Throat raspy, Hanor sat up, searching about for a water skin through the dimness. Dawn had not yet arrived and the others were still asleep. Rising, he found one nearby, moving away from the makeshift camp.
Numb, thoughts were cloudy as if only half awake. Sitting down, an odd feeling pressed at him, urging a course of action. Peculiar, tingles on his forehead added to the sensation of not being fully alert. Trying to recall the previous turn’s events, but the resultant blankness was as empty as the environment around him. With the fire out, the atmosphere felt impersonal as though he did not belong here. Emotionally detached from his companions, the lack did not bother him. Inner pressures were trying to reach him, as if he was supposed to remember an important issue, but the deadness would not shift.
Scanning the area for signs of life, a deathly hush had enclosed itself about their group. Soundless, moving away to collect himself, the ground seemed to soak up the noise. How weird, even his breathing felt separated as though not his. Peering back through the shadows towards what he sensed to be his friends, their dark profiles on the ground lay like stones. Something was not right, not as it should be.
Huge silhouetted trees, like watchful pillars against the greyness, ran in every direction. About to return to the others, a sudden flicker of light over by the next tree caught his attention. Turning to investigate, it disappeared as if hiding. Certain it was not the trick of an unsteady mind, he had seen something, but what? Watching, he waited.
About to turn away, it flickered again but in a different place this time. ‘What is it?’ he wondered. Lasting only a moment, the white glow vanished, leaving no trace. Waiting for it to reappear, it did not shine, but neither did his fears. Dominated by the strange ambience of this odd setting, he did not feel suspicious of the mystery. Instinctive doubts tried to penetrate the veil, but like an inquisitive child, he headed in the direction of its last appearance.
Thoughts of his companions dissipated with this new curiosity, the ball of light appearing again but further away, its radiance daring him to reach out after it. Again disappearing, Hanor’s pace quickened. Avoiding the colossal trees, full of wonder, he pressed on. Lighting up again in front but to his left this time, it disappeared the moment he noted its whereabouts. To his right, how could it move so fast? Zigzagging, he did not care where it was leading him. So captivating, nothing else mattered.
Quickening to a run, the spongy, needled ground, released by the sleeping giants around him, enhanced the dreamlike state. Drifting after the mysterious light, he could not help himself. Unconcerned by the barrenness of these parts, a thick canopy of foliage above kept the rising dawn at bay as the light enticed him on. Fascinated, it flashed directly ahead. Glowing for a considerable time, it switched off, as was its pattern. Inquisitive, he ran as fast as he could. Searching the murkiness, where would it appear next?
It did not shine for ages until it flared next to a Woodell Tree. Running hard, exultation beckoned him on. The chill on his face burned like ice rocks, his breath hot against the coldness of dawn. Distant rays of the sun were not strong enough to penetrate the shroud of greenery above. Sensations of life charged him, running blindly after the glowing mystery ahead.
This time, when the light went out, it did not reappear. Sprinting, a long time passed before the realisation infiltrated his passion. Easing up, gasping, the pants were painful but not enough to distract him. Where had it gone? Expecting it to show again, Hanor’s sides hurt from the exertion. Feelings of elation lessened, the numbing sensations dissipating as the air of safety lifted. More himself, where was he? Every way appeared the same. Columned trees stood prominent. With no idea how long he had been running, recent memories were vague, further concerns emerging through the grimness.
Standing straight to soothe an aching chest, restlessness increased as if duped into a trap. Nothing but the eerie silence of early morning pierced the shadows. Fear pecked away, the bursts of exhilaration replaced by doubts. Where had the Light gone? Alarm gnawed at him, the chill burning as doubts grew in potency. Larger and more threatening, the scale of the forest increased with each rapid heartbeat. Where were his friends? Unsure which way he had come, tensions amplified.
A sudden breaking sound behind snapped like an invisible foe. What was that? Vulnerable, a heightened imagination filled in the spaces. Spinning, certain he had seen something, but only his fading courage moved. Gigantic trees were daunting, adding to his meagreness. Another break to the left, something was there but what? Why were they hiding? Afraid to call out, surely someone would come to his aid? A crack to his right forced the desire to flee, but which way, they all looked the same? Expecting them to pounce if he did, what should he do?
Long, stifling moments kept him guessing before the noises ceased. Lingering, the silence seemed just as frightening. Unexpected, a breeze swirled, rising to a gust. Warm and unnatural, hisses glided in on the wind; the culprits invisible. Heightened senses dared to imagine what was hiding close by. Swishing sounds arrived, mocking him. Swooping like wraiths, they grew in strength, faint whispers snipping at his resolve. Hairs on his neck rose, the atmosphere alive. Nothing was moving amongst the pillars of wood standing tall. Thoughts of anyone hiding were now lost to this new threat, the hideous whispers getting louder, sensing their evil intent. Teasing, he still could not run.
