl upon it. “It’s not for my sake that I ask this of you.”

She nodded, feeling a bit of sympathy for him. Arcturus was stubborn by nature, but Arcturus had no patience, it seemed, for Hawkwing and his tales. It was rude formality he shared with the tracker, and Hawkwing shouldered it well. Still, she wondered if beneath the calm and handsome face was a troubled mind. It seemed important to her that she should reassure him—or at least ease the distrust on Arcturus’s behalf.

“Your story,” she began, and suddenly her confidence fled when he met her gaze. She looked down, only to find he was offering her the roll. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks. “Thank you.” It took her a moment to gather her thoughts again. “I wondered about the Durangiel. Are they spirits, then, that they have such power?”

“Immortals,” Hawkwing answered. “They can live an eternity, but they are not impervious to harm.” He reached to turn the spit. “My oldest possession is, perhaps, the tale of The Making. When the land was nameless and yet rising from the depths of the oceans, there was magic. Unseen beings of conscience and power commanded the elements, shaped the world as we know it. This became their home, and some dwelled in the mountains, others the sea. They lived in the trees, the earth, the wind, and the rain. The world breathed with their magic, but the world was yet empty. For all their magic, they could not feel the sun, taste the snow, or smell the spring blossoms.

“So it was that the more curious beings decided to relinquish their intangible forms for bodies of flesh, bone, and blood. Though they were vulnerable, they retained the breath of the divine. They continued to shape the world, but now their purpose was to perfect it for all those mortal. There was a war.”

“A war?” Kariayla asked. “Would this be—”

“The War of Light and Shadow,” Hawkwing said, confirming her thoughts. “The Ilangiel and the Durgoth. The Elves and the Mages of Death. They once had many names. That was before they retreated from our world, before their existence became a work of myth and imagination.”

Kariayla stared at the roll in her hands, her mind working. “Then the Durangiel....”

“Came later,” he said. “When both races of immortals agreed to end the war, there were those who would not accept a truce. The Durangiel wielded the Light, but they believed in the chaos of Shadow.”

“You didn’t say you were gonna tell stories,” came a new voice. Jinx propped his head on his arm. His hair was a black and angry storm cloud around his dusky face, and his cheeks and chin were hidden beneath an equally dark mass that had emerged in his neglect. His blue eyes, however, were bright and eager—the child behind them pouting at what he had missed. A second storm cloud appeared over his shoulder—this one red—as the imp joined the audience.

“Master Jinx,” Hawkwing said, “there are always more tales to be told.”

“Yeah, but do they got ‘war’ and ‘shadow’ in ‘em?” The thief mussed Ruby’s hair and stretched. “That breakfast I smell?”

Kariayla suppressed a sigh as the focus shifted to the pending meal. Thoughts of the Durangiel gave way to meat, bread, and rousing the heaviest of sleepers. Everyone seemed in fair spirits, though she wondered how that would change once Hawkwing announced the mysterious threat that awaited them. She did not have to wait long for the answer.

“So...” Jinx said, mouth full of food, “what story were ya telling?”

Arcturus made a face. “Swallow first, James.”

The thief narrowed his eyes, noisily finished his bite, and belched.

Before Arcturus could respond, Hawkwing answered the question. “New story. The Plains of Delmadria.”

“Plain?” Jinx groaned. “Thought we’d get an exciting story.”

“
Plains
,” Kariayla corrected. “As in a giant, grassy field.”

“Still sounds boring.”

“The Plains are haunted by a throng of marauding demons,” Hawkwing said.

Everyone stopped eating.

“They are creatures of Shadow that once roamed Secramore freely,” the tracker continued. “A great many years ago, people had settled in the Plains, and the demons terrorized them to no end.”

“You’re not joking?” Jinx asked, crumbs falling from his mouth and into his beard.

“He certainly cannot be serious,” Arcturus said. “This is yet another tale, though I find it less entertaining than the first.” His narrowed gaze rested upon their guide.

Kariayla took a breath. Hawkwing’s request would not be an easy undertaking.

“My purpose is not entertainment,” Hawkwing said. “It is a warning.”

“Lettim tell the story, Arcturus,” Jinx said.

The Markanturian pursed his lips and held his tongue, though he could not look more agitated.

“The demons were heralded by a descending and impenetrable darkness, accompanied by the long and solitary blare of a horn. Clad as Human warriors, they rode horses of wind and flame, racing across the land to snare any who had not taken shelter.” Hawkwing sipped from his costrel. “The desperate villagers called upon the medori for help, and a group of wizards came to remedy the problem.

