Into Forbidden Lands

Noon of the next day, the sixteenth of Lastharvest, found the group tramping through the tall grass, surrounded by the gnarled trunks of the giants of the Heartwood.

The Wood was steeped in a presence so otherworldly that no one spoke.

They reached a glade and were met by a single Woedim holding up a stone bowl like an offering.

Hocri turned to face them.

“To commune with the Soultrees you must drink this potion, derived from the leaves and vines of the Heartwood. One sip will suffice, best you not take more.”

The Woedim proffered the bowl and all, including the Shakim, Kassargan and the Riders, partook of it.

When it came to Illiom, she hesitated. The expressions of those who had gone before her showed that this was not a pleasant experience. She sighed resignedly and took the bowl that Tarmel held out for her.

It was worse than she had anticipated. Unpleasantly bitter, she gagged, then swallowed, and passed it to Sereth who took the bowl with a look of eager anticipation.

“Something is really wrong with you, you know that?” Malco said, shaking his head.

And that was the last thing Illiom heard for a long while.

The transition was instantaneous. One moment she was standing in the glade with her companions, and in the next she was completely alone. She felt the warmth of Tarmel’s hand clasping hers, and soon that too was gone.

Only the trees remained.

All the trees around the glade’s perimeter bowed inwards, almost as though they were paying her homage. The sky, blue a moment earlier, became a shimmering turquoise of infinite depth.

Illiom gazed around in wonder. She felt like a child, looking at everything fearlessly, with no judgement or thought. It was as though her mind had vanished and all she could do was imbibe everything with her senses alone.

The landscape had not changed and yet it appeared utterly different.

The trees were looking at her.

Every leaf, every flower petal, and every blade of grass was endowed with an eye that turned to observe Illiom with curiosity.

One tree in particular, a giant amongst giants, drew her attention. Without appearing to move it came closer, until she found herself standing at the base of its gigantic trunk. A vertical fissure appeared and through that narrow opening a light shimmered.

Illiom stepped towards it and the fissure widened in response, its light shimmering brighter. Another step and she entered that light.

Illiom felt the tree’s generous girth and soaring reach as though it was her own. She became aware of the myriad creatures that had made her body their home. She felt her tender leaves basking in the sunlight, and her roots reaching deep into the earth’s loam. Down past soil and stones her searching tendrils went, and here she reeled. Now her senses were not merely limited to this single tree, for she merged with the root system of all the Soultrees.

She continued to expand in an explosion of awareness that reached into the vastness of the entire Werewood. She experienced the Wood’s connection to the Woedim.

Illiom became inseparable from the Wood.

She had become the Werewood.

Simultaneously she recalled what had happened in the ruins of Akta, when an ancient power had drawn her back in time to a place that was no more. She remembered the volcanic caverns of the Awakened Firebrand. She recollected the ease with which she had deflected the Virupa warrior’s deadly attacks. She also remembered her experience in the Underearth Cavern, of becoming the land and skies and water. Finally, she recalled her staggering encounter with Sudra, her beloved Goddess, and only yesterday, her spontaneous merging with Malco.

This becoming one with the Werewood reminded her of all those other times, and yet was entirely unique in its own way.

Reaching out with her awareness, Illiom sought Tarmel. Her Rider was deeply immersed in his own experience and Illiom enfolded him, revelling in the opportunity to meld with her beloved. What a precious boon that he too could be a part of this!

The awareness of the Wood was beyond language, its knowing beyond mind. The Wood did not speak or sing, yet a resonance rippled through it. It was one of intimate familiarity, of recognition and guidance.

The Werewood knew them.

Every cell in her body quivered with its awareness. The purpose and the destination of the Chosen were now known to the ancient forest and, alongside this knowing, still another awareness arose, firm and irrevocable.

The Werewood would not hinder them.

It would not claim them, as it had the Elleyadim. They were free to leave whenever they wished. Yet something more than complete freedom was simultaneously being counselled.

Rest. Replenish. Restore. Wait.

The last was puzzling.

Wait, the Wood said, without words or explanation.

