Chapter Five: The Road to Shalendon

         The journey to the great city of  Shalendon was proving to be long and arduous. For six days Brenan rode hard from sunrise to sunset, with only occasional stops to allow his horse to rest and to graze, and to hunt for food for himself. The Khelendhar provided him with an abundance of food to stave off hunger. After four days steady ride he left behind familiar territory. Still, the surrounding lands looked to him very much the same as the rest of the wide plain that was his home. He knew that the King’s Highway would take him directly north to Shalendon’s gates but chose not to ride on it. Instead he kept within sight of it so to keep his bearings.

         The monotony of lands through which he now travelled would have lulled anyone to slumber and indifference, though he had long since left the safe and familiar behind. Ahead lay only uncertainty and doubt, which manifest itself as a queasy turmoil in the pit of his stomach.  Yet, it was more than this apprehension of the unknown that kept him on edge, and off the road.  Thar’s warning about the Shadow Knights plagued his every waking thought, and kept his mind stirring in the night.

         The trip had been uneventful. Brenan soon understood that the adventure of travel was more tedious than he’d thought possible. The experience of travel was much different than his ideal of adventure lurking over the crest of each hill, of danger and excitement. After only a few days Brenan understood that only things that lurked beyond the next hill were other hills.

         The loneliness of the plains was something that Brenan had often sought out when the farm became confining and his family bothersome. He once cherished his time alone but now he was beginning to loathe it. Gareth was the last person he had spoken with so many days ago. Now he found himself now speaking to his horse just to hear himself, and maybe to drown out the deafening emptiness of the plains. He wondered if prolonged his silence would make him forget how to speak. It became his favourite topic of conversation between him and his horse.  Banda made a good listener, only occasionally offering the wisdom of air blown through his teeth, or a switch of his tail to punctuate a sentiment. Brenan kept up his rambling, sometimes even breaking into song to alleviate the boredom.

         It was night time that he found most difficult. In the lonely hours of darkness Brenan keenly felt his isolation. Logic told him he was likely the last surviving member of his family but in his heart he held to the possibility that they were alive, perhaps as prisoners somewhere. And though it pained him to think of them toiling in chains for some unknown and cruel master, it gave him comfort. If Lady Fate deemed it appropriate to reunite him with his loved ones someday, then the occasion would be all the more worth rejoicing.  For now at least it was only a hope against hope, and sometimes, Brenan admitted to himself, a vain one.

         Brenan was becoming a different person, transformed by the loneliness, and the rage and pain that sometimes afflicted his soul. His boyish optimism was gone, and in it’s place cynicism and anger filled a void within him. The world was a dark and terrible place. At times he felt as though little mattered to him any more, until the moments when his determination and thirst for revenge renewed his purpose. He thought often of Thar’s request to seek out the wizard, Remyk. As time wore on, his anger over Thar’s betrayal subsided, replaced by curiosity about the sword, the sorcerer, and the uncertain danger that lurked ahead.

         After a fortnight on the road, the face of the land began to change. He was leaving the broad expanses of the Khelendhar behind. Ahead, the hills became larger, with rocky outcrops;  trees grew up from the earth, not the short-lived, opportunistic alder and poplar that scattered the plains but larger, heartier oaks and elms, and tall white and red spruce. The trees gave Brenan encouragement that he was headed in the right direction. The border between the Khelendhar Plains and the fertile Dharkenhar River Valley was thickly treed. It’s walls rose high above the plains before plunging to the floor of a wide, flood-plain valley.  To the west, a branch of the Great Fen stretched northward to the snow-capped mountains of Düm K’zhar.  The mountains’ many south-flowing tributaries fed the Great Fen, and they were the point of western origin for the wide Dharkenhar River that journeyed eastward through the broad, flat river valley before emptying sweet waters into Breaking Bay and the salt seas beyond.

         The largest cities and kingdoms occupied the land in the river valley, for the valley soil was rich for farming, and the river bountiful with fish. People settled these lands to reap their plenitude. For thousands of years empires rose and fell on the tides of control and wealth. Three of the five great southern kingdoms lay in the valley along the river’s edge. Only the sister keeps of Duen Arra’gil and Duen Terra’gil did not claim land in the river valley. These twin fortresses watched over the gateway to the valley from high rocky crags on opposite shores where the Dharkenhar met the ocean.  The river’s mouth was fully twelve miles wide, and while the steep, rocky shores were treacherous and unassailable, the middle channel was deep and wide, leaving the inland kingdoms vulnerable to attacks from ship-bourne pirates and marauders.