To his horror, a mist began to form, crawling along the ground like a predator moving in for the kill. Frantic, it was coming at him from every direction! Indecision paralysed him. He was surrounded!
“Help,” was the only pitiful thought he could muster.
Spinning, dizziness hampered any control. Faint, the arrival of dawn gave little solace. Blowing harder, wretched voices were getting louder and more confident. Condensing, the wind started encircling him. Dragging the white vapour with its luring power, the ghoulish wraiths continued their haunts, the mist rising. Lurching out at him before disappearing into the depths of the climbing funnel, screams rang in his ears. Covering them to no avail, they were inside his head!
Rolling in waves across the ground, the mist gathered into streams. Enlarging the deathly swirl about him, its size rose higher still. Trees faded, the whiteness blurring everything outside the funnel of terror. Figureless voices inside the mist grew into shadowy blurs, their terrifying cries hitting ever higher pitches. There was no getting out, convinced he was about to die.
Ferocious, its rotations lifted him from the ground. Slow at first, he started turning, the forces gripping tight. Shrills undermined any desire to be free from the terror. Rotating faster, uncaring how far off the ground he was, all sense of who and where he was began fading. Fear dispersing, helplessness replaced it.
‘I am going to die,’ he thought, verging on unconsciousness. Everything was a haze of white, the screams no longer bothering him. What hope did he have? Arms dropping, he looked up. Through bleary eyes he could see a cloudless sky. Deep blue in colour, was he dreaming? Without the strength to reach it, desperate words whispered to those greater minds that govern this world. “Help... me!”
Windless, the eeriness around the camp was troubling, but Kifter put it down to being oversensitive after yester-turn’s trauma at Boverns Crossing. Lying on his back staring up at the blanket of foliage high above, carpeted by the yet to be dissolved night, how was he going to face them, Hanor especially?
Acute senses extended out to his travelling companions, listening to the gentle sighs of their breathing. Hallen, with his usually long steady breaths was still asleep. The loss weighed heavily on the Hite too. The steady light of day was increasing above, his attention moving to Bane next. A slight whistle escaping with every discarded breath, for now, the lad was at peace. Expecting fire when the young man awoke, he deserved no less. Rested after his unusually heavy slumber, the guilt however, was just as potent. Hallen was right of course, he had a task to finish.
Turning his attention to Hanor, this exercise of scanning the camp before rising was a way of heightening his senses, a method to keep them sharp and ready to act. Tuning in to where the heartbroken lad lay, the boy was strangely quiet. Unable to detect him as if no longer breathing, awaiting that expected sigh or sign of movement, the deathlike silence was disturbing.
Sitting up, searching through the half-light to where the boy had slept the night before, he gasped; the mat was vacant! Checking the vicinity, expecting to see the distraught lad nearby, nothing moved. Leaping to his feet, he was not behind the nearest tree either.
“Hallen,” he hissed, having to admit the problem.
The Hite, for someone who a moment earlier was lost in sleep, jumped to his feet preparing for an attack. “What is it?” he asked, reaching for his sword.
“Not what…, but where!” Kifter said, worried. Deciding not to panic, his young charge had to be here somewhere.
Disturbed by the commotion, Bane momentarily forgot about the terror of yester-turn. Not until he sat up did reality kick in. Memories surging, a mixture of sickness and anger whirled. Distracted by a anxious looking Kifter, “What is going on?” Turning to where Hanor should be, “Where is Hanor?” he cried, their reactions fuelling fears. “Where is he?” he yelled, climbing to his feet.
The two did not answer, too busy searching the area. Finding the water-skin nearby, clues were patchy.
“Hanor!” Kifter hollered into the early dawn, hoping to help the boy if he was lost.
Hallen echoed his call. “Hanor,” he bellowed into the dimness. “Hanor!”
Raising a hand for quiet, Kifter waited, but no returning call came.
“I thought you were supposed to be his protector?” Bane shouted, his temper biting. “I swear if we do not find him I will…!”
Refusing to be drawn, the Fife darted across to Hanor’s mat. Pinpointing his tracks, he followed the marks around to where they headed off into the forest.
“Hallen,” he beckoned, peering into the greyness. Only cold shadows reflected back, with no signs of a straying Hanor.
The Hite bounded over, following his gaze. “How long has he been gone?”
“Half a short-turn, maybe more. We had better pack and get moving. The light is growing to our favour.” Passing the still flustering Bane. “No questions!” Kifter warned the upset young man. “We will talk when we find Hanor.”
