The Withering Pt.3

  My feet were well-rested and it was nice to stretch my legs for a bit. As I walked, I tried to find the signs in the stars; the Hunter, the Queen of Nod, the Old King, and the Prince of Two; The Silver Ladies, the Star Hares and the Great Fox of Night. It was a way to pass the time as I walked and puffed on my well-worn pipe. That herbalist in Dorlburn had some very fine moist tagweed and it proved a pleasant smoke for the journey.

  I’d been walking for quite some time when I saw the campfire off in the distance. Friendly and bright, it seemed a beacon. Till then it had just been me out there in the dark blue sea of Night.

  The camp sat a ways off the main road and I gave a good hail as I was a little ways off to give them fair warning as I approached. The wirey fellow tending the fire seemed unphased, though his companions seemed edgy and nervous. He waved and bid me join them.

  As I drew near and sat down, firelight distorted their faces. I could’ve sworn he resembled the herbalist from Dorlburn. He offered a cup of stew and some brown bread they had left over from their meal earlier that evening. When I offered them some smoke, the wirey fellow laughed. He said that it seemed a familiar blend, one he knew well. His brother sold one just like it.

  That lead us into a brief interlude exchanging how-nows and whither-whences and such, and a good laugh was had at the coincidence. After a bit of chat, I asked them of stories of the here-abouts, and of particular interest to me was the tale of the Daughters of Mourn.

  That seemed to have touched a nerve. Some of the companions said goodnight and headed for the wagon to sleep. The wirey fellow, whose name was Nuil, said he knew some of the story. He’d heard his brother tell of it several times.

  I offered what I had – some good smoke and a bottle of LomeDuar from Over Yond. He shared the smoke but shunned the bottle. He said to mix that and the stew would be a crime. I couldn’t disagree, so we had some warm ale and settled in as he began his tale. He asked what I knew, and I told him. Up to the Last Duke of Mourn, to which he nodded solemnly, and offered a toast to Solon, and one to Mourn. And a third he gave to Gantu, of old, and to all his folk, near and far.

  And then, alternating, he sipped, and puffed, and told his story. Smoke drifted up to the stars and altered their already busy twinkling, as firelight played on distant leaves as a breeze moved them softly, a pleasant rustling on the edge of hearing. His voice wove the tale….

  That was the last time little Riga and Jena saw him; Solon, Duke of Mourn, dad. The big man with the grey eyes. Eyes that foreshadowed a very grey world ahead.

  Many years had passed. Agorn had taught them all he could, all that he knew. Eventually they went into the old tower and learned what Aelis had known. They studied the old sheeves that Gantu had left. They let it seep deep into them and pour over their minds as they tried to work through what they must do.



  They sent out a call to all those ‘of the wood’ and all those middlings and sages who knew things and who would help. They needed help. No question. Agorn was older, though still stout as a Nord. But there were fewer and fewer in old Mourn. And fewer still that were fit to do the task needing done.

  Long years and Mourn had held back the Withering, but only barely. Rolard, Aelis, and Solon had taken the fight to the wold, and whatever it was that was out there, lurking in darkness. But no one had seen hide nor hair of them since. And no one knew what had come of it, if anything had. It was all the same for what they knew then.

  Evenso, the daughters of Mourn knew that they had to do something. Maintaining was not going to suffice. Not anymore. Not after the price they’d paid.

  It took time, but stragglers arrived at the castle, here and there. A group slowly formed and grew, a strange crew for strange times and strange deeds. Strangers. But not for long.

  Two badger brothers with hearts full of fire, ready to do honor for the name of Gantu, greatest badger there known. Some woodsmen from out of Tomdon, on the far side of Hrondir, south of BolNok. A traveling swordsman from Far Beyond, face hidden and quiet as Night.

  Master Crow, who knows many things, from God only knows where. A giant of a bear from deep in the woods of Nornok. A fire rabbit from the north country. She said she rode in on an ox heading south for a plow convention.

  There was an herbalist from over the sea, and a merchant boat from up the Skardfloe, bringing supplies and a few hearty hunters from the Drek marsh, bold and fierce folk who track unseen things through the murk and mire. Even that ox decided to stay around and help out.

  They worked out a plan. It wasn’t pretty, but it might work. Just maybe. Master Crow was invaluable to them. He knew what crows know, which was surprisingly more than you could ever imagine. Crows go where no one goes. They see. They remember.

  Master Crow confirmed that Solon was dead. Far out toward the heart of the Witherwold, crows had seen his dapple grey, or what remained. They were pretty sure there were some bits that looked like Duke parts, as crows called them. The where-abouts of Rolard and company were less certain. A large raven had sat on a dying Aelis and listened to her gibber till she passed.



  Beyond that, Master Crow knew of a large mound and cave out there in the wold. And in that cave, a dark eye peered out, old and cold and devoid of feeling. Just dark, like night’s cloak, and a yawning void consuming life.

