Disenchanted (7 page)

“No, no,” said Daman. “It’s like this.” The blacksmith broke into a heartrending wail.

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Boric. “All right, Daman, you’re on sound effects.”

“I what?” asked Daman. “No, I was just demonstrating — ”

“And a fine demonstration it was,” said Boric. “Now you just need to do it for the ogre.” He ushered the two over to the eastern window, the direction he expected the ogre to be coming from. He had Padmos crouch on the ground under the window, so that his bald head was just visible from outside. He stationed Daman next to Padmos, coaching the big man to wail as loudly as he could.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Boric over Daman’s incessant bleating. “Together you two make a formidable infant.” Boric turned to leave.

“Wait!” cried Padmos. “Where are you going?”

“Outside,” said Boric. “I can’t take the racket in here. And it stinks like sour milk.”

SEVEN

Boric drew Brakslaagt and faced the three intruders. The witch gasped and shrank back.

“It is pointless to fight us, brother,” hissed the wraith in front. “You are one of us, Slaagtghast.”

“Back off!” shouted Boric in what he intended to be a growl but ended up sounding distressingly similar to the hiss of the wraith. “I’ll deal with Brand in my own time!”

The wraiths moved closer. “Our lord has summoned you, Slaagtghast. You cannot refuse his call.” Something in the lead wraith’s aspect seemed oddly familiar to Boric.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Boric demanded angrily. “I’m Boric, son of Toric, King of Ytrisk!”

A rustling sound like the raking of leaves arose from the macabre trio. Boric realized they were laughing at him. “We dead cannot be kings,” rasped the leader. “We dead have no fathers. We have only our Master and the brethren of the Brakboorn. You are Slaagtghast, holder of Brakslaagt.”

Boric realized now why the leader seemed familiar. He had faced this man before.

“Corbet?” he gasped.

The leader hissed fiercely. “Corbet is dead!” he shrieked. “I am Vektghast, servant of Lord Brand!” He raised his sword while the other two wraiths moved to flank Boric.

Boric hesitated, unsure what to do. Could the wraiths kill him? That is, release his spirit from his corpse? He doubted it. Probably they would just hack his body to pieces, removing that much more of his humanity. Corbet and the other wraiths seemed to be mostly an assemblage of torn clothes, chainmail, and steel plates; he wasn’t sure there was any flesh left beneath their vaguely insect-like carapaces. Corbet, he knew, had been dead for some seven years. And seven years from now, thought Boric, that will be me.

He let his sword fall to his side. This was not a battle he could win. If neither he nor his opponents could be killed, then this encounter could only end with him fleeing or surrendering. Best to go along with the wraiths until an opportunity to escape presented itself.

“I see you have recognized the futility of resistance,” the wraith that was Corbet said. “It is for the best. I resisted too at first, and lost my head as a result.”

Boric saw that indeed Corbet’s helm appeared to be empty except for two pinpoints of red light. That’s what being headstrong got you apparently. Boric slid Brakslaagt into its scabbard and held out his arms in a gesture of surrender.

As the wraiths converged on him, Boric felt something like a red-hot blade being pressed against his neck. He gasped in pain as a mass of brown goo flew past him, striking the three wraiths square in what remained of their faces. “Gaaahhh!” they cried. “What sorcery is this?”

“Rabbit stew,” said the witch. “Run, Boric!”

Boric darted past the wraiths, who were hissing and screaming at the foul liquid steaming inside their helms. Boric, himself nearly overcome with nausea at the stench, ran outside into the dark and did his best to scrape the remnants of stew off his neck and shoulders. He felt instantly refreshed and invigorated in the cold night air.

He saw three horses tied to trees near the edge of the clearing and ran toward them. The beasts whinnied nervously as he approached; clearly they had no love for the undead. Slicing through their reins with Brakslaagt, he proceeded to slap two of the horses on their hindquarters with the flat of the blade, spooking them to dart into the forest. He leapt onto the third horse and kicked his heels into its sides. “Hyah!”

The three wraiths stumbled out of the witch’s cottage, cursing and hissing. “After him!” shrieked the one who had been Corbet.