Yet when her curiosity arose, the Wood responded.

Illiom was filled with the experience of a tree that had flowered prematurely. Her tender leaves and flowering buds shrivelled and died in the grip of winter’s icy embrace. She, who had once fed and nurtured so many, was now unable to bear fruit.

Next she experienced herself dropping her seeds too early, long before the rains came. Her fallen seeds baked in the hot summer sun and the forest creatures ate any that survived the blistering heat, and none were left to propagate.

The message was unequivocal: haste brings disaster. Timing was of paramount importance, and the season must be correct before any action can bear fruit.

This message could not have been conveyed any more clearly in words. The time for their departure would eventually come and Illiom knew that a path would open for them when the timing was right.

Rest. Replenish. Restore. Wait.

When their communion with the Soultrees ended, the party was left in an exhilarated daze which was quickly followed by an unshakable torpor as the effects of the potion wore off.

Illiom was vaguely aware of being lifted, the smell of green so powerful she knew it could only be a Woedim who bore her. Too tired to remain awake, she surrendered to the pull of unconsciousness, knowing that she was safe in the arms of the Wood.

She was startled awake, the echo of an explosion still ringing in her ears. Disoriented, she tried to get her bearings.

The dim light that filtered through a single opening revealed a small enclosure with a ceiling so low it was impossible to stand upright.

She could make out nothing of the world outside.

A brilliant flash accompanied a second retort, and was followed by the rumble of distant thunder.

The flash of lightning showed that she was resting on a bed of thick moss and that the walls around her were of solid, living wood.

Illiom crawled towards the entrance, but, before she could reach it, a Woedim stepped forward, barring her way.

Illiom stopped, unalarmed. She felt no fear of the forest folk, just curiosity. Looking at what lay beyond the entrance, she saw that the Woedim had prevented her from falling to the valley floor far below. The vibrant expanse of the Heartwood Lake was just visible through the tangle of leaves and past the steady downpour of rain.

The Woedim stood on a sturdy branch that served as a path to her sleeping hollow and Illiom realised that it was there to assist her descent. She surrendered to its embrace and a moment later it bore her down into the void.

She was reminded of the time when the two Shimina warriors had borne her to their village, but any such parallels were soon forgotten. The strength and flexibility of the Woedim was without equal. It leapt across seemingly impossible distances and held her so carefully that she felt no jarring at all. Soon they reached the ground and, when it released her, she teetered for a few moments before finding her balance.

Tarmel approached her, eyes still gleaming from his own experience, and together they headed to where the Elleyadim had laid out some forest fare in celebration of the Soultrees’ acceptance of the humans.

There was no discussion about this new delay in departure. All had shared the same experience and there was no dissent.

Argolan was the hardest pressed by the wait. Although she relished the forest and its gifts, it was clear that she was impatient to get on with their quest, and each dawn she would turn anxious eyes towards the east, to Albradan and Kuon.

“I feel like a traitor, standing here, doing nothing,” she confessed to Illiom one day. “And Kassargan has refused to scry since our experience of the Wood. I cannot say that I really blame her, for every time she scried, it brought only gloom, but this not knowing … it is undoing me, Illiom.”

The Chosen frowned, perplexed by the news.

“Why will she not scry?”

“Ah, because, according to her, it undermines our focus. She says that what is happening in Theregon has nothing to do with what we must do here; that we must not act out of fear or desperation. She says many things, Illiom, and all of them are true. But this waiting…”

Argolan shook her head and Illiom felt the worry that was consuming the Shieldarm. Secretly, she agreed with Kassargan. Scrying only fed their fear and the frustration they felt at their impotence to intervene and aid.

“The last time she scried,” Argolan continued, “the whole of Varadon’s Keep, outside of the Palace and the walled section of Old Kuon, was swarming with the enemy’s creatures. Vardail still lived and rallied his forces daily against them, but the great majority of the people were forced to live in the caves. How long can they endure there in darkness? We do not even know what is happening in the rest of Theregon.”

