Tiernan had been given one of the cardinals. Of the four cardinal points of the compass, he’d been charged with watching for enemies coming from their northern flank. Since the group was moving south down the forest road, Tiernan was given the unenviable charge to watch the backwoods from behind. This meant he had to either walk backward or constantly turn or look over his shoulder—a bit disorienting if trying to keep up. At best, all he could do would be to provide a warning as the others with weapons responded to it. O’Brian had said this was important. He wasn’t sure how much he trusted O’Brian, but he’d sounded convincing. “The things that hunt us will most likely come at us from behind,” O’Brian had said. “Tiernan, since you seem to be a bit taller than the others, I’m giving you the north flank to watch. Close your eyes, adjust for the lack of light. Then look and listen. The satyrs are fast and cunning. Dangerous. You won’t hear their footfalls, only the swishes of parting brush as they move through it. They move like deer. Weaving and darting through the narrow gaps, faster than you can imagine. It is pointless to try and outrun them so we will have to stand them off. The fires are behind us, so that may deter them from coming straight down on us, but they will angle around if they can. They are attracted to the fires, but they will not go far into them. Hair burns easily, and these are shaggy and unkempt. Enough of them have caught fire cavorting about to learn caution and the smoke disorients them. They snuffle and grunt when they run, so if they are close you’ll hear it.”
When they had seen the silhouette of The Pan, O’Brian had told them to stay back and stay silent. He’d spoken to Begglar and placed him in the lead, and then moved ahead disappearing into the haze of smoke crossing over the road. And that was the last they had seen of O’Brian, for nearly an hour by his reckoning.
He’d searched the woods carefully, seeing moving shadows under the sighing of the trees, but nothing exactly as O’Brian had described. He’d heard phantom sounds, from the left northwesterly direction and the right northeastern edge of the Trathorn but the sounds could easily be mistaken for water noise from the continuance of the river moving southward over rocky rapids down the mountain slopes. The smells were mixed with the pungent and sickly-sweet odors of the rotting flesh dangling overhead from the high branches of the towering trees. He dared not think about the relative freshness of the grisly ornaments that they still were wet enough to give off such pungency. It was threatening and disturbing, almost plunging him back into the nightmare he’d lived through back in the Surface World. He felt naked without a weapon, but strangely calm, despite it. He too had a sense of the uncanny power in the Ancient Texts. When spoken aloud the words seemed to vibrate within the air of this strange place. Timeless voices that seemed to return to him from days raised in a community of faith before the war called him away.
And then the noises came.
Something moving quickly with a pattering sound as forest plants parted in leafy slaps of the body that disturbed their hush. Another noise to the left, accompanied by a quick splash of water and rapid muffled thumps.
A breathy “Henuh, henuh, henuh!” sound came from the northwesterly movements, and Tiernan responded.
“Guys!” his voice rose in pitch as the noises grew louder, “I think one or two are moving in behind us.”
“Got it, keep your voice down,” Christie responded, raising her ornate sword to guard position as Ezra had shone her.
Mason notched an arrow and swung his bow around, “I’ll cover you. O’Brian said they have knives and clubs. If I can get a clean shot, I’ll drop him. Tiernan, where did you last see it?”
“It moved from the left from deeper back to that mossy stone outcropping,” he whispered low enough so that the ears in the forest beyond wouldn’t hear.
The light filtering from the canopy above dappled them in grey leafy shadows. Mason closed his eyes for a moment, adjusting them to the light of the gloom beyond. Christie was miffed a little.
“What’s wrong boys,” she muttered, “Don’t think a girl can handle this?”
“It’s not that, Lass,” Begglar spoke up, “It’s that you bear a short-range weapon. If we can keep them at a distance, we need to. Save your strength for when they move in. You’ll get your fill.”
“Shouldn’t we save the arrows,” Christie asked, and she inclined her head to Mason, who had opened his eyes, was staring intently at the spot Tiernan had indicated while pulling the bow back with the point of the arrow closing in on his knuckled grip. “Suppose he misses.”
