Shadows receding, “The others deserve a rest,” Kifter muttered to himself, unconvinced, peering out into the grey dawn. Not sleeping well, aggravating woes refused to let him rest. Grating sounds of heavy rain on the forest’s rooftop during the night had not helped either, securing sleeplessness. Now, heavy drips tapping their canopy were like a methodical timepiece counting down to when life for their group should begin again.
Since Hanor’s disappearance, an underlying fear of attack kept nibbling away at him like a mental throb. Still not accepting that Hanor had left their camp without him detecting it, genuine concerns for the boy’s well-being conflicted with the prospect that his abilities were falling into rapid decline. The catalogue of disasters was, in truth, beyond comprehension. Hallen said it was a sign of the times, but as a Fifanian, he could not believe that, too cosy and far from conclusive for his liking.
A flicker of light penetrated the gloom, realising Bane’s loss far surpassed what he himself was going through. Redoubling his efforts could recoup some of that lost effectiveness, but Bane would never regain Nole, and with Hanor lost, just taking the next step would be momentous. Condemning him as an excitable boy out of his depth, beneath the noise was perhaps someone worthy of respect.
Pitiful, a rogue chuckle escaped, surprising him. Pathetic, the reaction was quite painful, titters getting louder. A need to shout grew. Verging on fulfilling what Brandor had advised as a young Fife, “When all else fails, call out to the Sacred, for they will hear your cry if it is from the heart,” a number of times he had come close to doing it, but had always withdrawn for fear of being a hypocrite. Vulnerable now like never before, the giggles were a defence to fight off that urge to call out. Strange, why was the impulse there anyway, his life was not in danger? Rejecting that inner prompting, he sat up, laughter erupting at his own misery.
Wrenched from slumber by the disturbance, Hallen and Bane thought trouble was at hand. Only settling when certain nothing untoward was happening, through the breaking dawn, the boy and Hite questioned what the unusual display of hilarity was for.
“What are you doing?” Hallen asked, unable to see the humour.
Kifter’s raucous laugh continued. “I…, I do… not know. It seemed a good thing to do.”
“What do you mean… a good thing to do?” Hallen was rattled at being woken in such an extraordinary manner. “I have not seen this for a while.”
Still laughing, “I am actually… in pain. I cannot see how things can get any worse.”
“So, why… are you laughing?” Bane could not help himself, and neither could Hallen.
“I…, I…,” he shrugged, “What does it matter?”
Diabolical, the three lost themselves briefly to madness.
“You must have sipped some of my Sasta,” Hallen said, calming down.
Normality seeping back into his despicable life, Kifter sighed. “How strange,” he said, seeing no reason for it. Declining the desire to lie down, they had to make a start. “Let us eat, and get going.”
“You are peculiar of late,” Hallen said, sceptical.
“What is Tarden like?” Bane asked, slowing to give their mounts a breather.
Covering many leagues before half-turn of the day, Kifter had already said they would not arrive until late the following turn. Needing to know of Hanor's whereabouts, holding onto what Kifter had said about Hanor not being in bad company, such possibilities kept his moods fluctuating.
“There is no other city like Tarden,” Hallen said, looking forward to arriving.
“What is so special about it?”
“You will not believe it, but the city is built by the living power of trees.”
“Built by… trees?”
“Not built by them…, built of them.”
“I do not understand.”
“The trees are the city.”
Enormous as Woodell trees were, Bane found visualising a city worthy of such praise difficult. With more colours now inhabiting this region, signs of life returning to normal, ground hugging vines embraced anything that fell within their spindly reach. Huge bushes added a sense of scale, but nothing to his imagination.
“What are they?” Bane pointed left.
Dusty white rays of light breaking through the treetops half-hid a group of long legged animals standing barely a stone’s throw away. Blending into the landscape, camouflaged by their deep green and brown coats, the creatures seemed tentative and watchful. Standing between a huge bush and even larger Woodell tree, they appeared edgy as if ready to run at the first sign of danger.
“They are Chios,” Kifter said, without even looking. “Timid animals, served regularly on the tables of Tarden.”
Deep emerald eyes followed the three riders. Narrow in body and tail, with an extensive neck, a pert head flicked back and forth, suspicious. Bane thought they were most odd. Reacting as if startled, the creatures started running the way they had just come. What he took to be a score, turned out to be a few hundred. Kifter pulled up, checking for what had disturbed them.