Illiom nodded in sympathy, for deep in her heart she too felt pangs of guilt at their inaction.

“And yet the forest…”

The Shieldarm stopped her with an impatient wave of a hand.

“I know what the Wood showed us! I took the same draught as you!”

She took a deep steadying breath before continuing more evenly.

“But it does not help. We are here, but they are there. I wish that I had never left. I wish I had stayed behind to fight and, if need be, die in Kuon, fighting alongside the Prince and the rest of the Ward.”

Illiom found nothing helpful to say in response, but the exchange planted a seed, a need to do something useful, to do something more than merely wait. She knew that there was nothing at all she could do for Vardail or for Theregon, but there was something that she could turn her focus to. The secrets that lay on the path ahead had their roots in the past, and right here, in this Werewood, they might be able to access some relevant information.

That evening, after their meal, Illiom sought out Hocri and found him in the midst of a group of Elleyadim youth. He acknowledged her presence with a nod, which gave her the opening she sought.

“Hocri, you have told us the tale of Elleya’s arrival in the Werewood, but you also mentioned some happenings that preceded that time. If you know any tales that speak of those events in more detail, would you be willing to share them with us?”

The old man’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes, of course, I will be glad to tell you what I know.”

The rumour that another tale of Elleya was about to begin rippled through the camp, drawing Chosen and Elleyadim alike. The young ones were quick to form a tight circle around the old man, their eyes bright with anticipation.

Hocri cleared his throat.

“I have been asked to speak of the time before our ancestors came to the Wood, so that is what I shall speak of tonight.”

His gaze fixed on the fire, as though he could see the stories in its flames.

“Elleya was the daughter of King Maldevias of Sterren Gar, the greatest kingdom that Âtras has ever seen. The princess was born in a time of innovation and prosperity. Advances in many fields signalled the advent of a new age of wonders, but none were as momentous and magnificent as the achievements of the League of Wizards. This League was still young, having come into legitimacy a mere hundred years earlier, when an ancient rift between the powers of governance and those that presided over magic had finally been laid aside. Yet, despite its youth, the League’s accomplishments were nothing short of staggering.”

Hocri drew his gaze away from the fire to slowly sweep across his audience.

“When Elleya was just ten, the League gifted to her father a great ship that floated on the wind with sails of gold; most of the population of Sterecklahomn emerged to see it embark on its maiden voyage. Its passage over the streets of the capital caused astonishment and awe. This extraordinary achievement was followed within a few years by the first appearance of chariots capable of moving without horses. The new chariots became avidly sought after by the nobility and anyone else with the means to pay for them.”

Hocri allowed a smile to pre-empt what he was going to say next.

“In truth, most of the wonders produced by the League were created exclusively for the wealthy. However, the League quelled any potential discontent among the masses with inventions that were beneficial to all. When enchanted lights began to line the streets of the capital, the light they cast fell upon rich and poor alike. When ephemeral orbs capable of lifting heavy loads appeared, their most evident benefit was to ease the toil of labourers. Thus the repute of the League spread and grew as everyone’s lives, be they noble or commoner, were enriched.”

Hocri paused and tilted his head to one side, musing.

“As the people became more comfortable and dependent upon the products of magic, the wizards began to work on their most ambitious project.”

“But I run ahead of myself. Before I speak of this project, I must tell you a few things about Mount Igol. This was not merely the highest peak of the Fathanga Range – the range that formed the central spine of Sterren Gar – it was the highest of all mountains; the mightiest peak in the whole of Âtras. Mount Igol was revered by the people of Sterren Gar as it was known to carry the power of the Gods at its core. The Priesthood maintained that the Mount’s power could heal troubled souls, liberating the true adherent from fear, misery and despair.”

After a lengthy silence, Hocri continued in a voice that was soft and distant, his rapt audience shuffling closer to capture his every word.

“For it was believed that in ancient times, when Gods and Demons alike still walked upon the face of Âtras, a Goddess had placed a great power within Mount Igol. This power was a blessing to the world, to bring betterment to all, and especially to those who sought its beneficial emanations.”