         Arra’gil and Terra’gil were strategically built to guard against this very danger. While both were clearly fortresses of defence, with their sole purpose being the protection of the cities upstream, towns grew up around them. Their inhabitants were hearty folk, content to scratch out an existence by deep-sea fishing and sheep husbandry on the rugged terrain ill-designed for farming. The people of Arra’gil and Terra’gil traded with the valley kingdoms for grain and produce and in return supplied mutton, wool, dried fish and fish oils, and, of course, protection.

         The five great southern cities were tied by proximity and commerce and united under a central government in Shalendon, the largest and most prosperous kingdom among the five. The King of Shalendon headed the government and sat in council with the lesser lords of the other four principalities. Each realm had regional senates where the landholders and residents voiced their opinions, helped direct local affairs, and settled minor disputes. Brenan recalled his mother and Gareth travelling to Shalendon to partake in the assemblies but in recent years, the work of the farm took precedence. Shalla had promised Brenan this duty would fall to him one day, when  he was old enough to make the trip unaccompanied. The prospect had always excited him: Travelling to the great city, speaking in the assembly. Now that the farm was gone it no longer seemed important to him.

         Travel-worn and weary, Brenan rode on until darkness before he stopped for the night.  He made his camp amidst a small stand of spruce and lit a small fire before retiring onto the soft, coolness of the grass. He was too tired to bother hunting or preparing a proper meal, preferring instead to eat a morsel of dried meat and some trail biscuits he’d bought before leaving Horsham Dwells. He lay on his back on the soft, cool turf staring into the coal-black sky. There was no moon but the heavens were lit with the crystalline radiance of billions of tiny stars. Slowly, he drifted to sleep, safe and comfortable beneath watchful eyes of the heavens.

         He awoke sometime later to the insistent nuzzling of his horse and rose reluctantly.  Night still held the world deep in her clutches with no hint of impending sunrise on the eastern horizon. Brenan stood and stretched. His fire had gone out and the coals were now only shimmering red spectres of flame. Shrugging off the cold, Brenan gathered some dry grass and twigs to coax the fire back to life.

         Banda seemed restless. He pawed the ground nervously and tested the strength of his tether with increasing agitation. As Brenan worked to bring life back to his fire, an uneasiness came over him suddenly. Tiny curls of flame reached out from the coals, so he moved to comfort the distraught horse. He stroked his horse’s broad neck reassuringly with the flat of his palm and whispered calmly and softly. Fearing some predator now stalked his camp somewhere just beyond the pale light of his campfire, Brenan gathered up some larger pieces of wood and added them to the fire. He continued to search the darkness about the camp for signs of trouble but nothing stirred in the shadows that he could tell. Though he did not expect to be able to see anything in the darkness, his imagination turned stumps into snarling beasts, and saplings and bushes transformed into formidable and horrific creatures in his mind’s eye.

         Brenan shook his head trying to throw these images from his mind. There was nothing out there, he assured himself. “Easy boy,” he murmured in a gentle, soothing voice.  Banda snorted and pulled away from him, flaring his nostrils and eyes simultaneously. Brenan frowned. “Calm down, Banda. There’s nothing out there.” 

         The horse seemed to take some comfort in Brenan’s voice and relaxed a little. Brenan checked the strength of the tether and then turned back to the fire. A cool breeze had risen sometime in the night and some heat and light would be most welcome. He knelt down beside the fire and added more fuel.

         An excited whiney from Banda startled Brenan and he whirled around, more apprehensive than before. The horse pawed the ground excitedly. Brenan cursed under his breath. He would bring the horse closer to the fire in hopes of calming it’s uneasiness. Before he could rise from his hands and knees, a vague sensation made him hesitate. The ground beneath him was moving. It was not a violent or wrenching motion but rather a gentle barely perceptible undulation. It was then Brenan heard the buzzing noise, like a vibrating string of a lute tuned to a low key. At first it was very low, nearly masked by the wind, then gradually rose in volume and pitch. He listened intently. The noise was close by. Slowly he rose, hardly daring to breath or make any sudden moves. He crept towards his horse to retrieve Thar’s sword but it wasn’t until he laid his hand upon the long hilt that Brenan realized the strange, dull throbbing sound was coming from the sword itself.