When nothing materialised, “Always jumpy,” the Fife said, heading off when satisfied everything was fine.
Watching after them, Bane was surprised they made little sound for such numbers. “I can hardly hear them.”
“That is why they are hard to catch, and highly valued by Tardanians,” Kifter explained. “We have been blessed we got so close. Their numbers are large throughout Tardania, but that takes nothing away from the skill in finding them. For the untrained eye, you will not see much of a trail either, even with so many to the herd.”
“Amazing,” Bane said, enthralled. Living a sheltered life, he was thankful to be active rather than just existing like before. A stab of guilt reminded him of his lost friends and that he should not be feeling any kind of relief. Cursing, any satisfaction seemed to be cut short by the guilt. Glad when Kifter increased their speed, he just wanted this over with.
The following turn of the day’s ride was less forgiving. Damp, the musty atmosphere made breathing difficult as if saturated by an unknown force. Dismissing the stuffiness as a minor inconvenience, the desire to get to Tarden was clear. Kifter, Hallen and Bane progressed into the after-turns. Passing numerous grassy clearings, open spaces were a contrasting pleasure to the unchangeable line of wooded pillars. Motivated at the prospect of reaching the treed city before sundown, they stopped for a short reprieve at a glade, one of many populating this region. Surprised the grass was dry considering the damp atmosphere, two Fliryns flying close by suggested all was normal.
Lying down, eyes closed, Bane enjoyed the quiet, ignoring the wildlife. Weird as the circumstances were, the dampness not like a normal wet day, he left it for his guides to work out.
“I do not like this,” Kifter said, sitting irritable, peering across the glade.
“I agree,” Hallen said, rousing from his momentary doze. “What do you think it is?”
“I do not know,” the Fife said, detecting another change. “Is it getting hotter?”
“Now you mention it…, yes, as if the sun has just come out.”
Kifter climbed to his feet, Hallen joining him. Bane felt no urge to get involved, even though it was getting warmer.
“The Kyboes…, do you see?” Kifter noted.
All five stood watchful, ears pricked, wary whimpers of discontent unnerving.
“Phew,” Hallen hissed, unfastening his overcoat. “It is getting hotter.”
“Bane, get up,” the Fife ordered.
Groaning at the disturbance, the young man obeyed, undoing his overcoat.
“What is causing this heat…, an underground spring perhaps?” Hallen’s suggestion was reasonable, but the signs declared otherwise.
“The temperature increased after our arrival.” Strolling further out onto the grassy glade, Kifter halted, an edge to his voice. “Come here.”
“Wow, this is hot,” the Hite said on reaching him.
“Too hot.” The Fife looked around the clearing. Bushes lined the outer edges, with odd ones scattered across the field. “Do you hear anything?”
Listening, “I see what you mean,” Hallen said, dubious. What was lively a short time before was now silent and eerie. “It is like everything has left the area. What do they know that we do not?”
Peering skywards, thick cloud proved it was not a trick of the sun, Kifter checking the ring of trees surrounding them again. Intense, there was definitely a power at work here. Just wanting to complete the rest of the journey without disruption, he had a bad feeling about this.
Heading back to the ring’s edge, Hallen took his overcoat off, sweat running down his back. “It is now just as hot here,” he said, strapping the coat to his Kyboe. She snorted, dissatisfied at the changing environment.
“I know,” he said, patting her neck. “Everything will be fine…, I hope.”
Bane and Kifter took their coats off. Stifling, the heat was becoming unbearable. Watering themselves and their mounts, time was running out.
“What shall we do?” Hallen asked, fanning himself.
“This is a direct route to Tarden,” Kifter explained, certain they had not strayed into an unknown part of this immense woodland. It was difficult to breath, the air blistering.
“Like that mysterious circle, is nothing ever straightforward anymore?” The Hite’s concerns were understandable. “The heat is increasing, if we do not move soon, we will be cooked alive.”
“What is causing it?” Kifter grimaced to himself, wiping his brow.
“Well…?”
“We need to backtrack,” the Fife said, finally deciding on what to do.
