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CHAPTER FIVE; ACROSS THE FIELDS OF SHADOW
"Slow down Rachel!"
Arachel laughed silently and turned her head. "Shut up Ceally!"
She stopped and waited for Fran to catch up behind, tapping her foot, until his thudd 737x2314h ing footsteps grew louder and he jumped to stand beside her, carrying a burning twig in front of him like a torch. When the two had risen she had removed the glamor from herself which gave her the pale-skinned, dark-haired appearance of an Arrondalian girl, and she and Fran were having a great laugh teasing each other about their newly adopted aliases.
"Ha, you're Rachel!"
"Well it's not as bad as Ceally! Ceally's a girls' name!"
"It is not! It's my middle name!"
Arachel giggled, and Fran marvelled at it. She had a funny laugh, meek and girlish, as if it had not yet caught up with her hardened character. For the days Arachel had been travelling with Fran and Brim, she'd been the most fun ever, once she'd learned to trust them, let the barriers down and just have enjoy herself. Only ghosts remained now of the toughened yet forlorn Arachel they had met that day in the valley.
"And you!" she chided, prodding him playfully in the ribs. "You fell asleep when I was telling my bloody story!"
"I've heard Unad and the Walkers before - and it's your own fault, tiring me out all the time. I can't catch up with you and your long legs!"
Arachel ruffled the boy's hair affectionately as they moved on.
"Anyway, Rody - he was alright wasn't he?" Fran enquired, looking expectantly at Arachel. He had wanted their companion from the previous night to join them, she could tell, and it saddened her.
She nodded wistfully. "He had a stupid name, but he seemed nice. Would've been good to have some more company with us, I suppose. It's just... I just don't want too many people in on what we're up to - especially if we get it wrong and misjudge someone. I don't know if you realise just what we're doing here."
It was all getting too serious for Fran. "I felt a bit mean leaving him in the rain though."
"Yeah. That wasn't very nice of us. But I didn't want to wake him, one he looked really tired, and two, I didn't want any more people with us, like I said before."
"I bet he wouldn't have taken too kindly to Brim! He didn't suspect anything, did he?"
"Course he didn't, don't be silly. Campfire, dragon. They're not two things you associate with each other easily. He actually said he was going to stay up to keep the fire going! It was hilarious! I was pissing myself after he fell asleep!"
"Is anyone coming?" Fran whispered "'cause then Brim can come out!"
Both stopped still and listened. No voices, no tramping footsteps, no distant figures on the road. And should any other travellers come along, it was simple enough for both Brim and Arachel to change back discreetly.
"Okay Brim," Fran whispered to the flame at the end of his stick. "You can change back now!"
He held the stick aloft, and the fire fizzled out in the rain, a thin stream of pale smoke drifting and massing before them. The smoke formed into an image of Brim, flickering as a flame, before settling into physicality. Physicality with an angry expression.
"I was quite happy on that stick really," he grumbled. "It's nice to be carried. Why change me back so I can walk around getting my feet muddy and my scales wet?"
"We just want to talk to you," Arachel defended.
"Yes, I've been listening to your little chatter. You mortals really don't hold very interesting conversation, do you?"
Fran's heart swelled with fondness for the grumpy dragon. Brim didn't mean any of it of course. Brim was a funny soul, displaying affection through anger and criticism - but once you knew him you'd appreciate it.
It was a dismal journey, the rain continuing to pour and thunder rolling ominously above. The rough roads were turned to thick mud, and gave them that feeling of being lost in a wide space that always came with walking along a main road. Nothing but grey sheep, rain-lashed hills and muddy puddles awaited them on the way.
"Can you take us on your back Brim?" Arachel asked. The hem of her skirt was ruined, ripped to ribbons and encrusted with mud where the gems had fallen off, and rainwater was seeping into her sandals.
"Buggar off! I don't fly around, risking being seen, just because other people are too lazy and fussy to walk in the mud! And besides, riding a dragon bareback wouldn't be very comfortable for you."
"We could get a saddle?" Fran suggested, perfectly serious.
Brim began to laugh, and continued to do so for a somewhat longer period than usual. Fran and Arachel regretting bringing up that point for some time.
Myla cursed as she twisted her ankle again. It was bloody unfair, Tessa and Baltica making her carry all the packs. Apparently, Baltica was doing the cooking, and Tessa was the map-reader, so it was Myla's duty to carry the luggage, do her fair share of work. Fair - ha!