         He let go instantly, startled by the strangeness that an inanimate object could move and make sound. It had been this sword that Brenan had watched Thar coax the strange bright light back in the family’s barn. It was this weapon that Thar had warned would possess the bearer who took it up against any dark foes. Striking up his courage, Brenan grasped the hilt again, gingerly at first, and then more firmly. Although the night air was cool, the hilt was warm to his touch; it pulsed with energy and a life within. As he tightened his grip on the sword the hum faded. As he was about to draw the blade from its sheath Banda lurched suddenly backwards, tearing the hilt from Brenan’s grasp and breaking him out of a hypnotic trance. He glared at his horse angrily but before he was able to reprimand the animal, a second noise made him freeze.

         The new sound that came to him bourne on the crest of the wind had a nagging familiarity. The distant, rhythmic hoof beats striking the ground were unsettling to him though a common sound. He turned and peered into the darkness again. Far away, five or six miles distant, Brenan watched four tiny pin points of light writhing and shifting in the wind. Very like torchlights they were but each a strange, unwholesome green. He watched silently motionless, mouth agape, as the eerie lights withdrew form sight, shrinking ever deeper into the darkness until they faded utterly. The ground grew gradually still as these lights and their bearers were swallowed up by darkness and distance. Brenan watched after them a long time, seeking signs in the gloom of their return. When he was satisfied they would not return, he sank slowly down beside his meagre fire.

         He did not sleep the rest of the night but sat staring into his campfire wondering about the strange lights. He was afraid. The torches, or whatever they were, had been far away but not quite far enough for Brenan’s liking. A chill spread suddenly through him as he recalled Thar’s account of the Shadow Knights. They would be looking for the sword Thar had warned. Brenan wondered if these had been Shadow Knights passing along the Highway in search of the one who now bore Thar’s magic weapon.

         Surely they must sense the magic within the sword. This terrified him for he knew that they would come to take it from him. Fear and dread rose in his chest, choking him. He searched the darkness around him again for signs of their approach. It then occurred to him that he did not know the secret to the power of the sword, and that they may not be able to track him as they had hunted Thar. Brenan remained beside the fire, turning these same questions over and over in his mind, until the sun’s morning rays trickled over the horizon. Unable to rest any more and anxious to leave this place, Brenan broke camp and set out immediately.

         Five more nights passed uneventfully since the encounter with the sinister green fire.  And while nothing remarkable happened during the long days of riding, or in the dark evenings that followed, Brenan felt a certain dread, a kernel of anxiety growing within him. He feared the return of the green fire, and each night was either restless or completely sleepless. When he did sleep, he dreamt of his family and Gareth, and though they were pleasant dreams he always woke feeling uneasy as if he’d not slept at all. One night he dreamt that Thar was standing opposite him across a wide chasm filled with bright, white light. Thar called and beckoned to Brenan but he could not hear him. There was no way Brenan could find across the crevasse.  Slowly, Thar began to recede into the distance as he and Brenan were driven apart by the widening of the abyss.

         He woke on the sixth morning to find the day already bright and warm. June would now be upon the bosom of the earth. Forest and meadow alike sported coats of new green and life teemed forth in bold displays of colour, fragrance and energy. It was the season of life, the season for which all things lay in dormant anticipation nine long months of the year. And it was a painful reminder to Brenan that home on the farm he and his family would normally be harvesting the first of the spring barley. Though the pain of his loss was still keen and he had grown road-worn, the freshness of this new morning renewed his spirit.

         His journey took him northeast into some low hills. In the distance ahead rose the scatterings of a mixed forest. If his calculations had been correct this would be the thick forest that enveloped the long slopes that separated the Khelendhar Plains from the Dharkenhar River Valley. Brenan loved the forest. He had spent many hours exploring beneath the eaves of Roaming Wood during his short trips away from the farm. Though he knew that the northern forests were different from what he was accustomed to, he would be glad to travel beneath its verdant canopy for a while. The openness of the Khelendhar had been his home for many years but now their openness made him feel vulnerable. He would be happy to slip into the shadows beneath the trees and go unseen by any prying eyes.

         The forest before him now rose in a long, steady slope above the plains. A broad ridge separated the rolling grasslands from the lush lowland river valley that was home to Shalendon. The sun had reached its noon-time crest by the time Brenan rode beneath the forest canopy.  Before long, he came upon an old over-grown trail. It proved a rough track but no more so than trying to navigate the forest’s thick undergrowth. It was a well-worn path in spite of the barrier of saplings and branches that time had thrown up along the way. Brenan hoped it would not be long before the path joined the King’s road to Shalendon. If all went well, Brenan figured he had two or three days ride left before reaching the city.

