Chapter
32
The Pine Barrens. That was what the folk of Lorm called
them. A strange name, Brythia thought,
as short, scrub oaks were actually more populous than the pitch pines for which
the landscape was named. And it was
anything but barren, though the white sandy soil resembled that of a desert;
the druidess was always surprised when she traveled through those woods at the
incredible variety of exotic wildlife and plant inhabitants they possessed. Even in the depths of winter, signs of life
were never far. The air smelled of sand
and pine.
Delorick’s path had run true, and
brought them without incident to the borders of that unique wilderness. The weather had turned milder, and it had
evidently not snowed anywhere near as much as it had to the west, for only here
or there could Brythia’s eye detect a few patches of snow scattered on the
brown oak leaves that lined the bases of the trees. The oaks climbed to just above eye level,
their bare and twisted limbs looking almost alien against the winter’s gray
sky. There were a great variety of birds
that wintered there: crows, grackles, jays, and quail. Mostly she saw them as they took flight, frightened
by the approach of her companions (for she could move soundlessly).
How melancholy and grim this wild
expanse seemed. Not like the friendly
forests of eastern Lorm, or her favorite woods around the Haunted
Mountains. Here, even she, a nature priestess,
felt unwelcome. Few people made this
tract their home, mostly berry farmers, and those who liked to keep their own
company. Strange tales of the area
abounded. Tales of mysterious homicidal
blue mists that rose off the lakes and streams, of folk so twisted by isolation
and inbreeding that they no longer looked human, of ghostly apparitions, and,
of course, of the winged satyrs, or Pine Devils.
There was a time that the Pine
Devils and the druids were friends, but that was a long time ago, and none of
the Order had encountered them in several hundred years. They had become almost mythical. Certainly, in Lorm and its neighbor,
Therasia, they were more regarded as legend than fact. That was the problem with Lormians,
she mused, they never believe anything until they see it. Tolian had never believed in trolls until one
almost killed him (him, at the time) and Delorick, she recalled. Ah, but Brythia was a druidess. She had seen her fair share of preternatural
creatures through ritual summoning and spirit visions. She was certain that the Pine Devils existed,
and on top of that, Findelbres claimed to have known a few of them.
They journeyed two more days. They barely spoke to each other so solemn was
the mood of the desert of brush, sand, and trees. The skies held fast to their gray shades, but
at least the cloudy canopy held in the heat and kept it from getting too
chill. Brythia reflected on her last
trip through the area, though still many miles from where they were now. Her friend Kalabred had died there, and
Kilfrie’s body was destroyed, at the hands of the Demon’s werewolves, in that
region. Delorick almost died; in fact,
if it were not for Tolian’s intervention, she, Findelbres, and Myrthis would be
dead too. She strained to remember, but
she had only seen so much, fighting for her life. Somehow, Tolian, in the pit of desperation,
found a way to access her divine power.
There was a sudden blast of silver radiance, and the werewolves were
dead, Tolian standing in their midst. So
much power. She simply could not fathom
how Dowbreth had managed to take that away from her. Her thoughts always took her back to
Tolian. Always.
“We are nearly there,” announced
Findelbres suddenly. “I think we should
probably walk the horses the rest of the way, or leave them here, better
yet. The way will be difficult, the trail
narrow.”
In silence, they slid off their
horses.
Findelbres led the way. Brythia crouched and bent to follow him down
the tiny path. Green briar and thorn
joined the crowded underbrush as they neared a small stream. Black deer moss replaced the white sand
underfoot. The druidess looked back to
see Delorick and Pagryus struggling to proceed while Kiliordes obviously
remembered enough of Kilfrie’s training to avoid the snags. Barren and leafless raspberry vines grew in
profusion around the stream flowing with rusty brown cedar water through the
lonely expanse. The thorns were so heavy
that the travelers had to crawl on their hands and knees over the tiny brook
spanning no more than three feet at the point of their crossing. A short distance past the stream, the path
turned and headed towards its source and, luckily, the briar, raspberry, and
thorns lessened and the way became clear enough that they could once again rise
to their feet.
It was, of course, all the same to
Brythia, who could move as nimbly on all fours as she could on two legs through
any terrain, but the others were clearly relieved.
The pale circle of the sun, shrouded
in gray, hung low in the sky. It would
dip below the horizon soon. It occurred
to her that she had fallen out of the habit of saluting the sun in its course,
as was the druidic custom. Some
Priestess of the Sun she had become. She
stopped in mid-path, stretched her arms out wide, and faced the quickly fading
orb.
“Hail unto thee, mighty Sun in thy
Setting. Travel with joy to the kingdoms
of Night.”
The others waited patiently for her
to finish and all resumed their quiet trek.