Mason’s eyes squinted, and his voice lowered an octave, piqued, “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
Matt spoke up, “Mason’s a bowhunter. He hates tromping through the brush after a lost arrow. Don’t worry, Miss. He’ll wait till he gets a clean shot.”
Mason’s scowl softened a bit, hearing this from Matt.
“Back home we call him the red man,” Matt added. Gesturing upward at the top of his red hair.
The scowl on Mason’s face returned, even as the impish grin spread across Matt’s as he winked at Christie.
Christie smiled, and reached over patting Mason’s shoulder, “You’ve got this, kiddo.”
Matt added, “Just kiddin’ you, Mace. Put a feather in the nasty goat-man. Wish I had those pick-axes.”
***
Back in Azragoth, Morgrath and his soldiers looked startled when a soldier asked, “Where have all the cats gone?”
Of course, Morgrath realized. The room at the top of the Keep towers had several cats that would often rally and intertwine the feet of visitors to the upper tower room upon entry from the tower stairwell. The cats were kept there to keep mice and rats from infesting the grain silos. Naturally, the rodents were attracted to the silos because of the grain. They could scale the wall of the keep, ascend the stairs, climb up from the tunnels below, scurry along the rafters, wedge themselves through the loose mortar between the stones, enter through the narrow window slits in the towers and gatehouses. They would have been a terrible scourge were it not for the cats and the birds of prey nesting in the nooks and crannies and battlements atop the towers of the Keep.
Now their sudden absence caused an even greater unsettling of mind and a more heightened sense of danger.
A soldier named Selanth emerged from one of the side tunnels having gone through to the grain silo and the gantry room next to it.
His face was pale and ashen as he announced, “They’re all dead in there.”
“What?!”
“Dulos and the others. The grain doors are open. I could see their bodies down below. The storage wells are spoiled with the rot of the dead. Wasted.”
Another soldier emerged from the opposing corridor to the other silo.
“What he says is true over here, as well. The meal tower is opened and bodies filled the room. The rest of the watch have been slain and cast into the silos. Amaran is looking into the other tower on this side, but I have no doubt he may find the same.”
The mentioned Amaran emerged from behind.
“Sir, there are dead in both of the northern silos. No sign of the enemy dead.”
Morgrath turned away glaring down into the blackness of the descending stairwell leading to the tunnel network below.
“No sign of their dead,” he muttered to himself thinking long and hard about what that might mean. “What possible could so overwhelm these seasoned guards and not suffer losses for the effort?”
“Sir?” Selanth spoke up hesitantly, “I did notice something odd in both areas. Perhaps it matters, perhaps not?”
Morgrath sighed and turned back to the soldier.
“What?”
“Tunnel sand, sir,” he said, “It is strewn all over the floor in there, down the hallway.”
“And there, sir, more of it there.” he pointed to the floor around the dark entrance to the stairs below.
Four drifts, elongated and irregularly shaped mounds of dry sand matching that found in the tunnels below the city. The mounds had been strewn and kicked about but there was something odd about them and yet familiar.
He knelt and ran his gloved fingers through the mound, letting the loose grains sift through his fingers. His eyes widened and then he suddenly rose and pivoted, almost running towards the capstan rooms.
“We have to release the grain into the sluice gates. Flood them quickly. There is little time. Hurry!”
The metal staves had been removed and four men gathered behind the capstan spindle arms and began to push the grinding capstan spindle.
Others who did not understand began to protest, “That is our yearly harvest.”
“We can remove the bodies and salvage most of the grain.”
“Why are we doing this?”
Morgrath’s muscles bunched as he and his companions began to slowly turn the grinding spindle.
“The slain of the enemy is present all around us. They are in the sand.”