         When night descended, the forest grew dark and silent, and the closeness gave Brenan an eerie feeling. The dense, dark forest was oppressive and, at times, almost suffocating. A small fire helped ward off his discomfort. After a light, foraged meal he stretched out on the soft forest floor beside the tiny fire. Between the interlaced branches high above the clear night sky glistened with starlight. Brenan had lost track of the moon’s cycles but thought it might appear later in the night. His mind wandered to thoughts of the city, Shalendon, and the stories he’d often heard from travellers in Gareth’s tavern. Suddenly he was stricken by doubt and uncertainty. Once he reached the great city he did not know where his path would lead. He would have to rely on his courage and resourcefulness in a strange place where he had no friends. He remembered Thar’s note and he reassured himself that it held the answers. He watched, heavy lidded, as the fire burned low to glowing coals, and then drifted into a deep slumber.

         Brenan blinked and opened his eyes.  High overhead a crescent moon poked feeble rays of pale light through the tangled canopy to the forest floor. Except for the gentle sighs of wind in the high treetops, the woods were silent even though something unseen and intangible made his senses tingle. Brenan’s horse swished it’s tail in sudden, nervous twitches and he pawed at the ground and snorted breaking the silence. Brenan rolled into a low crouch, froze and listened intently to the still darkness. He peered into the surrounding forest now dimly lit by pale blue shards of moonlight. From close by came the rasp of fabric against a branch and the sharp snapping of a twig.  Brenan wheeled around but the shadows yielded nothing. Behind him the faint tap of wood touching wood and then the obvious whine of a bowstring sent Brenan to the ground as the arrow struck a nearby tree with a loud crack. Sweeping up his pack and blanket, he scrambled to his horse keeping low to the ground and out of the fingers of moonlight that dotted his campsite. He hesitated before climbing onto the saddle and listened intently but his own breath and pounding heart drowned out all other noise. This was terror.

         A faint flutter of motion several hundred feet away caught Brenan’s eye. In the scattering of light and shadows among the trees, he discerned a human figure advancing slowly towards him. It was tall and darkly clad, and moonlight glinted dully off the blade it held. A chill drove through him and he scrambled onto his now frantic horse. Brenan slashed the tether with his hunting knife and dug in his heels, though Banda needed no urging. Behind him the figure doubled its pace, crashing through the forest in pursuit. Brenan and his horse fled wildly down the overgrown track and into the gloom.

         They moved at such a pace that the passing woods were only a blur to Brenan who rode low in the saddle, crouched low over Banda’s sweaty mane. From all sides tree branches whipped his face and legs and threatened to pull him his mount. With a quick glance back, Brenan saw that he was pursued by a rider on a dark horse. Terror ripped through him as his gaze fell upon the torch of green flames the rider held aloft. Deep within the rider’s fluttering hood, Brenan thought he could see glowing white eyes.

         Terrified Brenan turned away from his pursuer just in time to see another horse and rider leap into the path ahead. But for his horse, Brenan would have surely slammed into this rider.  Banda reacted from terror and instinct and leapt from the path into the forest without breaking stride. Brenan was paralysed with fright. The bizarre moonbeams that lit the forest swam before his eyes and the landscape passed with dizzying speed. Behind, the two pursuers crashed into the undergrowth. A hunters horn broke upon the night air and lingered amongst the trees before fading again into the sound of pursuit. Brenan closed his eyes and hugged the horse’s neck more tightly, as if trying to become part of the horse          

         Brenan and Banda rode for a long time without letting up. It was the horse who first sensed that the threat had eased, and it relaxed its stride. Brenan felt his fear subside. He was drained, sore and tired, and his face and hands were bruised and lacerated and raised with welts.  Banda’s tongue waggled with each gasping breath, and frothy saliva covered his muzzle and steam rose from his sweaty coat in the cool night air. Fearing that his poor horse would expire from exhaustion, Brenan reined him to a stop and dismounted near a tiny fresh water pool where he let the beast drink.

         They had travelled fast and far from the path and still the dark forest looked the same to him. There were no hints or clues for him to find in the darkness of the distance or direction he’d come. He tethered his horse near the pool and walked a short distance away to listen. The trees and the darkness swallowed all sound. Only the rhythmic din of tiny frogs and chatter of a nearby brook disturbed the silence. Satisfied that he was no longer in any immediate danger, Brenan eased a sigh of relief and turned back towards his horse.

         He barely knew what was happening when something heavy - a body - dropped on him from overhead and struck him to the ground. Brenan’s head hit a hard root and everything went black and silent.