Myla pulled the packs back onto her shoulder, panted, and continued. A light sheen of sweat and rain covered her exhausted, irate face as she struggled on toward the older girls. They were standing together, gossiping, laughing, while Myla felt as if she were about to faint.
"Can't you tell your sister to bloody hurry up, Tess?" Baltica whined impatiently.
"Oh Tica, leave her alone, she's really struggling there!"
Baltica sighed. "Tess, you can't be so soft with her all the time! Like I keep saying, she needs to do her fair share. And besides, she's so skinny it'd be good to get some muscle on her!"
They both laughed lightly, before turning again to see that Myla had vanished. One moment ago, she had been climbing a stile - now she was nowhere to be seen.
"Myla?" Tessa called, running back to look for her sister. Baltica stayed where she was, her expression and stance exuding impatience. Often she was forced to remind herself exactly why she'd chosen to accompany Myla and Tessa - and remembered it really hadn't been a choice at all.
"Tica, come here!" Tessa cried from the stile, slightly hysterical.
She muttered a light curse and rolled her eyes. "Oh what now?"
"She's fainted!"
Baltica began to worry then. She raced over to Tessa's side and helped her lift the unconscious child up and over the wall, lying her down on the wayside. They stripped Myla of her burdens, splitting them equally between them, and preparing something to eat for when she woke up.
Some hours later, the companions were still resting by the road. Sheltering underneath a crop of arkaylie bushes, Myla and Nuada had a chance to converse while Baltica and Tessa were away hunting for water. A good meal inside her, sympathy and fussing, and the knowledge that she would never have to be laden down like that again put Myla in a good mood for the rest of that day.
She and Nuada talked, simple chit-chat about what had happened while Nuada had been confined to the bag.
"Yes, I was wondering what that sudden stop and fall was!" Nuada exclaimed as Myla told her of the faint. "You nearly squashed me!"
"Sorry Nu. But I really didn't mean to do it. I didn't particularly want to either."
"You've got very sharp wit for your age Myla."
"So you keep telling me."
"Telling you what?" Tessa queried, peering down at Myla and grinning. "Are you talking to yourself?"
Nuada flew back into the bag quickly, and Myla nodded, struggling to keep a straight face. Tessa stood up and stared at the sky.
"The storms are coming, we're going to have to find somewhere to spend the night," she observed.
"What about that copse over there?" Baltica proposed, pointing. "That looks safe and dry."
Both sisters spluttered. For all her bossiness, Baltica said some very stupid things sometimes. What she lacked in intellect and sense, she made up for in authority. Though she was considerably shorter than Tessa, less than inch taller than Myla, Baltica was very much the leader of the pair. Her face was pale and freckled and delicate as a flower, with a button nose and bright green-gold eyes, but was framed by a mane of red hair, long, but so wildly curling it grew up and out in all directions as well as down, and gave her quite a frightening appearance. When angered, Baltica would stamp her feet and yell, yet never did she seem childish, only threatening.
Tessa was less easy to anger. Tall and willowy, and with her white-and-black complexion and dramatic makeup, she was an intimidating presence. Her anger was more subtle, calculated and clever, highlighted with graceful swishing movements and the pointing of her slender, black-varnished nails. Her clothes accentuated her poise, velvet and lace, jagged hemmed skirts, pointed boots with abundant buckles and spiky heels, studded leather jewellery, all in dark red and purple and black. Tessa was artful, intelligent, and Myla sensed she could be very dangerous if she wanted.
Myla felt a strong dislike for Baltica. She had never liked bossy people, but detested the way Baltica ruled over the two of them like a little queen, how she resented being wronged or corrected or stood up to. Tessa didn't seem to mind, she was an agreeable person, happy to go along and to just enjoy herself. Myla had loved her instantly, as a sister and a friend.
"Let's carry on up the road for a while," Myla reasoned "and see where we come to."
"Now this looks good!"
Arachel and Brim struggled through the woodland until they came to stand beside Fran. Across the narrow stream that lay before them was an old building - an abandoned station, they supposed. The stonework was crumbling, the windows were grimy and the rain on the iron roof pounded like a hail of arrows, but it was shelter for the night.
A quick hop across the swelling stream and Fran and Arachel were tugging at the wooden boards that prevented them from entering the building. Brim had offered to burn it down, but Arachel had protested, still fretting over causing too much attention.
