The screech of a night owl echoed in the distance. “Good hunting, sister,” Majandra said softly, turning toward the remaining warmth of the fire.
12
Durgoth Shem sat in the cramped confines of the wagon, jotting down notes and commentaries on several scrolls that lay heaped upon the wooden crate that had functioned as his makeshift desk since he had left Rel Mord. A brass lamp sat on a crate to his right, casting flickering illumination throughout the rude space. Its thick oil burned smokily, filling the wagon with an acrid stench. A light rain fell outside, tapping steadily on the tarp that protected the wooden roof of the wagon.
The cleric put down his quill with a sigh and stretched fingers that were cramped and sweaty from long hours of writing. Deciphering prophecy was never an easy task. When the gods spoke, their words came as riddles, laden with metaphor and signs and symbols—nearly incomprehensible to the mortal mind. He stared for a moment at the collection of scrolls before him that contained the words of the crucified seer. Penned in the flowing, elegant script of young Adrys, the ultimate meaning of the seer’s prophecy nevertheless lay shrouded behind a thick layer of riddles. Only the wisdom he had wrested from the Minthexian Codex had allowed him to pierce the veil even as far as he had, revealing the ultimate location of Acererak’s tomb. Using the ancient codex as his guide, Durgoth struggled to unlock the prophecy’s remaining secrets—the exact location of the key, the spells to wrest the artifact from Acererak’s tomb, the ritual to unlock its powers. All of these things lay just beyond his reach, safely resting within the very words the crucified seer had spoken in his monastery.
Durgoth smiled as he stood up, relieving the strain on his back. They had journeyed for quite some distance in pursuit of this goal, and according to the scrolls they had managed to take from the grasp of those gods-damned nobles, their quarry was heading in the same direction as the prophecy was leading his group. It was only a matter of time before they met up, and then Durgoth would have the pleasure of stealing their triumph out from under their noses.
His smile grew broader. After the disastrous attempt at scrying several weeks earlier, the cleric had relied on more mundane methods of tracking the Nyrondese fools’ progress. Gold, he thought, loosens lips easier than any spell. It had been simple to flash some coins at travelers coming from farther up the trade road and inquire after another caravan. So far, according to their sources, they had managed to stay about a week behind the Nyrondese wagons. Once out of the Rieuwood, they would increase their pace until they were able to shadow the nobles through the Vast Swamp.
An urgent knock at the wagon’s wooden doors interrupted Durgoth’s thoughts. He spun and called out gruffly for whomever it was to enter. He had left strict orders not to be interrupted during this part of the day and was about to dress down the man who had dared intrude on his sacred work, when he caught sight of Adrys entering the wagon. The novice’s sandy brown hair was matted to his head from the spring shower, and a mixture of sweat and rainwater ran down his face. The lad bowed once.
“Pardon my intrusion, blessed one,” he said in a voice tight with urgency, “but we seem to have a situation.”
“Speak then, lad,” Durgoth said sharply, not willing to waste any more of his time than he had to.
“Sir, a patrol of elves has blocked the road ahead. We will reach them in just a few moments. Jhagren sent me to alert you. Though your followers are trying to pretend they are honest teamsters, many of them seem frightened and unsure of what to do. My master feels that they may attempt something rash.”
Durgoth gave a soft curse. Elves. That’s all they needed right now. They had traveled for several weeks within the Rieuwood and he had half hoped they would pass through the forest untroubled by these damned elven patrols.
“You’ve done well, lad,” Durgoth said finally. “Go tell Sydra and Eltanel to prepare for an attack. And then go to the second wagon and quietly unlatch the door.”
The boy nodded in understanding. Hopefully, the two guild members would provide enough protection for their caravan. If not, the golem sat quiescent within their other wagon. Even now, the cleric could feel its dark life-force brooding, waiting to spring into action. If they struck quickly, they could kill these damned elves and push hard for the edge of the Rieuwood before other elven patrols would find them out. If not, their next few weeks within the forest would be one bloody battle.
“Go now, Adrys,” he said as he realized that the novice still stood before him. “I will go to Jhagren and see what is developing.”
The boy moved with surprising speed. Durgoth placed the Minthexian Codex within its hidden resting place before wrapping his cloak tight about him and stepping out of the wagon and into the rain.
By the time Durgoth plodded through the mud-churned road, his wagons had already stopped. Seven figures in forest-green cloaks stood in the center of the trail, talking to the caravan master. From this distance, Durgoth could see the stamp of elven blood on these warriors. Each had long hair wound tightly into warrior’s braids, and the silvery glint of polished mail peeked out through their cloaks. One of the elves, taller by almost a head than the rest of the band, stepped forward. His cloak was thrown back and secured by a clasp of silver oak leaves, and he wore a finely worked leather scabbard belted to his waist. Behind the elves, Durgoth could see the furtive movement of archers hidden within the trees. He moved closer to catch more of the conversation between the elf leader and his caravan master.
“But my lord,” the human protested, “we are simply a caravan bound for Sunndi. I can show you our trade manifests and merchant seals if you need them. We just—”
The elf cut the caravan masters explanation off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Save it, human. There is little room for pretense here.”
The elf’s voice was high and light, like most of his kind, but Durgoth could hear the menacing tones beneath it. They would probably have very little chance of talking their way out of this one.
“The forest has been uneasy for several weeks,” the elf continued, “and we have searched since then for the cause of its unrest.” He motioned with his other hand and two figures robed in white moved silently from the thick underbrush that hung closely on either side of the trade road. They flowed out of the underbrush as though emerging from water. Druids, most likely, Durgoth thought as he caught sight of the silver-white hair that fell unbound from their heads. Each carried a wooden staff tipped with a circle of holly leaf and berries. Silver scythes hung from their belt.
“The spirit of the forest recoils from every tread of your wagons,” one of the druids said. His voice, though soft as the spring wind that had followed their caravan through the Rieuwood, carried clearly to Durgoth.
“Whatever unnatural force you carry through our homeland,” the second druid said, “you will not be permitted to travel any farther. The spirit of this place and the will of Ehlonna bid you to begone.”
Durgoth crept closer, keeping himself out of sight of the elves. Silently, he prayed that the cultist he had placed in charge of the caravan would hold together just a few more moments—at least until he knew that Eltanel and Sydra were ready for an attack.
The leader of the patrol stepped forward once more. “You are instructed to turn your wagons and follow the trade road back the way you came. We will escort you to the borders of the Rieuwood. If you make no trouble and harm no living thing on this journey, we will allow you to live. Break this law, and we will kill you and drag your corpses out of the forest so that your taint will not trouble our homes. Is this understood?”