The Knife's Edge

Chapter Seventeen

Strange Paths

Gray watched the bright woods as if it were a cutpurse or murderer. In the distance, he heard the gurgle of the Silvas River, often called the Sil, reassuring him of his path. Something glinted ahead.

As he turned the bend, he saw a moss-covered stone spiraling heavenward. Could it be? He wondered, remembering the stories of the watchtowers of old.

Mura had told him of ancient towers that were placed all over Daerval in order to watch, night and day, for The Return. The idea of an ancient watchtower made his heart quicken. A time not long after the Ronin walked the earth, he thought. It was followed by the fearful question. And do they again?

Gray stone jutted from the earth, touching the forest’s high canopy. Moss, roots, and tanglevines covered its surface.

He neared in wonder. Throwing off his pack, he grabbed hold of the nearest tanglevine, tearing it from the statue’s face. He worked quickly and soon enough, he pried the last gnarled vine from the stone. He wiped his damp brow and took a step back.

Five spires shot from the ground. Each were approximately the same size, except for the fifth one, which was shorter and stouter. He made out the wrinkled grooves at the knuckles and the slender curvature of veins as thick as his own forearm.

“A hand the size of a giant,” he whispered in astonishment.

His tired legs wobbled beneath him, and he decided this was as good a place as any to stop. After a quick lunch beneath the shade of the hand, he continued. He left the statue, eyeing the relic one last time as he turned the bend. Gray halted. Straight ahead, the woods forked into two paths. Nothing he remembered from Mura’s tales mentioned the road splitting.

Reaching the split, he slowed. The familiar sound of the Sil was gone. Running back, he searched for the statue, but it was nowhere, as if the woods had shifted, and panic roiled through him.

He was lost.

Overhead, thunder cracked, promising a storm to shake the land.

** *

Rain came in sheets, cleaving the canopy, and falling on Gray’s makeshift shelter.

He had made camp beneath a marmon tree. Mura always called marmons the safe haven for the wayward traveler, for the hollow trunk and awning-like branches was a perfect shelter.

Cold and hungry, he pulled flint from his pack and sparked it against a stone, but with no luck. He eyed his sword at his side. The blade glinted through the cloth bundle. Curious, he grabbed it and struck the flint against the flat of the sword. Sparks flew, lighting the tinder. He laughed in success and saw the blade had not even a scratch.

Gnawing on a hunk of bread, Gray eyed the two trails, waiting to be chosen. He looked away, stoking the fire with a stick. He knew he should sleep, but he wasn’t tired. Instead, the fire of purpose burned in his gut. At last, he walked into the downpour to stand before the two trails. One path was shrouded in cobwebs, the other paved with green moss.

“Often what is darkest, is that which pretends to be light,” he quoted, remembering the words from the one of the tales of the Ronin. Mura told him people from beyond the forest said the Lost Woods were alive; that it had a mind of its own. But the woods had never betrayed him before.

The pendant grew warm. He pulled it from his shirt and it glowed silver. Curious, he stepped forward, lighting both paths in a silver tint. Rain soaked his hair and skin. He closed his eyes and held the pendant before him, following a strange instinct.

When he opened his eyes the pendant’s leather thong was parallel to the ground, as if pulled by a fierce wind towards the darker path. In wonder, he took a step toward the cobwebbed trail. The pendant pulsed as if in agreement. With a laugh of triumph, he snuffed his campfire, strapped on his sword and pack, and then plunged into the waiting trail.

Darkness enveloped him. What he could see, he almost wished he couldn’t. Enormous webs hung from tree to tree, blending with the mist, from which spiders clung, each bigger than his fist. They scuttled as he passed, but he continued. At last, shreds of light pierced the darkness and he realized that night had turned to morning.

The day wore on, the light faded again. With the return of night, the spiders crawled from the trees, watching him with red eyes. Twice, a thick web blocked his path and he pulled his blade free, cutting it down. Once, a spider fell upon his shoulder and he knocked it free, running until his legs burned; but still he jumped when a branch brushed his shoulder. He distracted himself by cutting a notch on his leather belt, marking the passing days. Two days, he counted now, starting from the day he fell from the cliff. He had to keep track of time. Five days until the spells wears off, he reminded himself. Which means, I only have three more to make it out of the woods. He marched through mist, web, and vine. As he walked, his wound itched fiercely. He wanted to check it. It’s healing, something told him, and he trusted it.

Gray moved as if he could see Lakewood around the bend. Only when his legs could move no more, he stopped; but only to kindle quick fires for a few short hours of sleep. In the light of the small fire, he nibbled on a small hunk of cheese, or sliver of dried meat; but his rations dwindled quickly, and each time his gut felt more empty than last. Worst of all, he dreaded sleep and the inevitable nightmares.

Always his dreams involved Mura. Most times he was back in the clearing where he had left the hermit. Mura would cry out, and each time Gray would turn and flee. Other times, he would see the misshapen image of Mura’s head on a pike, eyes glazed in horror. Being awake was not much better.

Several times, a strange mist rose from the soil. It was so thick he could barely breathe, and he would scramble off the trail into the underbrush. Sword clutched to his chest, he listened to animal-like howls and cries. At last, exhaustion overtook him, and he slept restlessly until the mist of morning announced the dawn.

Gray awoke from one of those mornings. It was a particularly frightening night with snarls that sounded in his ear. It was still raining and he felt as if his clothes were now permanently attached to his soaked skin. Still groggy, he glanced down. Barely an arms-length away, imprinted in the mud was a head-sized cloven hoof-print. He tensed, peering through the foliage. Overhead, thunder cracked. It shook the woods like the rumble of a giant. He glanced to his leather belt.

Five notches, he realized, today will make the sixth. He was out of time. A shiver traced his spine. What if I’m on the wrong path? What if I’ve wasted all this time? He hadn’t heard a murmur of the Sil either, not once, and that was his only way out. He shook his head and cast the thoughts aside. No, he would trust the pendant.

More thunder roiled above, sounding closer. Gray looked up. Another storm was brewing, and something told him, this would be far worse than all the others. He unsheathed the sword from his back and rose, moving forward.

Into the thickening mist.