“How far back do we go?” Bane’s concerns were for Hanor. “Can we not go around?”
“Go around what? I see nothing to go around.”
“When it cools,” Hallen reassured him. “We will try another direction.”
“Hanor, hold on tight,” Bane implored, a grim pain at failing his friend rising.
Riding back the way they had come, disgruntled at the inconvenience, the mysterious force did not leave at first. Convinced the heat was following, warning them not to return, a considerable time passed before it subsided. Relieved when it did, the three pulled up.
“That was odd,” Hallen exclaimed, panting. Confident the force was returning to its boundaries, the notion triggered an idea. “I think it was protecting something.”
“I agree,” Kifter said, pondering the phenomenon.
“What could it be shielding? What is local that needs defending?” Gulping a few mouthfuls of water, soaked with sweat, the Hite felt clammy and tired.
“I do not know. If we avoid the glade, the main causeway between Tarden and Tardoc is north of here. If we head for it, our journey should be less eventful.”
“Sounds good to me,” Hallen agreed.
“Let us go,” Kifter urged, setting off. “There will be no let up until we get there.”
Bane, for once, could only agree.
Pressing hard, an abundance of wildlife added confidence to their decision to head north. Settling into their ride, but it did not last long. Furious, Kifter raised his hand to slow them down.
“I do not believe it,” the Fife stormed, cursing.
“What is it?” Bane asked, looking for trouble. Plenty of colour and vegetation, everything appeared normal.
“Do you not feel it?”
Slow at first, when beating hearts eased, the temperature increased, energising the air.
“It had nothing to do with that glade then?” Hallen said, leaving his coat off just in case.
“What do you suggest now?” Kifter asked, running out of answers.
“Do we do the same again?”
“It does not want us to reach Tarden,” Kifter said, the heat still rising.
“Then we may never get there.”
“Can we not charge straight at it?” Bane tried, frustrated. “If we cannot go around, let us go straight. We may just have to pass through it.”
“Our young friend has a point,” Hallen said. “It will not be well whatever we choose.”
A rational, albeit risky idea, with the temperature still intensifying, the Fife had had enough of distractions getting in the way since leaving Manson. Bold, Kifter shrugged, grinning as if giving up on caring. Burning as if an approaching tormentor held aloft a mighty flame, breathing was tight. Removing his top, a bareback warrior declaring war on the invisible power, the other two did the same.
“Let us go,” the Fifanian ordered, defiant.
Wild fervour spurred them into action; the madcap choice being made. Charging in the direction of Tarden, three half-naked figures hurtled into the unknown. Searing, the atmosphere burnt as if by a naked fire. Agonizing, but their skin did not blister, and no pungent odour of sizzling flesh occurred. Pitiful cries screamed, soon realising they had made a terrible mistake. Roasting, the atmosphere scolded like a fire licking the base of a cooking pot. Nothing else moved, no sound erupting apart from their desperate cries of determination. What in all The Freelands were they doing? Cries turned to howls, the pain fierce. Certain their skin was peeling, but nothing faired to prove their suffering. Horrified at the prospect of being consumed by this powerful force, pleas began to falter, their hopes fading.
As if the air itself decided to be merciful, their courage revealed for what it was, a great booming voice called out. Foreign, and wielding great authority, the words were powerful enough to control the elements.
“BALLA UM TA MAN UALLA!”
Breaking from intense heat into a biting cold, the three charging figures were released from the clutches of the intense force. As if a strong hand had let go, the abrupt change staggered them. Cool air filled their lungs, disorientating the intruders to the edge of consciousness. Penetrating, the transformation threw them into confusion. Light-headed, gasping for air before slumping against the supportive necks of their Kyboes, bodies thrummed, pounding like the beat of a drum.
Long moments ticked by, cooling as a result. Sweat saturated their slacks and lined weary faces. Recouping, if challenged now they would willingly give up the fight. Thoughts of who had called out at first did not register, be it friend or foe did not matter. Their fatigue was total, their will to carry on, drained. Staring at the ground was the only way to stabilise. Sitting back and looking around, nothing signified a force had even been there. Trees and bushes were the same in every direction, concealing any evidence.