Once they were inside, Fran unpacked the bedding and provisions, Brim stoked up a fire in the old hearth, and Arachel made sure no others had seen the station as a good place to pass the night.
"I didn't find any one else," she told them with a smirk upon her return from inspection "but look what I did find!" She held up a red square tin and shook it proudly, the contents rattling. "Biscuits!"
"Where did you find them Chel?" Fran asked, his eyes lighting up.
"In the kitchen," she answered. "There's all sorts in there, come and see!"
Together, the pair went through each of the cupboards, examining everything carefully. The water that struggled noisily out of the taps was lukewarm and slightly brown in colour, but luckily Fran discovered a cold-shelf stacked with bottles of lemonade. Most of the food smelt bad or was too thickly covered by dust to eat, but they found various drinking powders, all manner of breads and pastries, and a barrel of salted meats.
"There's some olive trees out there," Arachel informed them. "You two get cooking some of these, I'm going out to pick them!"
The station was built far into the banks of a hill, and reaching the olive trees was a struggle uphill. The rain had relented somewhat, but the long grass was saturated with rainwater and splashed high on her skirts. From the top of the hill, Arachel could see the moors and plains spreading far, dotted with patches of darker woodland, all in sight dulled by the drizzle. Beneath her, smoke rose from the chimneys of the station, thick smoke, from chimneys long unused. The tracks that wound about the front of the building were rusted and buckled, and, from above, Arachel could see that the roof was not as waterproof and solid as they had previously thought.
She felt strangely euphoric and light-headed then, almost drunk. This was the first night she'd spent with Fran and Brim where they could really be comfortable, in the warm and dry, with more to eat now than they'd had so far on the entire journey. She took one olive from the trees and bit into it, the oily, salty taste spreading into her mouth and parched throat. She swallowed blissfully and proceeded to pick the branches clean, carrying them in her skirt back to the station building, carefully spilling not a one on the downhill run, laughing all the way.
The three companions sat around the fire, Fran and Arachel curled up under blankets, helping themselves to the feast they had prepared, joking, laughing and telling tales until late into the night.
Distant howls and calls echoed over the hills before mist consumed them. A hole in the roof cast eerie jagged shadows across the moonlit floor. Drifting clouds obscured the light of the four moons a moment, as a voice shot through the cool silence and hit her ears like a pelted stone.
Arachel
Her name. Arachel opened her eyes as if a blinding flash had shone full into them. Slowly she turned over and groggily glanced across the four walls of the rooms, looking for a darkened figure huddled in the corner, a flicker of swishing fabric as a stranger passed. Nothing.
Brushing away the whisper as nothing but hanging dream-threads, she lay down again, her hip and shoulder aching from sleeping on the floor, her throat dry and sore. She swallowed rapidly to moisten it. Fran and Brim were still asleep, their snores rhythmic and soothing. Perhaps that was what she had heard? In the hazy seconds between waking and dreaming, a snore could easily be mistaken for a hushed name!
Arachel
Again, this time insistent, reprimanding. A voice familiar yet implacable, distant, from another world before Arachel could remember, shattering the security she had built up about herself. Was this a dream within a dream? She was scared now. She remained sitting up, too terrified even to lie back , as if movement should provoke the watcher into attack. Arachel frantically searched every angle, every shadow, and every movement in the darkness out there. Nothing. She begged for Fran and Brim to wake, only so she should not have to face this terrible night alone.
Her heart was racing, her breathing was heavy. She was accustomed to horrors in her sleep - but could such terrors flow from her sleeping self into reality? The thought did not seem so ridiculous. Arachel stayed perfectly still, occasionally plucking up the courage to snap her head about to see if anything was coming up behind her.
A bang made her jump, and orange-gold light flooded into the room, before it dwindled and disappeared with a second thump. The door on the far side of the room was being opened and closed by some unseen hand.
Arachel! Arachel! Arachel! Arachel! Arachel!
A chant, over and over, louder and louder. Finally she could stand it no longer. Arachel stood, felt for her swords and unsheathed them, although she was trembling so violently she could barely keep a hold of the hilt. She crossed the threshold, her pace in rhythm with the pounding of her heart. The chant echoed louder in her ears.
She stood less than a yard from the door. Arachel took deep breaths, readying herself, attempting to, gazing down at her dark feet on the floor. She saw the agonising blisters and strap marks from her sandals, the overlong and ragged toenails that needed cutting...