The horse darted past the wraiths and onto the trail. It seemed hesitant to reenter the woods, but Boric urged it on mercilessly. As the horse galloped down the trail, Boric spared a glance behind him. The three wraiths were following closely but couldn’t keep pace with the horse and rapidly fell behind. Then, just when Boric was starting to think he was safe, the horse collapsed beneath him, as if one of its front legs had given way. Boric flew over the horse’s head, spinning head over heels, and landed flat on his back some ten paces down the trail.

“Accursed beast!” spat Boric, looking back at the horse. “What do you think you’re…” But then Boric saw that the animal was lying on the ground, shuddering and nuzzling its foreleg, which was bent at an unnatural angle. It had tripped over a root protruding from the ground.

“Idiot!” muttered Boric, this time at himself. The horse hadn’t been able to see the root in the near total darkness of the forest path. He had forgotten that living creatures — even horses — needed light to see. No wonder the poor animal had hesitated.

Boric got up and ran, with the three wraiths not far behind. Even with his preternatural night vision, running down a narrow, ill-maintained trail through the Forest of Twyllic was a hazardous occupation. The ground was uneven and littered with rocks, dead branches, and roots, and he frequently had to dodge low-hanging branches. If he fell or got caught on a branch, the game was up: the wraiths would be upon him. And then…what? They’d haul him in front of Lord Brand, presumably. Boric realized as he thought this that there was nothing he wanted more than to face his tormentor. Maybe the witch was wrong, and that if Boric went to Brand now, while he still possessed his wits, he could strike him down, freeing himself and the other wraiths from his control. Still, it galled him that Brand thought he could send the other wraiths to fetch him as if he were Brand’s property. No, as much as he wanted to face Brand, he would do it on his own terms.

Distracted by his thoughts, Boric suddenly realized he had left the trail. Before he could stop running, he lost his footing and found himself tumbling uncontrollably down a steep embankment, thrashing through shrubs and saplings on the way down. Finally he smacked into the trunk of a tree and came to a stop, dazed. Far above, he heard movement and harsh whispers. Had the other wraiths seen him fall? He remained as still as he could — helped in this endeavor by having neither breath nor a heartbeat — and hoped the wraiths were continuing on the path above. After a moment, the sounds faded into the distance.

Boric got to his feet, carefully moving down the slope. It wouldn’t be long before the wraiths realized their mistake and came back for him. Working his way from shrub to shrub, he eventually made it to the bottom, which was a dry creek bed about fifty feet across. It was overrun by trees and bushes, but it looked to be traversable with some effort. Considering his options for a moment — left would take him roughly north, toward the witch’s cottage, and right would take him farther south, the direction he had been going — he decided to continue south. This was the direction the wraiths would expect him to take, but he didn’t dare head back into Ytriskian territory. He was too likely to be recognized by his fellow countrymen, who harbored a long-standing superstition regarding walking corpses. Anywhere else, he might pass as a wounded soldier wrapped in bandages — as long as he wasn’t inspected too closely.

He trudged along the creek bed for several hours, using Brakslaagt as a machete to hack through the brush. When he came to a more gently sloping section of the ravine, he climbed back up and found his way to the path. Stopping for a moment to listen, he heard no sounds in either direction other than the hooting of owls and rustling of the wind through the trees. There was no way to know whether the wraiths were ahead of him or behind him, or what direction they were going — or whether they had split up to cover more ground. His best bet was to continue southward and keep an eye out for them.

He trudged glumly through the forest all night and the next day. In most places the forest provided enough cover that the sunlight wasn’t overly bothersome, but occasionally he had to hack through the underbrush to avoid patches of full daylight. Eventually the sun set again, and Boric kept moving roughly south. In the midafternoon of the third day since he entered the forest, he came to the southern edge, where the trees gave way to the sandy hills to the northeast of the Kingdom of Skaal. This land was largely unpopulated, being too uneven and infertile to be used as cropland and too distant from trading routes to sustain a settlement. The only people Boric would run into here would be bandits and other unsavory folk — not that Boric the wraith had any reason to fear such people. His primary fear remained the merciless sunlight that assaulted the scrubby hillsides.