Hocri’s tone changed, and his following words contained a grim warning.

“It is well-known that wizards need and treasure power above all else. It is power that drives their quest for innovation and enables them to shape the world at their whim. At first they seek it within themselves, and then – when they reach their personal limitations – they seek it outside, from their surroundings, and source it from the latent fury locked within the elements themselves. And while power can be a wonderful thing when it serves a noble cause, or when it is used for the benefit of all, it is also true that it will draw upon and amplify any weakness within its wielder.”

The Elleyadim were hanging on the storyteller’s every word. Hocri returned their gaze with fire blazing in his eyes.

“Even wizards are mortal, and subject to the same laws as everyone else. The temptation to tamper with what should remain inviolate, can only lead to one thing…”

Hocri lowered his gaze and slowly shook his head.

“…but again, I leap ahead too quickly. Suffice it to say that the League craved the power that slumbered in the heart of Mount Igol. With it, they knew their own power would be multiplied a thousandfold, until they would become like Gods themselves – immortal, omniscient, omnipotent and eternal. So they conceived a plan that would enable them to seize what they desired. The wizards intended to build a mighty College-Keep at the very peak of Mount Igol. They would name it Igollianath, which means ‘The Crowning Glory of Mount Igol’.”

Hocri allowed a short silence to follow.

“Naturally they expected some resistance but they were crafty, choosing the right time to reveal their great plan. By the time their purpose became known, the whole of Sterren Gar was in awe of their achievements and hungered for more. From the new College-Keep of Igollianath – the wizards argued – they would be able to tap into the greatest of all powers. Imagine what they could achieve then! And so they contaminated the entire population with their own lust. Just imagine, they cried, and the people’s eyes were filled with illusions of riches.”

Illiom looked at her companions and saw her own realisation mirrored upon their faces. This was Sudra’s Orb that was being spoken of. She turned back to Hocri as his tale continued to unfold.

“The Priesthood of the Mount raised the loudest outcry, deeming the project a desecration that would bring the wrath of the Deity down upon the Kingdom. Nevertheless, the Priesthood was unable to muster enough influence to ban the construction. The hunger for power was by now deeply rooted, and the promise of the material benefits to be derived from magic was considered far too valuable to give up just because of a few superstitious clerics. So the Priesthood’s cries fell upon deaf ears and the construction began.”

“It took seven years to build the College-Keep, and more than one thousand workers lost their lives during that time. Regrettable as this was, it was largely considered a small price to pay for the advances that would undoubtedly follow. The day of the College’s official opening grew closer, and it was at this time that Elleya’s father instructed her to travel to one of the eastern provinces. Elleya was terribly disappointed because, like everyone else, she wanted to witness first-hand the greatest event in living history. She was slightly mollified when she realised that the peak of Mount Igol would still be visible, even from that distant land.”

“Elleya, together with an entourage of dignitaries, guards and retainers, journeyed to the province as she was bade, ensuring she would be there in time to witness what she could of the grand opening of Igollianath.”

“On that celebrated evening Elleya, her hosts and companions, made their way to the top of the highest tower of the palace in eager anticipation of the spectacular display of fireworks they were assured would be visible to them. The day had been especially chosen to mark the momentous occasion, as a great eclipse of sun and moons had been forecast.

“It was an hour before sunset and already the world was darkening, the bright moon positioning itself before the sun and the dark moon poised to eclipse both. A red star glowed fiercely in the darkening sky, bathing the whole world in preternatural fire. Precisely on time a magnificent light, much brighter than any of the stars, blossomed over the peak of Mount Igol, expanding outwards until it extended even beyond the province where the princess stood transfixed. The sky overhead pulsed with fire, and from high above a thousand luminous spheres began to drift slowly down towards the earth. As these descended, the pinnacle of the mountain continued to pulse, changing from icy blues to explosive reds and sunlight golds.”

“Suddenly, a blinding light exploded from the pinnacle, and the ground beneath their feet began to quake and buckle.”

