Poisonwell
Page 49
Into the night they walked, keeping close, remaining silent. Like Paedrin, Annon preferred being on his feet instead of riding the truculent camels. He watched for signs of spirit life and observed nothing. The land was full of dead, wasted dunes. He had always envisioned the Scourgelands as a forest, yet he wondered what he would find when they reached there. Mapmakers were completely unable to chart the vastness of its domains and usually labeled the northern edge of their work with threatening words, as if to warn away curious adventurers. That was also likely Shirikant’s influence, to make the place seem even more forbidding.
Annon’s legs and ankles felt strong as he walked, hearing the soft tread of Nizeera’s paws behind him. He was grateful for her presence, even though she kept her mind veiled.
The night was dark and lonely and the sweltering heat from the day had vanished at last and turned to bone-chilling cold. On they walked, deeper into the gloom. The dust cloud finally vanished, revealing a startlingly small sliver of moon. The night wore on as the myriad stars spun overhead. Often he had stared up at the vast heavens, wondering what lay deeper in that vast, jeweled expanse. Was it merely a screen that hid from view glimpses of scenes too wonderful to behold?
Yes.
Annon glanced back at Nizeera, grateful for the contact at last. He did not chide her for her reticence, for he was grateful to have earned her companionship again. Gazing back at the sky, he was overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of the horizon.
In a while, a touch of brightness began to thread the eastern horizon, though they were still marching northward. Annon glanced at each of his companions in turn, trying to commit the moment to memory. What a disparate group they made. Khiara spoke softly to Prince Aran in the Vaettir tongue, her look forlorn and nervous. Baylen walked with grim determination, gazing ahead periodically to judge the distance. Kiranrao skulked, keeping apart from the others. Hettie and Paedrin bantered with each other, the Bhikhu always ready with a quip. Phae and Shion were walking near each other. Neither of them spoke. So many differences. The only commonality really was Tyrus Paracelsus, the mastermind behind the expedition. Annon watched him more than the others, wondering why he always seemed to call out Annon to counsel with or position as potential leader. Annon felt the ring on his finger that would summon the Tay al-Ard into his hand. He kept that knowledge secret and wondered if there were other secrets to be learned.
The Scourgelands.
Annon nearly caught his breath when he saw them, appearing out of the gloom—a massive wall of unruly trees. The vicious sandstorm had slammed into the impenetrable woods and spent its fury out. Fresh sand was everywhere, clearing tracks or trails. Annon’s heart lurched at the sight.
The Druidecht had always considered the twisted shape of oak trees to be a slightly frightening thing. The tortured limbs and branches often took on grotesque shapes. The trees of the Scourgelands were ancient, hulking and misshapen beyond anything he could have expected. Several trees were so huge and bent that their limbs were too heavy to hold up and sagged on the blighted earth. The trunks were wide enough that it would have taken all of them to join hands before managing to clasp the entire tree. The air had a rotten, decaying smell. Mixed with the sparse leaves were dense, shaggy moss and other growth, probably mistletoe. The colors were muted because of the glowing sunrise, but they revealed themselves in swaths of greens, grays, and mottled browns. Each oak was unique and there was no symmetry or pattern to the forest. Some had branches forked like towers into the drab sky. Others were so twisted and bent that they seemed to be crawling across the earth like fat spiders with too much bulk.
There were no ferns or shocks of crabgrass or other signs of plant life—only the presence of ancient, hulking trees. The woods had a presence, a majesty that went beyond his ability to describe. But it was a terrible majesty, a powerful force that scorned the approaching mortals. The Scourgelands seemed to bid them, in whispered, haughty tones, to enter its midst and die.
Annon heard a muffled intake of breath, a sob unable to be concealed. He turned and saw Phae, her lashes wet, as she stared at the Scourgelands. She stopped in her tracks, unable to calm her trembling. Tyrus joined her side, putting his arm around her. Shion was there as well, even his face betraying some deep emotion. Was he reliving memories of the place? Was this where he had earned the scars on his face?