The other soldiers at the other capstan began pushing the spindle and far below in the bottom of the silos gears groaned under extreme weight and a shift in pressure. Fine dust and powder coughed up in a yellowish-white billow from the central stairwell accompanied by a growing hiss sound.
“Push! There is an army in the tunnels below us, because of that Dust Dragon!” Morgrath commanded them, “Push with all your might!”
From the stairwell, a sudden wailing shriek arose, followed by another. Then another. Terrible cacophonous noises arose as well as a rumbling groan and cracking of the wood and falling stone, like the sound of an avalanche coming from the deep throat of the descending stairs.
***
Maeven could see the satyr as it shifted swiftly from deep shadow to deep shadow. She could hear its snuffling grunts as it crossed in and out of the dappled light, brushing leaves as it crossed closer towards its quarry ahead, intent on stirring up as much terror as it could. All she had in her possession was the knife she’d used to cut Will free of his bonds that the Troll had bound him with, but nothing more. She knew the creature would get wind of her soon enough if she wasn’t careful, but from the looks of its actions, it seemed more intent on stalking the party of Surface Worlders ahead.
It crouched low by the stone outcropping, hunkered down but peering furtively over the mossy rock, glaring with hate-filled eyes at the circle of travelers warily searching the surrounding forest from all directions. She heard him chortle to himself as he watched them.
A voice of strange timber, hiss out from his sharpened teeth, “Pretties gather. Cut’s them we will. Bleed them. Soon we feed them.”
Maeven saw the saw-toothed flint blade in the creature’s dirty hand as it leaned up against the rock, sniffing. Its bare, back was marked with dark soot and ash so that it could not be seen moving among the shadows. A line of matted fur rose from his midriff wool up the middle of his back. A sheen of sweat stood upon the oil of its body, smears of black with finger lines raked through it, hatched its skin, giving the illusion that its body was part of the forest background, a tactic it had used on more than one occasion to fool and surprise the dryads.
***
Just as Dellitch the Harpy had suspected, the foolish, hot-headed dryad climbed up through the canopy to confront her.
She came bearing something shrouded in her arms only too willing to thrust it upward as she emerged through the top of the canopy. A severed claw, gnarled with age, but held proudly before her, as vines twisted around the body of the dryad lifting her above the tops of the trees to glare fiercely at the Harpy.
“How dare you interrupt our sport!” she hissed with the sound of stirring leaves.
Dellitch laughed harshly, “Sport?! Is that what you are calling it now?”
Syloam spat back, “This wood is ours, your kind have no right to come here! We had an agreement!”
“We are under orders, Leafy,” Dellitch chirruped back, her large owlish eyes widening then narrowing to slits at the object the dryad held in her hand warding her back like it was some sort of protective talisman.
“Under whose orders, hag-face?!” Syloam twisted upward, vines sprouting from her back and sides in a tentacular mass.
“Careful, you voluptuous collection of sticks! You have a Surface Worlder in your lair. That is contraband. You know the orders of The Pan!”
“Shut up, pig bat! You know as well as I do, The Pan does not forbid our sporting with these outworlders. He wants a way back as much as we do!”
The harpy leaned forward, a dark milky froth seeping down its black-feathered breast, dripping down upon the curl and knuckles of its claws as it adjusted its weight and balance on the barren limb.
“Not in the order you ascribe. These are to be brought to him first, and then he gives you leave to ‘sport’ with them. Your mind is as twisted as your branches.”
White pearlescent drops dripped from the metal shanks on the harpy’s legs and wet the dark black talons clutching and splaying outward letting the milky substance bead and moisten the sharp points, as the harpy held the dryads in a steely glare. A half-smirk curled her age cracked lips, as her eyes bulged and narrowed almost hypnotically, anticipating the imminent attack. Her hunger for the violence of it barely contained almost making her giddy.
What the harpy did not see were the other eyes that watched and witnessed the exchange, barely peeking upward with beautiful faces below the leafy canopy.