ARACHEL!
The angry plea seemed to shake the very rock and foundation of the building. Determination to rid herself of these night-demons rose up in her and she flung wide open the kitchen door.
Empty. Empty and dark. The chanting was silenced, and the kitchen was empty but for a single knife that lay in the middle of the kitchen floor. The darkness in here seemed even greater than that outside! Arachel shivered as she advanced toward the knife. Had she been here before? This room, this night, this knife, this fear?
She bent to pick up the blade. A short, broad knife of shining sharp steel, with a carved wooden handle. She held it squarely in her hand, the blade pointing straight down. Blood began to run from the hilt, and it was not her own. The knife was bleeding, red ooze trickling along the edge of the blade, dripping from the end, landing like burning tar droplets on Arachel's foot.
She jumped back. A pool of blood had already collected on the floor. Arachel ran for the door, only to find it was not there. She was in a void, the walls, the floor, the ceiling... all gone. She stood suspended in time, no remnant of the station kitchen remaining but for the glowing stove in the far corner.
A flame ignited in the stove. The fire spread, a circle of burning all about Arachel, drawing in closer. She felt the searing heat, heard the screams of mortal agony and desperation ensuing from it, saw fluttering flaming fabric and burning hands grasping for salvation, for help, for her...
Why did you burn us Arachel? What did we ever do to you? We never harmed you; we never took a thing from you. Murderer! Murdering bitch! You burn now, burning once for every life you stole from us!
Wind blew up from an unseen source, and the inferno swirled up, rising high as all the reaches of the cosmos could be, the came crashing down upon the small elf girl who stood beneath it all.
Myla, Tessa and Baltica had made a passable tent from three waterproofed cloaks sewn together and stretched between two trees atop the wooded hill where they were to spend the night. The cloaks were old and thin, and none of the three had a talent for sewing and the job was done shoddily, but their handiwork kept out the rain that continued to hammer down, though the lightning had subsided for the day.
While Myla was wrapped up warm and out exploring the surrounding fields, the older girls sat beneath the makeshift tent with an unfurled map, plotting the journey before them.
"So, really, we don't know what we have to do to defeat Pawanzell and no bloody idea at all where to find him?" Baltica sighed.
Tessa chuckled. "They'll send us a sign, eventually. I'm sure the Guardians wouldn't set us off like this and just leave us to our own devices."
"I say we should make for
"Hmm, I was thinking of the Town myself," Tessa mumbled, frowning slightly with a distracted look "but it's such a long way there. The main road is the quickest and safest route, but there's nowhere to really stop along the way."
"Where's the nearest station? I'm sure we'll have enough money to catch a train if we put it all together!"
"I think there's a station not too far from here, we could probably reach it in a few hours. But I say we should stay here tonight though, it's starting to get dark and Myla's probably going to be tired out when she comes back."
Baltica nodded. "And it'd be a waste of all our effort and beautiful sewing!"
Myla returned just in time to help herself to a share of the evening meal, and to sit between Tessa and Baltica, watching the Four Moons while the two girls told her of their misadventures in Hollyrule. Myla was only half-listening, taking in the blissful atmosphere of a long summer night. Soothed by the warm breeze and chatter of her companions, and already drowsy from her long walk, she drifted in and out of quiet sleep, truly happy for the first time since the beginning of the journey.
Myla left the others to it, and crawled into the tent to sleep. Conversation with Nu had to cut short when Tessa retrieved the map and said goodnight. Upon her return Baltica conjured an illumination and they began to pour over the parchment again.
"The station's here, roughly," Tessa explained, tracing a route with one long nail "and the easiest way is across the moors here, the road's straight all the way, so we wouldn't get lost if we ended up travelling by night."
"Sounds good to me," Baltica yawned. "But I think I might go and join Myla, I'm shattered. It's weird, I've never realised just how easy we had it at Hollyrule," she laughed wistfully.
"I know what you mean. And you look tired. You head off then, I'll keep watch for a while if you like," Tessa smiled.
"Watch for what?" Baltica asked, half-amused and half-frightened.
Tessa shrugged and rubbed her eyes. "I don't know... evil things. Nothing really, I'd just like to stay out here for a while, just think about stuff, you know?"
Baltica admired Tessa's refusal to show grief and to stay strong for her sister, yet she pitied her inability to mourn her loss. She gathered her friend into a comforting embrace and shakily stood up, stretching, and heading back to the tent.
