“They’ll have two days start on us,” said Ardal, “but if they have entered the Madwood, they will have to return the same way, will they not?”
Fallarond nodded. “It is likely. To move from the path is suicide.”
“How many?” said Vaddi.
“From the ship, no more than a dozen, but they were met at Valen Bay by a number of ships. Altogether there are at least a hundred of the Murughel gathered. They mean to hold what they have.”
Ardal scowled. “A hundred?”
“The hawks have seen other ships beyond the bay, sheltered by the islands beyond it in the east. They may not be Murughel, but I smell the reek of some dark alliance.”
Vaddi felt himself turning cold in spite of the strength of the sun. “Could it be agents of the Emerald Claw?”
“There is nowhere safe from their machinations. We know they lust after the necromantic powers of Aerenal,” said Fallarond. “The Murughel drink the Blood of Vol.”
Nyam tugged at his beard. “It’s a trap, of course. Zemella is the bait. You’ll need an army to spring it.”
Fallarond spoke coldly. “The Undying will not sanction the release of any more of the Deathguard than you see here.”
“But Zemella is an elf!” said Vaddi. “One of their own kind—”
“This is not Valenar,” said Fallarond. “The Undying Court would act, in time, but it does not know that Erethindel has returned to Aerenal. Better it does not know or else it may consider taking it from you. Thus your role as Keeper would be over, and the Court would see this pursuit of Zemella as unimportant in itself, a mere family dispute. Ties with Valenar are not strong. Some of us wish it were otherwise.”
“Elf pride, elf arrogance,” muttered Nyam.
“A small unit may be better,” said Fallarond, ignoring the comment. “A campaign of stealth, a wearing down.”
“There is something that puzzles me,” said Vaddi. “Why has the cleric delivered Zemella to the Claw, his enemy? You say the Murughel took her from Vortermars’s ship. All Cellester wanted was to have her taken away, bait for me, but suppose he had no knowledge that agents of the Claw had forged an alliance with the same Murughel.”
“Then,” said Nyam, “it is not the cleric we are dealing with here but the Claw, which can only mean Caerzaal. Those ships must be his.”
“Where is this cleric?” said Ardal.
“My watchers have not found him,” said Fallarond. “He left the place where we fought the Murughel last night, but he has covered his trail.”
“If the Murughel have betrayed him,” said Vaddi, “then he is cut off, for all his powers.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” warned Nyam. “His master will not want to give up the hunt so readily. His undead warriors are abroad. We know that.” He told Ardal and Fallarond of Aarnamor and his part in Cellester’s intrigues.
“We must act swiftly,” said Fallarond. “We will go east and cross the highlands between the headwaters of the Naalbarak. Soon after that, the fringes of the Madwood will be below us.”
“What do you propose?” said Ardal, as the whole company remounted.
“We skirt the jungle. Somewhere, midway between the Naalbarak and Valen Bay, we must find a way in. Carve our own, if we have to.”
The wild ride began anew and the miles flew past. The afternoon sun was lowering in the west behind them as they crested a final ridge that fell away to a deep declivity in the landscape. There, far below them, like an immense stain on the landscape, stretching as far to the east and south as the eye could see, was the darkness that was the Madwood.
Even from here, high above its vastness, Vaddi and Nyam could feel the power of the place. Waves of it lapped at them, as though the primal jungle emitted thick clouds of invisible energy, a dense miasma that was both chilling and poisonous. Instinctively Vaddi clutched at Erethindel, feeling its glow, a counterspell against the dreadful forces at play below. Nyam shivered, the steed beneath him also shuddering and shying away from the sight of the Madwood. Ardal was beside them, his face pale, his grim expression one of doubt.
He shook his head. “I have heard so much of this frightful domain, but seeing it for the first time, it fills me with an overwhelming dread. It is alive, watching us. What kind of twisted powers could have created such a realm?”
Fallarond grunted. “What else but war? But this was a war that took place long before the Last War that recently ended. The Madwood was born out of a long lost clash of dark energies, sorcery run amok. Dragons warred with demons in ages beyond our memory. The creatures that twisted the very laws of nature itself are no more than whispered myths today. The Madwood may once have been a clean forest, a healthy place, but no more. It is a corpse, an undead corpse, riddled with necromantic powers, and its denizens have become perversions of nature, mutated by the supernatural discharges that saturate its very soil.”
Nyam grimaced. “Are we certain that the Murughel have taken Zemella there?”
“We are.”
Vaddi shook his head. “I can feel it … breathing, I can feel its hate.”
“Oh, yes,” said Fallarond, “but we will enter it. Elves have done so before and lived.”
Nyam turned to Ardal. “Back in Shae Thoridor, you said we would ask for permission to enter.”
Ardal looked even more disturbed. “Yes. There is a way. The jungle is inhabited by many types of creature, some of which are prisoners. Once there were dryads and other tree spirits there, but over time they have become vampiric, slaves to the powers of the Madwood. They are torn between their dependence on the energy of the jungle and their craving to be set free. Their dilemma enables us to bargain with them.”
“If we can find one,” Fallarond said, “lure it to us, we can offer it freedom in exchange for aid. It will guide us in, but we must go down without further delay. The best time to lay a trap is at twilight.”
The company began the descent, dropping down into one of the many narrow gorges that ended at the borders of the Madwood. Their steeds followed the course of a winding brook, splashing along its contours. It plunged over a few small falls and on into the jungle itself. Vaddi could see across the black canopy, but there were no birds circling and no sound disturbed the air. Time had become frozen, the air utterly motionless, a chill enveloping all the company.
“How far are we from Valen Bay?” Vaddi asked Fallarond.
“Half a day on foot. As close as we dare go to it, for the Murughel will have scouts watching for us. They know we will be coming. Just as our hawks have been watching, so will theirs. And something else has crossed the skies this day—some huge, winged thing. Did you not sense it?”
“The undead warrior on its soarwing, yes, that must have been it,” said Vaddi.
“Once we are within the Madwood, we will be seen only by the jungle itself—and what festers there.”
At the foot of the gorge, there was a narrow pool, the last healthy area of landscape before the first trees rose up, gnarled and interwoven, unnaturally fused into a solid wall. The stream bubbled silently along its course and under the lowest of their branches, which formed an archway to the pitch darkness within. Fallarond gave a signal to the Deathguard and they all dismounted and lead their horses to the water. None of the stallions would drink, turning their heads away, their eyes wild.
“We must let the horses go back to the highlands,” said Fallarond. “The Madwood is no place for them.”
Reluctantly Nyam and Vaddi dismounted. They said their quiet goodbyes to the steeds, but it was evident that they were all eager to leaver this haunted place. A last word from Fallarond released them, and as one the horses cantered back along the stream and were soon climbing back up into the hills, Fallarond drew his sword and everyone else in the company did the same.