  Yep. That sounded like the old myths. A real Syrpynd. That was what they faced. A wave of quiet dread passed over all of them, except the herbalist. But that might have been an herb induced calmness. Who could say. No one asked, too caught up in their own fears and forebodings.

  They were not a large force, and many had no experience in a battle, or whatever sort of thing it was that they faced. And it was sure to say that none of them had experience with that. They did have heart. And amongst them, they had hope and courage. And knowledge. And experience of others things. It had to be enough.



  Summer was fading and the time was come. They weren’t sure if this would end the blight. They weren’t sure if they could find the thing before the Witherwold got them. They weren’t sure of much, but they had to try. Fate would see to the rest, Agorn would say. Wise words of the Nord.

  Everyone had their tasks. The badgers swore they could find this thing. And the great burly bear was certain of the same. The smell, she said, would be quite unique and hard to miss. The marsh men weren’t so sure, though they did trust those middling noses above their own.

  The woodsmen felt sure they could handle the Witherwold long enough to aid the quest. The herbalist wouldn’t go along, he said, but had prepared all manner of potions, poultices, and vital blends to help them in a variety of situations. He was a fidgety edgy man, given to great gasps and exasperations. All agreed, he’d best remain in Mourn. There was no argument. But they were happy to have his aid, and knew it might give them a much needed edge.

  The Mourners had varied tasks – from helping woodsmen to carrying supplies and acting as guards, scouts, and sentries. It was they who were charged with facing that mythic thing, should they find it. The Mourners, and that mysterious middling swordsman. The one beneath the mask. The one no one had seen and whose low quiet voice was seldom heard. Only that old ox could seem to engage the swordsman. Perhaps they shared something no one else did. Or had been somewhere long ago. Who knows.



  The rabbit had some unique skills that might become useful later, though for her part, she ate her weight in fresh veggies and salty crisps, in between sharing stories with Master Crow and the old ox.

  The merchant had them stocked and ready. He too would remain with his crew and the herbalist. It seemed they were nearly ready, and a little feast was prepared to bid them farewell.

  The morning after was crisp, cool, and covered in a hazy grey shroud of fog that hid the truth of 30 paces. Evenso, they began the journey eastward into the mist.

  Over the river and through the woods. A strange little rabble they were. Wandering through a surreal terrain of pale wood with bark exposing defiled skin, splotches of discoloration, and occasional pustules oozing foul-smelling oils. Swollen roots that seemed to grab at feet as they passed. It sickened them, to see the old wood in this state. Some worried that this Withering would creep into them as well. And it probably would, if they stayed too long.

  They had to keep watch for hnagral, which proved difficult in that deep fog; a fog that seemed to give way to a heavy noxious haze emanating from the ground. There were invasive thorny vines that seemed to move with surprising speed, for what was essentially a weed. Those thorns caused a rash if one were pricked. That rash lead to drowsiness, and two marshmen had to be put up on the old ox, along with the other riders, rabbit and Master Crow. The ox was not happy. The marshmen were, well, marshmen, so they smelled of marsh. This seemed silly to the rabbit, as the Witherwold smelled so bad anyway. How could the ox tell the difference? He could, he could. He was grumpy the rest of the day.

  They made good progress that first day, though sleep was little and much interrupted. Their camp was poorly situated, having walked too long before settling on a campsite in the failing light. They swore not to repeat that mistake again.

  The second day saw rain and they lost the scent and wandered in loops, giving up early and seeking camp. No one slept well. The rain made everything a mess and the daughters of Mourn wished they were back at the castle next to a warm fire, sipping a hot mug of spiced mead. Master Crow shared that wish, whole-heartedly.

  The third day was even worse. They had wandered into a bog and got separated as they were attacked. It was some sort of altered or mutated hnagral but there was no time to look them over. It was heated and hard fought. The Mourners and the woodsmen were led one way, while the others were chased onto another path. They did not meet again that day. And it would prove decisive.

  On the fourth day, the badger brothers found that illusive mound with its night dark cave. The day had been full of foreboding and misgivings, and it seemed like they were well founded. It happened so fast. Before anyone knew what was happening, one badger fell and the huntsmen from Drek lept toward the mound, screaming in that eerie marshman accent. As if calling chaos from the ether, a darkness fell over the wood and an evil miasma was upon them.

  The great bear roared and lashed out at something no one saw. It might have come from the cave. Without hesitation, the bear ran in and all was buzz and scream and chaos. The ox went at a run to get rabbit and Master Crow out of the evil mist, while the second badger yelled out for his brother between choking on the foul air, thickening and sick.

  The swordsman kept calm, drawing blades and peering through squinted eyes.
  After dropping those two well back, the old ox charged back toward that festering mound, prepared to gore that thing with horn and hoof.



  The noise and chaos of the melee grew and was heard way off by those separated the day before. Agorn roused the Mourners into motion, swift and sure, even at his age. The daughters of Mourn, with grim aspect, rode off toward the sounds of chaos, ready to face what the dark day had in store, for doom or glory.