Tessa was awake for some hours afterwards and waking her was a considerable effort for Myla and Baltica. She remained irritable and groggy for the rest of that day, and had large dark circles under her eyes. Travelling over the moors was hard going, and the three girls had stiff legs by the time they sat and stopped for lunch. And as night began to settle in, potholes, roots and stones in the road resulted in many a twisted ankle and grazed knee. Baltica and Tessa hadn't thought to change from their high-heeled boots to flat shoes before leaving Hollyrule, and after a few hours each step was followed my mutterings and wincing. Myla was the trailblazer, in her comfy old boots and thick travelling clothes, striding far ahead of the older girls, the wind in her face and enjoying a whispered conversation with Nu.
By the time they stopped to sleep, the copse the three were sheltering under was illuminated with silver night light, and a chill breeze was descending on the moors. After arranging the cloak-tent and blankets, Baltica and Tessa threw off their shoes and compared the size of their blisters, moaning and carping in agony.
"Look at that!" Baltica cried, pointing to a large sore on her heel.
Tessa's expression was part impressed, part disgusted and part pained. She turned her attention to her own foot. "Most of mine have popped," she muttered indistinctly, examining the damage.
"Don't prod at them! You'll only make it worse!" Baltica exclaimed, slapping Tessa's hand and wincing as her own foot caught painfully on a tree root.
"What have we got in the bags?" Tessa asked impatiently. She felt rather indignant at the situation, and even more so when she noticed Myla's poorly-contained laughter.
The contents of the bags consisted mainly of extra clothes, make-up, and magical ingredients. After several minutes of bumbling, cursing and Baltica whining, Tessa found the right powders to create a salve for their feet.
Despite her amusement, Myla was thoroughly bored, and decide to explore the surroundings. Her companions would probably thank her for giving them time to talk, and she felt like a walk anyway.
Myla ran down the hillside, and crashed through the long grass at the foot of the rise. A wind tugged at her skirts, and the air was cool and crisp. A clear night, all the moors bathed in the pearly light of the Four Moons, pale clouds swimming through the starlit heavens. Myla stood a moment to watch them, before kneeling amongst the kingcups to look into the little stream that ran by the hill. She smiled at the silvered reflection grinning back at her, before running her hands through the cold brook water, and following the flow of the water to whatever end.
Ever the adventurer, Myla wandered far and carefully followed the path of the brook, and kept within sight of the copse, now golden from the fire-glow. Yet after a while, she became consumed by her own thoughts and began to stray from the course of the flow, and the copse slowly dwindled out of sight.
Instantly she knew she was lost.
With darting eyes Myla surveyed her surroundings and began to fret. How had she let herself drift into such deep thought she had lost her way? If only she'd thought to wake Nu... Myla shook herself. Now wasn't the time to think on what she should've done, it was more important to find her way back before the full cold of night settled in and the girls began to worry. Myla shook herself and took a careful look behind her. From which direction had she come?
Behind her, Myla saw nothing but moor-grass rippling in the wind. And in front, jagged rocks rising like ribs out of the earth. She seemed to be on higher ground now, judging by the strength of the wind and the shivers that racked through her body. The bitter cold of it stung Myla's hands as she roughly clawed her hair from her face and attempted to still her shaking form and pounding heart. But she was lost on the moors, the wind screeching louder than she ever could, no sign of life or light in the darkness. Only the land rising about her, encircling and imprisoning, trapping her as prey for some watching hunter in the hills.
Rody was freezing. On higher ground now, the wind was picking up and the temperature dropping. Pulling his cloak tighter about him would likely result in tearing it in two, so he gritted his chattering teeth and marched onward, his mind firmly set on keeping up the pace.
Since leaving Stonebridge, the weather had been horrific. Constant rain and cold, and even on warmer days there was a terrible choking, muggy feeling in the air. Most nights, lightning struck, preventing him from taking shelter in the copses that littered the area. Only Rody's luck would allow him to begin his travels at such a time!
And the wind! Not only bitter, but suddenly stronger, blowing Rody's long hair before his eyes and preventing him from keeping to the road. And as he reached rockier territory, he stumbled and tripped, buffeted by the storm. He must rest, of find a sheltered spot. He must be miles off route by now.
Rody stopped a while behind the next hill. Here, he was more protected from the ravaging winds, and took time to eat a bit and salvage a little warmth. The grass about him thrashed madly, and the few solitary trees littered about the area were pushed to and fro viciously. And amidst the whipping and howling of the wind, he discerned a new sound. A single whistle.