“The details of the story vary from this point,” he said, “but as I know it, the medori forged a powerful spell that confined the demons to the Plains. A solitary path dissects the land, and that path alone cannot be touched by otherworldly Shadow. The medori who created it sacrificed their lives to enact the spell of protection.

“Today we will reach the Plains of Delmadria, and it will take us a few days to cross them. Were there a way around them, I would take it. We should be free from harm so long as we remain upon the wizards’ path.”

“So you’re not joking,” Jinx said.

“No.”

Arcturus cleared his throat. “Might I have a word with you in private?” As polite as the words were, it was not a request.

Hawkwing nodded and stood. Kariayla stood as well, but Arcturus held a hand before her. “Stay here, my dear. This does not concern you.”

“But I—”

“Kariayla,” Arcturus said, his voice hard.

She hesitated, but Hawkwing gave her a quick, assuring nod. “You can help Jinx gather the supplies.”

They walked a short distance away, and her eyes followed them.

“So, you think he was joking?” Jinx asked.

~*~

“Y
ou are fond of tales,” Arcturus said, pacing before the tracker. “Myself, I am very fond of theater. Everyone needs a diversion from time to time.” He stopped and looked up at the tall man. “But the use of a story to instill fear is unacceptable. You see the nature of our group.” He gestured to the camp. “We have a superstitious and naïve thief, and we have a young girl who had but recently abandoned an arduous and abusive setting. And I—I do not have the time or patience for such attempts at intimidation. I have already been attacked and drugged by thieves, not to mention spending time in a Freeland jail. Do you not think we have endured enough?”

“I understand your feelings, Arcturus,” Hawkwing said. “And they are justified. But you humor my warning as a story, and on this one occasion, I need you to believe the truth.”

The Markanturian’s jaw tightened. “Even now you carry the tale—when I have come to you with sincere concern. You are an audacious man, and I do not care for your antics. I will have no more talk of demons and elves and the like. I feel responsible for this group—as should you. For better or for worse, you are our leader. I expect you to take that role seriously.” He thumped his staff and waited for a response.

Hawkwing stared down at him, his expression grave. “It is your choice to question my decisions, and it is your choice to believe or not believe what I impart. My only motive is to safely take you to Bill. If you truly shoulder the responsibility of your party’s welfare, then you will heed my words regardless of your personal opinion.”

Arcturus stared back as though he would speak, but he did not.

“It’s time we set out,” Hawkwing said. He lifted his gloved hand, and the white hawk came to it. He rejoined the others, Arcturus tailing him.

Whatever thoughts, fear, or doubt walked with the group, they were left unvoiced. Regardless what each one of the travelers thought about the tale of the Plains of Delmadria, a seed of anxiety had been planted, and from it grew the wariness that had been the tracker’s intention. They broke for a quiet lunch when the sun was at its peak, and shortly thereafter they reached the destination in question.

As Kariayla had described, the Plains were like a large, grassy field—only this field stretched beyond what their vision could define. Though much of the landscape through which they had traveled had browned, the grasses of the Plains looked as though they had never had any life to them. Stiff and brittle, the stalks scarcely moved with the passage of the wind, and they made no sound—not even the slightest rustle. In fact, there were no sounds to be heard at all: not wind, bird, or insect.

They skirted along the boundary of the grasses without a word, following their guide with the expectation of an official entrance to the cursed terrain. They were not disappointed. A stone pillar no taller than a foot stood before a blackened path that cut into the field. Hawkwing knelt beside the pillar and ran his hand over the three notches that had been chiseled into it.

“This,” he said, “tells us that there are three points of rest. We must make certain we reach each point for each day we travel.”

“Or else?” Jinx asked.

“We will be forced to camp without light or fire,” Hawkwing said.

“Oh.”

Kariayla stood before the path, taking in the landscape, though she could not much see beyond the blades and stalks that loomed over her head. Even Hawkwing’s shoulders would barely emerge above the tips of the vegetation.

Arcturus joined her side. “What do you make of it, my dear? Have you spied any marauding demons?”

She did not crack a smile. “The path looks as though it was burned, but it’s charred perfectly so that none of the bordering grass is scathed.”

“Indeed,” Arcturus said, rubbing his chin. “It is a work of magic, I am certain, but to what purpose?”