The Halfling

Chapter 9

The boiling summer day flew, and was replaced by another morn. The boy woke at dawn, Amos tapping him on the head.

"It is time to leave," said he, handing the boy his staff.

The boy's right shoulder felt icy, and the whole of his limb he could not move. He held it in distress

"Do not fear," Amos said. "The poison has almost been counteracted. You need only give it time. But sadly, we cannot rest even for a single moment. We are surrounded by indomitable forces attempting to drown us. And yet we must struggle and writhe."

The boy looked at the staff. He shivered. He looked as if he'd throw it away as soon as he touched it. "I wish I had not been chosen. I wish I had not been a sorcerer before."

Amos looked at him kindly, smiling as if to mock him. "Even if you weren't a sorcerer, so long as Fate wishes it, there would have been a way for you to travel East and reclaim the Kingdom. Duty takes us where it wills, whoever we are. We are gripped by it. The world stands only because we fulfill our duty. When even one of us falls, receding into his own murky path, all is broken down." He offered the staff. "Your work is needed."

"I wish it weren't," said the boy, standing up. Hesitantly, he took it.

They left the cave and hiked the rough grooves, towards Midras Peak. By the base, much noise rang throughout the mountains. Around them flies droned, humming incoherent songs. Here and there sprang grass licked with dew, softening under their boots.

But when they walked the waist of the peak, they were met with nothing but lifeless stones jutting out of grainy faces. No tiny critters rustled; no songbirds twittered songs about lovely spring days; none of the greenery whispered below them—only the harsh, exasperated snap of their feet on the granite ground.

They worried much about the boy. Among them, he seemed to be the one suffering the most. Now and then his face would crease in pain, his breath would heavy, and his head would droop. However, they did not have much time. Had they been given a month to mount the Peak, they might have rested. Unfortunately, time was not at their side.

"You think," Theresa asked, swallowing, "the spiders are at our heels?"

"I fear so," said Amos. He glanced at the boy. He was worried that the burden would be too much for him. But he was already snoring.

Masses of rocks and boulders stood gatekeepers and ridders, warning them from entrancing into the place or just swaggering about near them. Some of the rock features appeared to be figures that held up hands and bade them return. But they continued; they walked and they walked.

Rain now picked up, smelling of the coming summer. They rested inside a small recess by the mountain side. The firelight wisped alive, tinging the walls with elongated shadows whirling about as if prancing.

As this mountain path faced West, they saw the cone shapes of the Whitehead Mountains, piles of dirty snow atop them. Clouds, gray and white, swirled around these tops, morphing into goblin-like shapes. And just below the giants, the plains began, licked with woods and canopies where nightbirds nestled inside, and made their thorny homes.

When they awoke the next morning, the sky remained gray as burnt ash, the sun hidden by the whirlpooling clouds. They trekked then, keeping in single file as the mountain path had narrowed to such a size that one would easily fall from it if he were not careful.

Had they climbed this at any other point in their lives, they might have looked at it with a certain awe, glorifying and admiring the tinge of ochre here and the deep blue cast by fading sunlight there. But all their hardships had dulled them to admiration—and the rain had dulled any exaltation.