That sound... unmistakeable. Rody had never seen a Hupia, but he had heard their whistling many times upon his journeys, and while the knowledge that they would never come for him was a comfort, knowing the fate of some poor sinner chilled his heart.
Another whistle. Longer and higher-pitched this time. The second whistle was answered, and a conversation arose. They were close. And now his eyes were adjusting to the dark, Rody saw them. Blacker than night, a slow, grim procession of black-clothed figures, swathed in ethereal green mist. Along and over the moors they progressed, slowly, until they disappeared from sight, but not from hearing.
Rody knew he had never sinned, but was glad to be rid of the sight of them. He only hoped they worked silently, and he should not have to hear the punishment. Sickened, Rody stood shakily, and prepared to brave the tempest and be as far from this place as he could in the least possible time.
Then he heard a scream - a scream of pure terror, high-pitched, beseeching.
A child's scream, Rody thought. As the intentions of the black-clad terrors fully sank in, so did nausea. That was a bloody child's scream! They're going after a little kid!
The queasiness turned to rage. Sinner or no, this was too much for a child. How could something with so few years in the world merit a penalty such as this? Whatever could they do to deserve the Hupia?
Resolve grew in Rody - Hupia were undead, he knew that. No sword or axe or bow could smite hem. But perhaps... The weapon he possessed was not of this world. He had rarely used it, who knew the full extent of its power? Swallowing his fear, Rody could not walk away and let those monsters take a child. He threw down his packs, drew the weapon and followed the whistling, quick and stealthy as a wolf.
Arachel was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, knife in hand. Fran had woken up and noticed her gone, and a rapid search of the station found her here. Dead or deeply unconscious she had appeared, but Fran woke her easily. She complained of a splitting headache and a sting on her foot, and attempted to hide her embarrassment at the bizarre situation Fran had found her in.
"I woke up sometime last night, when you and Brim were still asleep," she recollected "when I heard something calling my name."
Fran gave out a barely-muffled laugh, which earned him a punch before Arachel continued.
"I tried to go back to sleep, but then I
heard it again. Then the kitchen door
started banging, and there was this light coming from inside it. I went in, and found the knife in the middle
of the floor, and the stove was lit. When I picked up the knife, it started bleeding, and then everything
disappeared..." she tailed off. By this
time, Brim had woken and a warm
"We should make some sort of plan," Brim interrupted. "Which road do we take to Myrinia from here? Which town do we go to?"
"If I knew where it was, I'd like to go to my home town," Arachel suggested, half-laughing.
"Give me your right arm," Brim told her.
Confused, she duly held out her arm for the dragon to inspect. He ran one talon over the white tattoo on her bicep, mumbling to himself, before declaring;
"Your name is Arachel
Katarynne, you're thirteen years old, and you were
born in the town of
"Arachel Katarynne..." Arachel Katarynne whispered. She was younger than she thought she was - but that didn't matter. Arachel Katarynne. It was a name. Hers, apparently. She frowned and sighed. She knew this name, yes; its syllables were familiar to her. Arachel she recognised as her own first name. Arachel Katarynne. Accepting this name to be her own must be akin to waking with an unfamiliar face embedded into your own, she thought.
"You know what's weird?" she exclaimed brightly. "A second ago, Brim knew more about me than I do!"
"It's weird, I don't know anything about where I come from, but I knew my name," Fran mused before smiling sympathetically.
"Anyway, now we know where I'm from, we can start making a few decisions," Arachel said, quickly changing the topic of conversation. Despite the comfort of daylight, she would prefer to be away from the station building.
A second raid of the kitchen uncovered
enough provisions to fill their bags, as the three set off again. And on the outside wall they found a mounted
map, with which they traced the road to Keldiann. The road via
The three followed the broken-down railroad for several hours. Though yesterday's rain showed no sign of returning, the afternoon air was damp and cold, and white fog settled about the tops of the fir trees that lined the track. As expected, very few folk walked by a deserted railway line, and Brim disguised himself but twice.
Some way down the track, the disused railroad joined with the mainline, and they were forced to continue down a footpath through a stretch of farmland. The wind picked up, and the threatening grey overhead deepened somewhat, but the climate remained warm and the way pleasant. Their consisted mainly of the usual mindless chatter, and of laughing at Arachel tripping over stiles in her long skirts. The long strands of grain-crop allowed Brim to slink by hidden, and the youngsters' heads barely reached over the waving fronds.