Curbing frustrations, Bane did as ordered.
Keeping close to the zigzag trail, “He is now running hard,” the Fife said, eyes pinned to the ground whilst riding progressively faster.
“How far ahead?” Hallen asked.
“We are not catching him at this point, he is running as if chasing something.”
“Or running from it?” The Hite noted, meaning the horrors of yester-turn.
Kifter had little choice but to quicken their pace. “If we are to catch him, we had better hurry. Tired as he may get, we do not know what frame of mind he is in.”
“You focus on the ground while I watch up ahead,” Hallen said, peering in front.
The light was now bright enough to see the tracks clearly. “He cannot keep this speed up,” the Fife exclaimed, afraid for their young friend. Gliding between the trees, the soft ground was spongy, their Kyboes unable to run fluently.
“I still do not like how bleak it is here,” Hallen said, life refusing to grow in this infertile region.
Kifter did not reply. Travelling this way many times in the past, the lack of colour and vegetation was the last of his worries. Fighting anxieties about yet another failure on his part, he still could not believe Hanor had left their camp without hearing him. Brandor’s caution aggravated him. “Protect him more than you would your own mother.”
Glancing ahead for that elusive movement, when he looked back at the trail, his heart jumped, pulling them up. “Stop!”
Beneath them, a huge circular pattern stretched nearly two-score strides across. Dreading its implications, the pattern’s neatness was as if someone had combed the area into an unnerving disk formation. Needle-seeds lay like a great woven mat, each one pointing to the right.
“What is this?” Hallen said, confounded. Concentrating on finding Hanor ahead, the Hite had missed the blatant shape altogether.
Dismounting, Kifter was careful not to upset any clues. “I do not know.” Sober words reflected his unease.
Bane too stepped down, checking for signs of his lifelong friend. “Are you sure he stopped here?”
Launched into action, Kifter skittered across to the other side to see. The northern rim fell just short of a huge Woodell tree, its towering presence a clear witness to the mystifying event. “Nothing has stepped beyond here for many turns of the days.”
Rubbing his forehead, pressures increased. Examining the entire rim, the other two waited, hopeful that something would be found. Halting periodically, Kifter picked up the odd bent stick or broken needle. But search as he did, there was nothing to go on. Twice he walked around, double-checking in case he had missed anything. He knew he had not, but graven doubts forming in his once indomitable mind demanded he look again.
Satisfied Hanor had not left the area, “His trail ends here,” he said, stepping over to where Hanor’s last footprint was. Undecided, he went back to the central point, peering up as if the answers were hiding in the treetops. Disbelieving a freak of nature may have caught the young man up into the clinging limbs above, but nothing was there, not even a Fliryn to prove life existed here. Dread emerged, creeping nearer, sneering at his crumbling determination not to fail again.
“Hanor!” His cry verged on despair again, both for Hanor and a last stand against the inner foes determined to conquer him.
Bane echoed his cry. “Hanor…! Hanor,” he repeated, grief choking his fading hopes.
Pulling Tunder up, Brandor dismounted, climbing the small mound to invoke the Yarmorians. Concerned by the deterioration of the southern regions of Tardania since last passing through here nearly two cycles of seasons ago, he wondered what the Masters at Tarden would make of it.
Concentrating on the necessary words required to cross the boundaries from this world into the Yarmorians’, he started humming the sounds until hitting the right pitch.
“Mas sum oll as a ma,” he chanted, lowering the tone, the powerful incantation reverberating through the atmosphere. “Mas sum oll as a ma,” he repeated, tuning his will behind every word. On the fourth attempt, the right note was uttered. Continuing its call until they answered or he decided to end it by focusing on something else, he waited, keen to see them after such a long time.
Waiting for as long as was reasonable, to his dismay, they did not answer his call. Refraining from jumping to conclusions, tempted to believe the desolate terrain was evidence that they had their own troubles, he needed to talk to them as soon as possible. Deciding to talk to Maloree at Tarden later, the High-tardess being a Yarmorian herself, she would have to contact them on his behalf.
Mounting Tunder, he sped off, determined to reach Tarden by nightfall. Successful at drumming up support from the peoples of the south, he now had to sort the mess out with Tarden’s leader, Drola. Still bitter about High-tard Polon of Tardoc, a despicable affair that had got out of hand, the next few turns promised to be testing for all. Eager to see young Hanor again, trusting Kifter and Hallen had not stumbled into any problems, at last things were starting to happen.
Cupping head in hands and rubbing dry eyes, Kifter had run out of possibilities. “What in all The Freelands do we do now?” he groaned. Frustrated, he could not answer it of course and neither could Hallen. Three short-turns had passed since arriving at the mysterious circle, checking everywhere with no sign of their missing companion. Bane continued to look and call out of sight, but kept very much within earshot. The atmosphere was heavy. “This is ridiculous.”