  Yet, one old eye had seen them coming. Had known they would arrive this day and had prepared. That cold dark thing had set a trap and they had walked into it. Strangler vines and twisted hnagral were waiting enshrouded by sickening mist. Pitted, uneven ground awaited them, where hidden thorns stuck out to rip warm flesh. The mist itself sapped the energy and resolve of those caught within. It was an evil day and that old thing felt a cool satisfaction to know that it had all gone as planned. Soon, the walls of Mourn would fall. And the Withering could spread its arms to embrace the great Beyond. Such was the thought of that dark one when unremembered pain seared into that old flesh. One eye opened very wide and a twisted mouth let out the most horrendous scream that had ever been heard in the old wood. It reared up and its great body pushed up, crashing through the roof of the mound.

  Just as the Mourners arrived on the scene, they saw the mound explode as that mythic beast rose up out of the miasma, one badger clawing at the upper body and a great burly bear attacking the lower section of that monstrous thing. Only now did they realize that they had sought to destroy a living nightmare; a monstrous embodiment of horror.

  Agorn screamed in a Nord rage and ran at the foul thing. Tears flew from his face as thoughts of lost family and friends drove him on. Riga and Jena stood still as stone, in shock and terrified at such hideousness. Some Mourners attacked. Some could not. This was not what they had feared. This thing was so much worse. The sight of it caused a deep trembling fear. But for the herbs they’d been provided, many would have been as statues before its awful gaze.

  The sound of its screaming was enough to drive some to madness and wild panic. And it did. The woodsmen broke and ran, along with some Mourners and several marshmen. The scene was chaos and terror. It was hard to see through the thick miasma. Crows had been seen and heard coming in great numbers, like a dark cloud, as the monster lashed back and forth, attacking and being attacked.

  Flashes of light appeared out of the mist, first here, then there. The swordsman’s blades flashed, little lightnings, back and forth across that great bulk.

  Some had already fallen. No badgers stood to claw and rage. A great burly bulk of fur lay bleeding near the base of that horror. Bodies were scattered. The daughters were down and the ox could not be found. And yet, the swordsman spun like a flying razor, even as much of the blood that flew was now his own. The beast was weak, but not defeated. Agorn’s sword was sunk deep into the thing, yet Agorn was not to be seen.



  Something had to happen or everything was lost. A small form darted through the chaos, up the broken mound, and onto the sprawling beast. Leaping toward the vicious head and that one foul eye, went the bold little rabbit. With a well-sharpened branch from the old thorn-vine in Gantu’s tower, the little rabbit stabbed that evil eye, thrusting it deep as the orb burst and the ancient monstrosity bellowed like the end of time itself.

  The fire rabbit jumped free as the death writhing set in, and she scampered back down off the mound and away. The crows had made short work of both the strangler vines and the hnagral. Master Crow was nowhere to be seen as the clouds of black dissipated and drifted away. The caw and cacophony subsided, as did the miasma.



  It seemed that the old badger had saved a fragment of the soul of Shahda, and there it had rested in the base of that old tower. Gantu had sacrificed himself to give power to that shard, so it might change that vine and return again some day to aid those left behind to fight. The branch from the thorn-vine was more than it seemed and had done its work.

  Even for all that, a sad scene remained, of blood and gore; friend and foe and festering wood. Only the swordsman stood to greet the little rabbit. Mud and blood and tears streaked her furry face, but she helped the swordsman over to a stump where he could sit. He pulled out several packets from his tunic. He wiped her face and put a poultice in a bandage and wrapped her ragged ear. Then he began the laborious process of caring for his own wounds, many and varied.

  A grunt and snort of effort drew them to look back at the beast. There came the old ox, pulling the daughters of Mourn out of the muck and mire, much maligned but still among the living. They had overcome their earlier fear and fought with tenacious energy to the end. A great grin came over the swordsman’s unmasked face, and that little rabbit leaped forward and hugged his big ox nose, happy he was alive.

  They found the badger brothers, beyond hope, one cradling the other. Gone now to the place great badgers go, where they surely stand proudly with old Gantu. The great bear was also past help. She had fought too hard, too close, too long. Her ferocious strength could not be measured in that fight and the swordsman sat with her till she passed. And then for sometime more.

  No one ever found the woodsmen, all lost and mad out in the dark wood. One marshman lived to return to the Drek, a legend in his land for all time. Of the Mourners who set out, there remained just two; the daughters of Mourn. In the twilight they had erected a pyre and placed their fallen there. That night they burned their dead. In the morning’s dim light, they set out for Mourn. It was a long and painful journey home -2 women, 2 men, a rabbit, and an old ox.



  Nuil stopped and emptied his mug. I asked him how he came by this tale. He yawned and then said his brother was the herbalist. I laughed. A fortunate encounter, and one I would add to my collection. I looked up at the starry night sky and blessed all those who had fought against the Withering blight.

  Out on the road, an old ox wandered by, as a rabbit slept on his back, heading on toward adventure and the Lands Beyond. 

Copyright John Stevenson 2019