***
I moved through the smoke, following the silhouette that shifted under the ghostly light. I could hear the Pan’s deep, resonant voice addressing someone ahead as it rumbled through the ground like a bass register. He stood amid moving shapes and shadows and I knew that these would be his retinue of satyrs, eager for whatever mischief he set them to. I heard their grunting noises as they reveled about him, vying for attention. The smoke masked the oils and scents that would reveal me long before I came into view, yet I heard the Pan taking in deep snuffling breaths trying to measure his surroundings to offset his hampered ability to see them. I heard splashing in the lapping water, so I knew the backwatered slough was near and it would be giving off its own brackish scents to mingle into the miasma of forest fragrances.
“Where are my manticores?” the deep voice rumbled to someone, I did not perceive to be a satyr.
Oh no, I thought, this is not going to bode well for the one being questioned.
A piggish grunt came back, distinctive of what I knew to be the sound of a creature we had already encountered in our travels.
“Your worship,” the piggish grunt, sounded chastised, and apologetic, almost groveling, “All did not go according to plan. There were some…losses.”
A deeper growl rumbled from below, “Losses? Well, now. Losses are to be expected. Counting Morgrawr, I sent you twenty-six of these mighty beasts. How many are left?”
***
Lindsey noticed the birds first.
She hated that she had lost her weapon in the lake. She had much rather fight, than watch the overhead canopy, especially since those horrible rotting heads dangled from above.
Christopher and Matthew got the east and the western sides to peer into, but she had to glare at those nasty vile danglers, and somehow watch for movements beyond them. Large shadows had passed over the tops of the trees. She had seen the silhouettes passing and gliding overhead against the hazy yellow sky. It was eerie. She imagined Sulphur clouds under a waning sun. The smell of it felt about right. No telling what all manner of creatures roamed this world of contradictions. In some respects, beautiful, and serene. Unspoiled mountain vistas that bore no sign of powerlines crawling up them, or pipelines stair-stepping from pump-station to pump-station to keep the internal pressure high enough ensure delivery to valley communities beyond. No cutback ski runs or switchback trails. Pristine wilderness…inhabited by monsters.
It was difficult to see them through the dark clusters of leaves swaying and rustling so far above. With the slightest noise, these large birds curved and swirled down in gyres, punching deftly through the canopy and gliding to dark limbs high above. As they settled upon the limbs they appeared larger than she had expected. But with only a slight flutter, they remained quiet in the darkness. Unmoving. Waiting.
“I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but there appear to be some awfully large birds high up in the branches above us,” she said loud enough for only the company to hear her.
Miray couldn’t help herself. She looked upward, saw the array of death above her…and screamed.
***
Will heard the voices above raised in anger, but there was nothing he could do. The girl had left him tied in the half-cage of woven vines and branches. Leafy walls surrounded him, keeping much of the sidelight out except for a few dappled rays from the sun. He was disoriented. Did not know how long he’d been held here. His thoughts and memories were not clear. His shirt was open, his chest bared. He remembered the girl. Such beautiful and haunting green eyes.
And dust…
Some kind of yellowish dust that coated his face and hands. He’d wiped some of it off on his shoulder. Weird.
He was now sweating profusely. Every movement, every struggle against his bonds seemed to sway the cage in which he found himself. He smelled the distinct odor of smoke and heard a distant crackling sound accompanied by a series of whooshing noises.
Man, it is getting warm in here, he thought as he struggled again against the vines. This time they felt a bit looser than before as if some of the fibers had at last torn in all his wrenching and thrashing about.
He doubted if the girl would be back anytime soon. But something was coming this way. The crackling, whooshing, and popping noises were getting louder. He was so confused. And he was so irritated by how hot it was getting.
***
“You are not welcome in our forest,” Syloam hissed her bristling green body now circling the harpy, as moving branches lifted her like a large spider walking spindly-legged over the tops of the trees.
“Upon that, you’ve made yourself clear, Wood-Rot,” Dellitch cawed threateningly, “Why don’t you go suck on a sour root and leave me to my business. I could blight this entire forest if I wanted to.”