“We must be missing something,” Hallen said, pushing back his great mantle of fair hair. Stretching his legs, huge fur-lined boots were sweaty under the strain. Removing them, freedom for his feet were the only relief for their dilemma. “We cannot just sit here for a whole turn,” he grimaced, rubbing his toes.
Crouching, doleful, Kifter could not believe this was happening. “How can we leave? What point is there in arriving at Tarden without him?”
“This is not normal though… is it?” Hallen said, troubled at seeing his friend so worrisome. The Fife was usually the one to remain calm when everyone else was losing their heads; recent events undermining a once unmatchable character. “This circle is beyond us. To wait here for a miraculous return is one option, but I do not think that will happen. Brandor is at Tarden, he may know the meaning of this.”
“Tarden is another two and a half turns ride yet. If we are wrong, and Hanor needs our help, it is a long time to be away.”
“I will stay if need be,” the Hite offered.
“I do not want that either,” Kifter said, suspicious. “Something unnatural is occurring here. I do not want anyone to stay behind.”
“Just sitting here though is not right,” Hallen said, distracted. “We should be doing something…, anything.”
“Guilt already sits heavily on my heart,” Kifter said, a shadow hanging over him. “I do not wish to add any more. Whatever Brandor sees in Hanor, he will be furious.”
Putting his boots back on, Hallen crouched alongside his friend, running a finger through the pattern on the ground. The Fife looked forlorn, the effort to maintain a grip taking its toll. “How long do we wait here then? I am accountable too!”
Kifter peered out to where Bane last called. “How soon do you think he will want to leave?”
Grabbing a handful of needle-seeds, “I cannot imagine what he must be going through.”
“I am waiting for the outburst,” Kifter warned.
“We must be sensitive towards him.”
“If we are to go, I feel we owe it to him to wait. When he is ready…, he will come at us with both fists flying. I am surprised he has not done so already.”
A snort from behind caught there attention. Hoping it was Hanor returning, expectant wishes were dashed when the young man’s Kyboe moved a closer.
“It is like she knows,” Kifter noted, huge dark eyes staring back.
“Hmm…, maybe she does.”
Just after half-turn of the day, the tirade came. Full of scorn, the cutting tone stabbed at the two who sat mulling over recent events.
“You two just sit there whilst he is lost!” Bane screamed, the rage burning.
Both Hite and Fife stood. The moment had come.
“He has travelled all this way, and you two have already given up on him,” Bane stormed, passing the tree on the edge of the circle. “First Nole…, and now this!”
A quick turn of speed surprised both onlookers, the young Bane hurling himself at the two of them. Refusing to protect himself, a heavy blow to the jaw rocked Kifter. Unwilling to fight back, his failures deserving to be punished, the Fife permitted Bane to unleash his rage. Kicking Hallen hard in the shin before spinning to lash out again at the bruised Kifter, many blows missed but just as many landed on the head, chest and in the stomach. Hurting, the Fife’s only line of defence was to crouch into a ball. Heated, Bane’s contempt was without concern for the damage inflicted.
Kifter’s willingness to suffer was painful for the on-looking Hite. Tempted to pull Bane off, but Hallen would be rebuked if he did. Recognising Kifter was very much in control, even though it did not look like it, his own aching shin was nothing compared to the blows pounding his friend.
“You caused this!” Bane screamed, the first signs of tiredness apparent. “And you killed Nole.” Dishing out justice for such a contemptible sequence of events, someone had to pay for it, the Fife being the obvious choice. If he had not come to Manson, Bane would be playing with Hanor and Nole by the lake, living life as it should be. Yearning for that past, blurry thoughts mingled with wild emotions, concocting the rage to do this. Hammering away, he could not keep the abuse up. Flagging, his blows lessening, they softened to that of a weak slap. Tears pouring, broken-heart flooding with grief, “You killed them both,” he sobbed, his strength drained. The Fife beneath him did not move.
Weighed down and exhausted, Bane slumped to the ground beside Kifter, whimpering like a defeated animal. So much pain, so much guilt for not being there to protect his friends; they should never have come on this wretched journey. Why had they been so foolish? Bane’s mind was a haze of emotions. Memories flashed, his head hurting from the misery. Where had his uncomplicated life gone? With the passing of a single turn, his life had been devastated. What had they done to deserve this? That horrendous moment on the bridge, why had It not taken him instead? Giddiness whirled through the exhaustion. How could he go on living now his best friends were gone? Darkness surged, the miseries ending when he passed out