Many times Kifter had passed through this region to Tarden without experiencing anything untoward. What had just happened? Reaching for his water skin, he stopped, an abnormality emerging in front. A shimmer of light started forming. Guarded, it stretched and began to elongate, the steady glow increasing as if a person was approaching with a white fire-torch. Charged, hairs tingled, the atmosphere humming to the new developments. The luminous shaft kept expanding. Spellbound, the light condensed, the glow turning to a mist before changing again to something solid. Apprehensive, the three did not move, the essence finally transforming into a person.
Tall and thin, the figure glimmered like a radiating light in a predawn fog. Hovering above ground, gaunt features were that of a female. Floating a trace higher than themselves, high cheekbones and a tight mouth were not as pronounced as the shape of her head. Bulging at the rear in the Tardanian fashion, her lack of hair was striking. Eyes shut, concentrating on the process, she was like an apparition. A shoulderless gown wrapped around her like a sheathe protecting a delicate but sturdy flower.
Flicking open, the newcomer’s eyes were piercing. Staring down as if deciding what to do with them, she was mature of many seasons, yet youthful like most Tardanians. An air of wisdom and power emanated, warning them not to cross her.
“I am a Master at Tarden, and Guardian to the Fire of the Forest, what is your purpose here?” she said, her voice commanding.
Assuming there was no threat from the mysterious figure, Kifter now understood what was going on here. Deducing the Masters at Tarden had created an invisible wall of fiery power to keep the enemy at bay, he was just relieved they had not stumbled on another despicable scenario.
“I am Kifter of Fion,” he said, cautious, pointing at his companions. “This is Hallen of Itab… formerly of Ebanor…, and the young man is Bane of Manson.” Confidence returning, even under her intense gaze, the illuminated Tardanian did not flinch. “I have travelled many times to Tarden, and am known there.”
“What is your purpose?” the enigmatic figure repeated, not wasting time with cordialities.
“We are to meet Brandor of the Sleep,” he said. The Dai-laman was well known at Tarden.
Waiting for a response, a childlike reverence for a dominant parent gripped them. Without adding anything more, as she had come, the Master from Tarden faded. Expecting further instructions, when nothing happened, fleeting glances queried what they should do.
“Well?” Hallen said, stressing their need for action. “We cannot stay here forever.”
Kifter considered their next move. “I did not detect animosity.”
“Then let us dress and go,” the Hite said, breaking the hypnotic lull.
The fourth turn since his dramatic arrival in Yarmoria, Hanor could not get used to this strange world. Frustrations drifted in, promising there were other purposes to his life, and to go look for them. The tranquillity here was enticing, but something was amiss. Lush as the environment was, with its deep greens and contrasting colours, there was an unnaturalness underlying it all. More himself, a great deal needed explaining.
Feeling somewhat isolated, since that incredible bonding with Coreema, she had kept her distance, saying urgent matters were keeping her busy. Tuning more into what they were thinking just as foretold, but even that had changed as if a mental shield was in place to shut him out. Sensitivities increasing, but where was the promised unity?
Coreema’s lack of time for him fuelled doubts about wanting to stay here. The previous evening, when returning late to her Stay, she had apologised for leaving him on his own. But when pressed with questions, she had been quick to say she was too tired to answer, and would do so today. Sleeping on an adjacent bush-like bed, he had stayed awake for a few short-turns stewing over the same uncertainties. Listening to the soft sounds of her breathing, he had so much wanted to go to her. But when waking this morning, unknowing what short-turn of day it was, she had already left.
Now, this was the second turn of the day he had been left to his own devices. Avoiding him because of what had happened, shamed because of their mental manipulations, it seemed too petty to believe. Occasionally, someone ventured by, but with their mental screens in place, he felt like a true outsider.
Spending time in Coreema’s Stay, the reading material she had left him were of a different language, and far above what he could absorb. Not enjoying the comforts of his surroundings, it was not as though he could just walk out to find his own answers. Now on yet another walk, he wondered how far he should stray. Without the sun for guidance, he had no idea what short-turn of the day it was. Strolling through branched tunnels felt like impinging upon someone’s privacy; a few steps up a tree the only thing separating him from their living quarters. Odd, he doubted he would ever get used to such openness.
One of the books he had read showed outlines between the differing Clans and their localities within Yarmoria. Approaching one of those borders now, upon passing through a curtain of brush, he stood a