The harpy’s large golden eyes followed the movements of the dryad, its black pupil narrowing against the yellowing smoke drifting up from the canopy below.
As Dellitch made ever so slight turns of her head following the path of the cagy dryad, a small vine from the canopy below quietly extended upward, circling the barren limb upon which she rested.
“It was you, Scowl Owl, who interrupted my business remember?” Syloam fluttered, “You who put your meddling claw where it does not belong.”
The tendril vine looped and twisted, snaking silently towards the grip of the harpy, fastened along the dried branch.
“You’ll find these claws not so ornamentally accommodating as you might think,” Dellitch responded, moving a half step to the left, flaring a talon and nicking the tendril vine with a tiny pricking cut. The vine’s movement ceased and its small leaves crinkled and browned. Its central stalk drying and hardening rapidly to become brittle.
The harpy’s neck twist and peered downward in an instant, then shot up and glared daggers at the dryad, “Clever!”
A gasp arose from below and then shrieking. A form twisted and jerked in the canopy, thrust upward, leaves parting, showing a lithe female body, swathed in a covering of moss that was rapidly becoming mottled and black. Bark sloughed off of the thrashing figure as she then fell backward enveloped again in the canopy but the sounds of crashing and limbs cracking accompanied her plunge below.
The harpy’s head twisted at what seemed to be an impossible angle as she screeched at Syloam, “Clever, but foolish!” and then launched herself, claws flared at the dryad.
Seven other dryads, lurking below the canopy launched upward to surround the harpy, hoping to entangle her before she could gain altitude, but two of them were stopped short as something from below latched on to them and jerked them back downward, shrieking and quivering toward the forest floor.
Syloam shrank backward, falling behind the other dryads who had risen upward through the treetops, she dove underneath the leaves heading downward, vines folding behind her, branches tucked away, rapidly shifting her hybrid visage back into that of a woman. She had to get to her prize. No one could take her prize possession. He was the key through which they would get past the doorway. The one whose seed would be sown in blood.
The sight that met her eyes, however, caused her to shriek and flail, trying to stop her downward movement.
The forest floor and the lower trees were on fire. One of the dryad sisters lay in the midst of the smoldering flames, engulfed in smoke, her blighted branches now twisted and blackened and stilled.
***
The basket room lurched, and Will was twisted from side to side, as movements from outside struck the outer wall of the cage in which he was kept. He heard vines snapping, and a ripping tearing noise as if the branches above had just been struck by lightning. The cage spun, tossing his legs from side to side, then pitched downward, canted as if two or three or four thick vines holding it within the tops of the trees had snapped loose. Large black claws pierce the ceiling above him, but he could not see outside, what manner of beasts it was that held him. He heard a familiar laughing as the cage lurched again and parts of the edge of the basket browned and grew brittle, snapping loose a few of the curved thatch that revealed how high he was above the forest floor now black and grey with smoke and soot. Erupting with flash fires, as the dried brush was kindled into flame. The floor sagged and browned as well, and the heel of his foot punched through the weave. Four pairs of large black talons pierced the half-ceiling and he was sure he saw black feathered wings push air through the porous wall in a heavy downdraft as the leafy sky beyond began to move past the opening.
***
“Murderer!” a shriek rang out, from the trees, rapidly moving towards the slough.
“Slaughterer! Thief! Liar!” more voices like the sound of rushing winds and waves breaking upon a rocky seashore in a storm, increase in volume as the trees in the distance shook and shuddered, accompanied by a blast of leaves swirling and exploding outward. The haze of the smoke from the backwoods accompanied the forceful sounds forming a swirling nimbus around the angered accusers rushing towards the Slough where Grum-blud stood quivering before the towering figure of The Pan.
The satyrs scurried forward, leaving their mighty forest king, eager to meet the coming voices filled with ire for their master.
Excavatia 