The three followed the footpath until nightfall, when they came by a disused barn and set up camp inside. The road had been largely uphill, and fighting through plantation fields had left the companions drained and aching. Fran and Brim slipped easily to sleep, but Arachel was tormented. Those visions would return tonight, she knew it, and though she had been left unharmed, Arachel had no desire to relive the terror.
Scrambling to her feet, she walked to the barn door and leant against the frame. The last embers of the fire were glowing still, casting warm light out into the yard and outlining the bales outside in gold. Beyond their dark bulk, the mist that covered the Four Moons dusted all in icy silver-blue, the grain fields and, in the distance, the fir forests rising like soft towers.
Glancing at her tattoo,
Arachel sighed. Since she could remember, she had wanted to know who she was and where
she came from - who wouldn't. But
thinking on it, she wasn't at all sure she preferred it this way, now she
knew. Perhaps she had always hoped that
remembering her identity would bring back the other memories she had long
forgotten... but no. This Arachel Katarynne who was
thirteen years old and born in the town of
She sighed again, and turned back to attempt rest. And standing directly behind Arachel was a figure clad all in black, and cowl over its face. Arachel darted backwards in the very shock of it, before she thought; What if it's one of them? What the peg am I going to do then?
The dark form advanced and, in perfect rhythm, Arachel slowly stepped backwards, fear settling in and tightening in her stomach. Looking behind her, her fence that separated field from yard was coming ever closer. With a brilliant flash in the starlight she drew her swords and crossed them over her face, now holding her ground. Still the figure came. With a cry, the dark-elf shut her eyes and charged, swinging both swords about the creature's neck.
Opening her eyes, Arachel gasped. In her hands, she held two silver hilts. The short blades lay on the ground by her feet, blackened.
The shadow now stood directly before her. As it raised one hand to her throat, she attempted a backward flip and landed flat on her front. Dull, aching pain swelled in her chest and jaw. She kicked and thrashed at unseen targets before realising the dread shape had left her there. Steadying herself on the fence, she rose and stretched to relieve the agony in her back, and looked about. And heading toward the barn was a score of cowled wraiths, all whistling single shrill notes amongst themselves. She was doubtless now as to what they were. With their dark intent and talk of rebellion, she was sinner. It dawned on her for the first time. She stumbled after them, sobbing in fear, and let out a cry that sounded like a cross between "Fran!", "Help!", and "No!".
Arachel's scream had half-woken Brim. He lazily opened one eye, and his waking ears were greeted by a high-pitched whistling and his friend's sobbing. The dragon turned his head and saw a line of tall figures dressed in black cowls, and behind them, Arachel staggering towards the barn, her clothes in tatters and her mouth open in a scream. She stopped still when she saw Brim, now fully awake and aware, rise up onto his hind legs in the same ways he had done while fighting her. She quickly dived out of the way as a stream of fire billowed out of the dragon's mouth. The greedy flames hindered the Hupia - but no dragon-fire could stop them.
By this time, Fran was awake and looking on with a mix of awe and fright. Thinking that somehow the dragon could yet protect him, the boy wandered to him, dazed. The Hupia saw this little golden-haired boy, his clothes stained and ragged, pieces of straw clinging to him, and backed away. From outside, Arachel watched them, their robes now frayed and burned, and dared to run inside the barn and stand by her friends.
They were silent for a spell afterwards, apart from the glug of Arachel throwing back wine to calm her nerves. It was a tense atmosphere, and none of them dared to speak, and would never really understand what had happened that night for a long while afterwards.
"If you get lost, just stay where you are and wait for me to find you." That was what Myla's mother had always told her to do in this circumstance. But being lost in daylight was a different thing entirely to being missing on the moors in the dead of night. Myla was a rational person, and not prone to silly panicking like most girls of her age. Once the initial worry of being astray had lessened, she had taken time to think her situation through properly. She knew that Tessa and Baltica would soon realise how long she had been gone, and would eventually come looking for her. And they would, at some point, pass near here, or at least near enough for her to hear their shouts.
Myla was not afraid. She couldn't think of anything to be afraid of. But she was incredibly bored, and it was so very cold up here! Myla shivered violently, tears in her eyes and her jaw clenched against the biting chill. There was no harm in climbing atop the hill, finding her companions would be easier from a height.
