Pillar of Night

The rest of the night was spent wary and half asleep, no real rest being gained.

Seldom had he been so glad to see sunrise.

He stood and stretched cramped muscles and wiped away an ichorous substance left by the vine when he’d cut it. Lan pushed through the tight circle of trees, some of which were less than two feet apart, and used his sword to hack away the bushes.

He ate a trail breakfast as he walked, not wanting to spend any more time in the forest than necessary. He had only just penetrated the forest; he didn’t cherish the idea of spending another night within its boundaries.

Finding a meandering stream of muddy water allowed Lan to make better progress along the banks. Branches formed a canopy above and shut out the cheering sunlight, but the added speed more than made up for the dreary landscape.

“I… I can’t breathe,” Lan gasped out after walking for more than an hour. “The air. Gone stale. No breath. So hard.” He started to fall forward when a long, slender vine dropped down and wrapped itself tightly about his right wrist. Long needles shot into his flesh and the pain rocketing into his brain pulled him out of the fog. He screeched in anguish and tried to jerk free. He only succeeded in losing his balance on slippery rocks.

Crashing down to the stream bank, Lan struggled in the vine’s grip. He found his knife and slashed awkwardly at the green rope until he cut it in two. The pain kept him working until the sucker pad that had already sampled his blood and the sharp, hollow spines were removed from his wrist.

“Air,” he panted, then wondered. The shock of pain had kept him breathing. “There’s nothing wrong with the air,” he said to himself. “It’s a guard spell. That’s all it can be.”

He hunkered down and forced his lungs to suck in deep draughts of air as he gently probed for the source of the spell. He didn’t find it, but took the chance of using a counter. Chanting, softly at first and then with more determination, he worked out a magical pump that would force air into his lungs, even if his chest refused to expand to accept it. In this way Lan hoped to attract little attention to himself-he wasn’t opposing the spell but rather working on himself to counter the effects of the spell.

Just as he thought all was again serene, a bloodcurdling scream ripped apart the stillness of the forest.

Lan heard heavy crashing through the thick undergrowth and drew his sword, ready to fight. Without an instant’s warning, a heavy body surged through the air directly at him. Lan dropped to one knee, braced the hilt of his sword on the ground, and felt the impact. The blade twisted mightily and almost left his grip, but he held on grimly.

A man-or parts of what had been a man-had perished on his carbon-steel blade.

“Who are you?” Lan asked, pulling his sword from the man’s chest. The grotesquely misshapen head belied any claim to humanity. One arm was missing and the legs bent at curious angles. The sword had found the proper spot between ribs to penetrate through to the heart.

Lan could hardly believe that the creature still lived. One torn eyelid waggled up and down to reveal a glassy, bloodshot eye. The other eyelid opened to reveal a gaping cavity where the eyeball had been plucked out.

“Who are you?” asked Lan, kneeling beside the creature. “Let me tell your people where you died.”

The raucous laughter welling up from the creature’s throat chilled Lan. He stepped away, then used his sword to put the thing out of its misery. The wound started under one ear and deeply cut to the other. Lan Martak felt unclean even seeing such a parody of humanity.

“You have this much more to answer for, Claybore,” he said. “This foul work has your imprint on it. I know that.”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course it is his handiwork. Who else strays into these woods, eh, tell me that, tell me that?”

Lan spun, dropping into an en garde stance at the words. A man with arms three times normal size hung from a tree. He had no legs. Swinging back and forth, the man built momentum and reached for another tree limb and moved closer to Lan.

“Who are you? Who by the lowest of the Lower Places was he?” Lan indicated the pitiful creature sprawled on the ground, still feebly twitching as if life refused to flee even after having heart pierced and throat slit.

“We’re all having fun, ever so much fun, yes, fun, fun, fun!”

The half-man whirled and capered about, swinging skillfully from limb to limb and then dropping to the forest floor. He stared up at Lan.

“You’re not one of us. You’re an interloper. I know all of us. And you’re not. One of us. No, no you’re not.”

Lan swallowed hard and gripped his sword even tighter. He had seen madness in his day. This was a classic case and he had to deal with it. Had the loss of his legs driven the man insane?

Lan Martak doubted it. Claybore’s magical experimentations were more likely to blame.

“Did Claybore try to use your legs for his own?” Lan asked.

“What? Oh, yes, yes! He had to fight me for them. But it wasn’t much of a fight. No, not at all. I lost.” A huge, salty tear formed at the corner of the man’s round, dark eye and dribbled unashamedly down his cheek.

“Get revenge on Claybore,” said Lan. “Show me the way to the Pillar of Night. I would examine it closely. You’ve seen it, I know. It’s near, only a few minutes away. I sense it. But something prevents me from seeing it directly.”

“The forest, that’s what. The trees block your view.” Another big tear rolled down the man’s cheek and then anger clouded the once handsome face. “Revenge. I want to get even for what he did to me. Kill you. You’re like him. Kill you!”

Lan watched as the legless man rocked forward and pulled his body along on those impossibly powerful arms. The biceps were almost the size of Lan’s waist. The strength locked up in that half body presented too great a threat to take lightly.

“I oppose Claybore. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Kill!” screamed the man.

Lan gasped in pain as one huge, powerful hand circled his ankle and clamped down. He felt the bones grating against one another. He swung his sword and severed the hand; it continued to cling to his leg. Gorge rising, Lan stumbled back, swinging wildly. The man came on, pulling himself on the spurting stump of his left wrist and his right hand. Sickened beyond compare, Lan lunged and drove the blade directly into the man’s throat.

The right hand grabbed the steel blade and broke it, as if it were nothing more than a splinter.

“Kill you,” came the words. A tide of crimson followed. The man fell forward, eyes sightlessly staring. Lan held the broken sword in his hand, shocked at how close he had come to dying.

He turned and became violently sick to his stomach. When the nausea passed he followed his sensing toward the Pillar. Scouting had been a good idea. He hadn’t realized Claybore kept his experimental failures in the forest surrounding the base. Lan Martak wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more if he had to kill cripples.

“It only gets worse,” came quiet words from the shadows at the base of a large boled tree.

“How would you know?” demanded Lan.

“I’ve been here for so long, so very, very long.” An older man with snowy white hair stepped into sight. He smiled weakly and said, “It has been such a long time since I saw another mage in this damnable forest. I have forgotten so much, but the sight of you brings much of it back.”

“You’re a mage?” asked Lan.

“Oh, yes, I am. I used to be quite a good one, I might add.” The man smiled benignly. “You might have heard of me. My name’s Terrill and I was responsible for dismembering Claybore.”

Lan could only stare openmouthed.