“It’s so sad,” Phae said in a choked voice. “I feel them, Father. I can feel them even from here. This is a terrible place. Such terrible sadness.” She coughed against her wrist, then buried her face against her father’s cloak. “The memories. There are so many memories.”
Annon’s legs and ankles felt strong as he walked, hearing the soft tread of Nizeera’s paws behind him. He was grateful for her presence, even though she kept her mind veiled.
The night was dark and lonely and the sweltering heat from the day had vanished at last and turned to bone-chilling cold. On they walked, deeper into the gloom. The dust cloud finally vanished, revealing a startlingly small sliver of moon. The night wore on as the myriad stars spun overhead. Often he had stared up at the vast heavens, wondering what lay deeper in that vast, jeweled expanse. Was it merely a screen that hid from view glimpses of scenes too wonderful to behold?
Yes.
Annon glanced back at Nizeera, grateful for the contact at last. He did not chide her for her reticence, for he was grateful to have earned her companionship again. Gazing back at the sky, he was overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of the horizon.
In a while, a touch of brightness began to thread the eastern horizon, though they were still marching northward. Annon glanced at each of his companions in turn, trying to commit the moment to memory. What a disparate group they made. Khiara spoke softly to Prince Aran in the Vaettir tongue, her look forlorn and nervous. Baylen walked with grim determination, gazing ahead periodically to judge the distance. Kiranrao skulked, keeping apart from the others. Hettie and Paedrin bantered with each other, the Bhikhu always ready with a quip. Phae and Shion were walking near each other. Neither of them spoke. So many differences. The only commonality really was Tyrus Paracelsus, the mastermind behind the expedition. Annon watched him more than the others, wondering why he always seemed to call out Annon to counsel with or position as potential leader. Annon felt the ring on his finger that would summon the Tay al-Ard into his hand. He kept that knowledge secret and wondered if there were other secrets to be learned.
The Scourgelands.
Annon nearly caught his breath when he saw them, appearing out of the gloom—a massive wall of unruly trees. The vicious sandstorm had slammed into the impenetrable woods and spent its fury out. Fresh sand was everywhere, clearing tracks or trails. Annon’s heart lurched at the sight.
The Druidecht had always considered the twisted shape of oak trees to be a slightly frightening thing. The tortured limbs and branches often took on grotesque shapes. The trees of the Scourgelands were ancient, hulking and misshapen beyond anything he could have expected. Several trees were so huge and bent that their limbs were too heavy to hold up and sagged on the blighted earth. The trunks were wide enough that it would have taken all of them to join hands before managing to clasp the entire tree. The air had a rotten, decaying smell. Mixed with the sparse leaves were dense, shaggy moss and other growth, probably mistletoe. The colors were muted because of the glowing sunrise, but they revealed themselves in swaths of greens, grays, and mottled browns. Each oak was unique and there was no symmetry or pattern to the forest. Some had branches forked like towers into the drab sky. Others were so twisted and bent that they seemed to be crawling across the earth like fat spiders with too much bulk.
There were no ferns or shocks of crabgrass or other signs of plant life—only the presence of ancient, hulking trees. The woods had a presence, a majesty that went beyond his ability to describe. But it was a terrible majesty, a powerful force that scorned the approaching mortals. The Scourgelands seemed to bid them, in whispered, haughty tones, to enter its midst and die.
Annon heard a muffled intake of breath, a sob unable to be concealed. He turned and saw Phae, her lashes wet, as she stared at the Scourgelands. She stopped in her tracks, unable to calm her trembling. Tyrus joined her side, putting his arm around her. Shion was there as well, even his face betraying some deep emotion. Was he reliving memories of the place? Was this where he had earned the scars on his face?
“It’s so sad,” Phae said in a choked voice. “I feel them, Father. I can feel them even from here. This is a terrible place. Such terrible sadness.” She coughed against her wrist, then buried her face against her father’s cloak. “The memories. There are so many memories.”