Rising, Myla sighed in desperation and took quick glances all about her; the dark mounds of the hillocks; distant fields; trees standing in huddled clusters along the hillside; a green mist condensing on the hill's summit; the powder-blue clouds drifting over the moon.
Myla shot her eyes, widened in fear, back to the green mist. Squinting, Myla could make out the black outlines it curled about. One, three, five dark figures, advancing with the mist. Drawing closer, one behind the other like a procession. Myla heard muffled sounds she at first supposed were speech. But they were whistling! Tiny, dry whistling, a strange and slightly sinister sound.
Any other girl of seven would have immediately thought "The Hupia!" and screamed. But Myla Loquelle didn't believe and Hupia and, though the thought of them had crossed her mind, she knew she had never sinned. There was no reason why these cowled figures couldn't be travellers like herself, who didn't know how to whistle properly. Or maybe they were from a faraway land, and talked in whistles! Surely, there must be a logical explanation for the mist. Stumbling along the hilltops, they seemed confused and somewhat disorientated. Myla was inclined to help, thinking she could do with some company until the girls found her.
"Are you lost?" she called.
The walkers were silenced for a moment. In unison, they turned their hooded heads toward the girl and their leader whistled. A loud and shrill whistle, a sound that filled Myla's ears and set a throbbing ache in her head. They arranged themselves in a new formation - the leader in front, two standing behind, one to the left and the other to the right, and another two behind them, as they proceeded down the hillside.
"Are you lost?" she repeated. "I'm lost too, and I want to help if I can!"
The whistling stopped, and was replaced with a low, growling purr. It began at a slow rhythm, growing faster as the others joined in. Some indication of mirth, perhaps, laughter for the whistled language? All sorts of horrors entered Myla's head, and she began talking faster, stammering.
"If you come with me, we've got food back at the camp, you can stay with us, if you're lost..."
Her speech slowly tailed off as the progressing shapes raised their hands. Long hands, fine-boned, the fingers gnarled. Pulpy, bloody, mashed-up hands, covered in gouges and slashes, spikes of broken bone protruding from the wounds. Red rivers of blood ran into their sleeves, and each injured finger ended in a lengthy, tapering nail. Black, talon-like, and glinting like a razor in the night.
"Oh help!" Myla whimpered. Hupia or no, the creatures walking towards her were no earthly being. Those hands! With such injuries, how could they curl their fingers to grip their cowls and pull them down.
Their faces were framed by long locks of greasy black hair, and should have been beautiful. Each was a perfect oval, and white as holy light. Perfect, perfectly smooth and perfectly horrible - no bump or dent or tear could mar the flawlessness of a Hupia face! No eyes, no mouths, not even a slit! Not a single shadow could fall upon their faces, seeming almost to glow as they approached. Myla fell down in terror, but the icy water she landed in shook her back to sense. She flung herself against the hill, her wet feet churning the bank to mud. She grabbed desperately at tufts of grass, crying as she slid back into the stream, and the lead Hupia leapt.
Fingers outstretched, it landed, pinning her down. With all her strength Myla jerked her head away, and the claws dug deep into her shoulder. Myla was aware of no pain, only a great heat and the feeling of her skin being ripped open like a paper bag. Adrenaline raced through her senses and she struggled with all her might against the angered Hupia, thrashing in the water, spray leaping high above her head.
The monster raised its claws again as Myla became still. All the fight was taken out of her. Tiredness numbed all her muscles, and she resigned herself to the fate she must now accept - whatever that was! Was she to die here? Was there truly a fate worse than death?
And suddenly a weight was lifted from her, and the pain in her head was relieved. More ear-splitting whistles shattered the silence, but were slowly drowned out. Myla's eyes were screwed tightly shut, and she supposed this was what death was like. Death was cold, and wet, and death was tickling her face. Blinking, she realised the Hupia had gone. She was laying in the stream, soaked through, the rushes blowing against her skin.
And where the Hupia had been standing just seconds before, there was a boy with sandy-brown hair who pulled her up and helped her walk. Myla was shaking so hard she could barely stand up, both from dread and from the cold water. Her hair ran down past her face like an oil slick, and terror had paled her white skin even more. They walked for some time before she heard familiar voices, and all manner of fussing ensued. The journey back to camp remained a blur to Myla, and she fell asleep the moment she was allowed to sit down.
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