At a gesture from Hocri, a young boy rushed over to offer him a skin of water. The old man took a long, slow draught, while his spellbound audience waited in complete silence.

“People cried out in terror. Elleya urged her people to flee, descending as quickly as possible to the palace gardens. The earth heaved so violently that they struggled to remain standing. As light continued to flare threateningly across the western sky, Elleya knew that something disastrous had befallen Igollianath. Looking up, she saw that the spheres had become opaque and were only visible because they reflected the explosions of the Mount. With dread in her heart, she saw a dark writhing form within each descending sphere.”

“As soon as the tremors ceased she rallied her people, directing them to fetch their gear and the horses from the stables and prepare to leave immediately. They responded to the urgency in her voice and within a short time, they were mounted and ready to go.”

“The princess steered her people away from the descending spheres which, as they hit the ground, burst open, spewing an inextinguishable green fire that consumed anything in its path. From within each fire a monstrosity emerged, viciously attacking those fleeing, ripping at them with fangs and talons, filling the air with screams of terror and agony.”

“Elleya’s group fled under cover of darkness, taking care to avoid the places where the green fires raged. An ominous rumble rolled in from the west and grew so loud that it dominated everything, inciting further panic and chaos.”

“The princess and her people pressed on right through the night until the sun finally crested the horizon. With the return of daylight, they reached the crest of a hill and were finally able to see the cause of the terrible noise.”

Hocri eyed his audience wearily, as if he too had been on that devastating journey.

“All the lands to the west were gone and all that remained was a vast, churning sea. Gone was the entire Fathanga Range. Gone was the great peak of Mount Igol. It was as though the mountains had melted, to become the water that now drowned all the western lands. In that moment Elleya knew that Sterren Gar now lay beneath those waves and that her father and his Kingdom were no more.”

“Elleya and her people were stricken with shock and grief as they began to grasp the magnitude of the calamity that had befallen them. All had families: husbands, wives, and children who were now lost to them.”

The old storyteller nodded sadly.

“Elleya swallowed her own sorrow, knowing that she was all that her people had left, and she was determined to lead them to safety. She urged her people on, skirting for a time the shores of this newly-born sea. Her first impulse had been to make for her uncle’s palace, but that was over a hundred leagues to the south. As she gazed down the coastline she saw many monsters, feasting on the bodies that had begun to wash up along the shore. The waters were crimson with blood. Elleya turned away from the sea and forged an inland path travelling directly east, away from Sterren Gar, away from the home she had known.”

“In the first few days of travel they stumbled upon others who, like them, were also fleeing. Several, recognising in Elleya’s group a modicum of order and stability, asked to join them and the princess welcomed them all. Elleya’s group swelled in number as she led our ancestors into the sanctuary of the Werewood.”

“No mention of Adepts,” mused Sereth later that night. Hocri had retired earlier, and the Chosen had gathered together for a while.

“Nor of Bloodrobes,” Elan remarked.

Azulya made an impatient sound.

“But we have just received the answers to several other questions.”

Malco nodded, his expression serious.

“We now know what Igollianath is, and the difference between our maps makes sense at last.”

“Yes, the creation of the Onceland Sea was very informative.” Azulya rubbed her palms together as she spoke. “One thing that remains unexplained is what went wrong on that opening day.”

“And we still have no idea where Sudra’s Orb might be,” Illiom said, shaking her head.

“Oh, but we do!” Elan exclaimed. “Hocri’s account corresponds with what is to be found in the Eighth Fragment, that Sudra placed the Orb within the stone fortress of the highest mountain of Âtras. That, we now know, is Mount Igol.”

“But according to Hocri, the mountain is no more,” Scald said with a worried look.

Elan nodded, but a smile touched her lips and her eyes shone.

“Ah, but is it gone? Because the map we gained at Stonecress shows some small islands where the mountains once stood. Mount Igol may well have become Igol Isle.” Her smile widened. “We look for Igollianath and we will find Sudra’s Orb somewhere beneath it.”

They looked at each other and spoke no more that night.

Their destination was clear at last; all they had to do now was wait for the time to become ripe.