Boric found a fallen tree some distance from the trail, a hundred yards or so from where the trees began to thin. Being incapable of sleep, he would have to wait here until dark. Up till now Boric had given little thought to his next move; he was concerned mainly with putting as much distance as possible between him and the other wraiths. The trail had forked several times and each time Boric had stayed to the left, working his way farther from the Kingdom of Ytrisk. He supposed that the wraiths, if they were trying to anticipate his moves, would assume that he would stay close to more familiar and hospitable lands. But as much as Boric wished to retain his humanity, he had accepted that the comfort of the familiar was a dangerous temptation and that what was once hospitable was now hostile. To survive, he had to think like a wraith. His allies now were darkness, cold, and solitude.

But allies to what end? How would he ever address Brand’s claim on him if he remained hiding out in the wilderness, slowly becoming an ever-paler copy of the once renowned King Boric? Isolation from human society would only accelerate the process of him devolving into a baleful creature of darkness. Was that really what the witch was suggesting? That he should intentionally become a monster? Or could he somehow come to terms with his wraithness without becoming an abomination? It seemed impossible. The very existence of the undead was a violation of the natural order of things.

When the sun had once again set, he continued southward, eventually coming to the great east-west road that connected Avaress with the western kingdoms. He now had a choice to make: he could turn west and head toward Skaal — this had the advantage of being the least expected course of action, but the disadvantage of being suicidal: the only thing hated more in Skaal than a Ytriskian king was an undead Ytriskian king. To the east lay Avaressa, the capital of Avaress and once-center of the Old Realm. He’d be less likely to be recognized in Avaressa, and the Avaressian merchants might know something about the machinations of the mysterious Brand. It would be difficult to inquire of anyone directly, but perhaps he could hide in the corner of a tavern and overhear some talk. If Brand really were planning a new empire, then surely there would be some rumors flying around in the taverns of Avaressa. Boric turned east.

It had been many years since Boric had traveled this way, and he had only a vague recollection of the geography of the area. In particular, he couldn’t recall whether there were any dense woods or caves nearby. The last time he had been down this road he hadn’t been particularly concerned with identifying places where a wraith could safely wait out the daylight. He grew more anxious as the night wore on and the landscape remained hilly but otherwise featureless. The sparse, scrubby trees would provide no shade.

Less than an hour before dawn he came upon a barely perceptible path leading southward. In fact, even when he stood and studied the ground, Boric couldn’t be entirely certain that it
was
a path. There was nothing particularly path-like that he could point to; there were no markers of any kind and although the ground was flat and the grass was sparse, there was no perceivable linear shape to it. What he experienced was more of a vague intuition that living creatures occasionally passed here. Did he now possess a heightened sensitivity to life just as he had for sunlight? Whatever it was, he was virtually certain that he could have walked past this place a hundred times in full daylight as a mortal man and noticed nothing whatsoever.

If it was a path, he thought, then perhaps it led to some forgotten settlement, a town that had been abandoned after the fall of the Old Realm. That meant the possibility of finding a structure in which he could hide. As there was nothing remotely promising in any other direction, he made his way south, following his sense of the path as best he could.

EIGHT

As serious as his situation was, Boric found it difficult not to laugh at the sight of Padmos’s bald pate reflecting the bluish moonlight through the window of the old burned-out house. The uncanny infantile wails of Daman the blacksmith emitting from somewhere inside didn’t help his composure either.

Boric was perched uncomfortably on a bough of a nearby oak tree, about twelve feet up and a hundred feet downwind from the miller’s house. As long as the ogre didn’t approach from behind him, he had a good chance of remaining unnoticed while the ogre was distracted by the bait. And if the ogre did approach from behind? Well, ogres weren’t known for their tree-climbing abilities, were they? Boric wracked his memory, trying to recall a story in which an ogre climbed a tree. He came up with nothing, but then neither could he recall a story in which an ogre had been drawn into the open by a bald merchant doused with sour milk and a mewling blacksmith. Sometimes stories weren’t much help.