The company went along the matted bank of the stream, which had already widened into a small river, its black surface choked with rank weeds, broken only by the sharp fang of a rock. Ezrekuul swam slowly along, eyes fixed on the endless corridors ahead. On the shore, Tallamorn and a number of the other Deathguard were murmuring to themselves, spells to ward off the intense scrutiny of the Madwood.
Nyam felt a sudden stab of pain in his wounded shoulder, as though the jungle was testing him, looking for every weakness. He bent down and massaged his calf, unaware that Vaddi was watching him, but the youth said nothing. He himself had grown sullen. He tried to draw on the anger and bitterness that burned within him, but here in this ultimate domain of despair even the embers of that fire burned low.
Part Three
To the Shattered Land
15
City of the Serpent God
Fallarond called a halt. Outside this enclosed world, the clean darkness of night had settled on the land, but within the oppressive gloom of the endless corridors of the Madwood, witch-lights flickered, obscuring vision, blurring all but the nearest of the titanic trees. The company fed on the rich elven loaves and the clear water the Deathguard had brought with them.
Ardal warned Vaddi softly, “Don’t sip at the streams here. To drink in the Madwood is to invite a painful death—or worse, hideous transformation.”
Ezrekuul swam around and around slowly in a wide pool of the river, uneasy and unsettled, like a caged beast. All the while the Madwood hung back on the edge of shadows, as though at any given moment it would launch itself at the small band. “Are we still in Eberron?” breathed Nyam beside Vaddi.
“What do you mean?”
“All the distasteful tales I have heard of this jungle come back to me now. It is said that it is more closely linked than any other realm to Mabar, the Realm of Eternal Night, an alternate plane where all is darkness, shunned by light. Mabar can fuse itself to the Madwood, pouring its necromantic energies into it. When this happens, it is possible to enter Mabar itself. Reckless traders have done it, in search of Mabar crystals.”
“Mabar crystals?”
“Items of black power. They would be treasured by the Claw, ideal for its black workings and control of the undead.”
“You think we have crossed into this realm?” said Vaddi, gazing about him at the walls of supernatural darkness that surrounded them.
“No. But the two planes must be very close to a conjunction. Elf magic could open a gate to it. Or close it.”
“The Murughel?”
Nyam shrugged. “They are reckless, I think. Mabar crystals would serve their evil designs well.”
“If they have taken Zemella to this Mabar realm, we will follow them,” Vaddi said. “I would follow her to Khyber itself if I had to.”
He had not noticed Ardal near at hand. The Valenar spoke quietly. “Your loyalty to her is deep, is it not?”
Vaddi stiffened. He nodded slowly. “No more so than your own, I imagine.”
Ardal’s expression was unreadable. “Yes. My life for hers.”
Nyam could see the growing emotional turmoil in Vaddi. This was neither the time nor place for an argument to break out. “Ardal, how close are we to Mabar? It could hardly be darker than this pit.”
Ardal rose, preparing to leave. “Not too close, but in the Madwood, it is never far from reach. It will snare you if it can. Like the jungle, it is alive.”
Nyam groaned as he got up. “Well, not even I could sleep in this place. Trudging onward would seem our only course.”
Led by the creature in the river, the company moved off again. Underfoot the weeds grew more and more matted and tangled, like emaciated fingers, clawing and rending, exerting every effort to wind around the feet of the company. Elf swords hacked at them and they writhed back, repulsed by the glowing wooden blades. Vaddi felt his own weapon, the gift he had been given, slicing through these horrors, but its light was clouded as he used it, as if poison worked upon it. The river dropped lower, and as it did so, the trees crowded in, smaller ones replacing the titans of the jungle edge, although above them other thick branches spread out like the gnarled arms of demons, poised to fall.
Vaddi could see forms and faces in the knotted trunks, baleful eyes, scarlet and hate-filled. Roots shifted, moving weed-smeared rocks. Undergrowth rustled, briars swung, unfurling, but the swords cut and chopped in a ceaseless, uniform movement as the company defied the malevolence of the jungle. From the river, Ezrekuul pointed ahead. Again the waters dropped, splashing over a wide fall to tumble a dozen feet or more into another pool. Beyond this the river divided, one tributary branching to the right, the other to the left. Each looked oily black and foreboding.
The company picked its way down the slippery left bank of the waterfall, taking great pains not to brush up against the undergrowth that tried to force them over the lip and into the gray cauldron of the pool. Nyam’s feet betrayed him and he felt himself nudged outward by a branch that had lifted itself out of the moss, but a firm hand gripped his arm and swung him back on to the ledge before he could plummet. It was Tallamorn, the necromancer.
“Your wounds were not mended so that you could enter the service of the Madwood,” he said.
“My thanks,” said Nyam, though uneasy at the touch of the strange Aereni.
At the bottom of the climb, Ezrekuul swam to them. “That way,” he said, indicating the right hand tributary, “is Naalbarak. Leads away from ruins.”
Vaddi gazed in distaste at the river. It seemed to flow no more steadily than mud or pitch, wisps of eerie mist seeping up from its slick surface. As he studied it, he heard its voice, a sibilant whispering, like some blasphemous chant, redolent with evil and terror.
“The River of Whispering Evil,” he said, recalling the Naalbarak’s name.
“We’ll not go that way,” said Fallarond.
“I fancy we’d have to stuff our ears with mud if we did,” muttered Nyam.
They all turned their attention to the other river. This flowed immediately under a tangled mass of branches and undergrowth that had wound itself into a tunnel within the darkness of the jungle. The turgid waters, no less thick and sluggish than the left branch, surged into this tunnel, which was like a wide drain. Around its mouth, weed and mold flourished. As the company edged toward it, they saw the gaping orifice as if it were a mouth, above it two deep black slits in the branches like eyes.
“We are to enter there?” said Nyam.
Fallarond pointed with his blade to the undergrowth and branches that had packed up around the tunnel, creating a solid wall, utterly impenetrable and fathomless. “It would take a lifetime to cut through that. The only way is in.”
“Leads to the outer stones of ruins,” Ezrekuul said. He splashed to the pool’s side. “Beyond to east. Safer in tunnel than outside.” He hesitated a moment, only his wide eyes above the water, then stood and said, “Hark!”
Vaddi swung round. He could hear distinct sounds in the coiling darkness—vague howls, partially smothered by the trees. The groaning of wood, the shriek of spirits, perhaps.
At the rear of the company, a Deathguard cried out, and as one they all turned. One warrior was clawing at his neck, where a serpent-like root had wrapped itself around it, choking the life from him. His companions hacked at the writhing monstrosity, but the warrior was dragged into the thick undergrowth. A mass of roots and branches swung out like a many-fingered claw, and two others were snared in the barbed tangle. Swords rose and fell, chunks of root and branch flying in all directions as the Deathguard smote the attacking horror. All around them, other branches swung down, and the very earth came alive as if with immense maggots as the roots closed in. It was too late to save the three warriors who had become trapped, and their helpless bodies were pulled away into the enfolding darkness, their awful cries smothered. The company was forced to back off, ever nearer the tunnel beyond.