A few minutes later, they had
arrived at their destination.
The Blue Hole. A perfectly circular pool of water twenty-two
yards in diameter. Even in the dimming
light, the water practically glowed with an eerie bluish luminance. Brythia knelt down and dipped her fingers
into the water. Bitter cold. It was said that the water of the Blue Hole
was always cold, even in the heat of summer.
Other tales claimed that there was no bottom to the pool, that it simply
could not be sounded, that it was infinitely deep.
“Well, here we are,” said Pagryus
matter-of-factly. “Now what?”
“The Blue Hole is useless to us
without the Pine Devils to guide us,” replied Findelbres. “So, we have no choice, but to wait.”
“How can we be positive that one of
these Pine Devils, if they truly exist, will come, and even then, will help
us?” asked Delorick.
Brythia watched all of them stare at
the unearthly pond. There was something
so strange, unnerving about it, yet captivating to the eyes.
“Trust me, friend Delorick,” said
Findelbres, “they exist. They are the
guardians of the Blue Hole. They are
already aware of us. In fact, I can hear
one coming now, my skeptical Lormian friend.”
A chill shot down Brythia’s
spine. She strained to listen, but at
first could hear nothing. Then the sound
became just audible. Like the leathery
flapping of bat wings, only of a large bat and another sound, movement in the
low pine and oak trees.
“What are these Pine Devils? Where do they come from?” asked
Delorick. Nervousness was evident in his
voice.
“The Winged Satyrs, or Pine Devils,
are denizens of many worlds,” explained Findelbres. “They are powerful beings, who keep largely
to themselves. Even the faerie folk know
only little of them. In any case, you
are about to learn a great deal more than most people know about them.”
Brythia could see a shadowy form
moving just over the tops of the trees, heading towards them. Lights seemed to flash around the
creature. As it neared, the details of
its nature became more and more clear.
It was taller than a man, almost eight feet tall, she estimated, but was
similarly proportioned. Its torso was
the most human part, save that it was lightly covered in hair. Its legs resembled those of a goat, ending in
cloven hooves instead of feet, and its head looked like amalgam of a horse’s
and human’s. The creature’s eyes glowed
bright red. Black wings, like those of a
bat, spread over twelve feet. It
appeared to travel by flying and lightly stepping on the tops of the
trees. Strange flashing lights clustered
around it, though she could not determine the source for this phenomenon.
The Pine Devil let out a loud,
piercing scream that cut through the gathering dusk like a knife. Brythia’s hand instinctively found the hilt
of the Moonsword. Findelbres stepped
forward in a friendly manner.
“Hail friend,” he addressed the Pine
Devil, even as it alighted on the ground.
How fearsome he
was (for Brythia perceived the creature to be male). His penetrating red eyes quickly scanned them
and then leveled his gaze upon Findelbres.
“This place is forbidden to all, mortals and faerie alike.” His words were perfectly pronounced, its voice
rough, but quite human sounding.
“We have an errand of some
importance,” Findelbres explained. “We
are in pursuit of the Moon Goddess.”
“She is in Faerie,” the Pine Devil
replied. “She has taken claim to the
throne there, as is her right.”
Brythia stepped forward. “She is a prisoner. Anything she is doing is done under
duress. We have got to get to Faerie to
rescue her. Please, you must help
us. She’s my wife.” The desperation in her voice was obvious.
The Pine Devil turned to her. He then did something that took the druidess
completely by surprise. He bowed low
before her.
“I am your humble servant, Consort
of the Goddess,” he said with sincerity.
“But, I cannot do what you ask. I
beg your forgiveness.”
Brythia was considerably taken aback
by his complete change of attitude, and though she had become somewhat used to
such demonstrations of abeyance as a Lormian princess, it had not prepared her
for a situation like this. Nevertheless,
he said he could not help her. Nothing
else really mattered.
“You have only to take me to Faerie,
that’s all I ask of you. Please, I’m
begging you.” She fell to her
knees. Tears gushed from her eyes. “Please, she needs me. I can feel it. Something terrible has happened to her. I can feel her pain across the worlds. You’ve got to get me to Faerie.”
The Pine Devil gently took her hand
and, rising himself, brought her to her feet.
“It will not do to have the Goddess’
wife kneeling or pleading to me,” he said softly. “I am your willing servant, if it is within
my power, I shall do anything you ask of me.
Through the Blue Hole, I can take you to any world you wish to visit,
but I cannot take you to Faerie.”
Shock. Not to Faerie.
“Why not?” the druidess demanded.
“The way to Faerie is closed,” the
Pine Devil said with finality. “There is
no way in or out.”
Copyright 2004, 2015 Diana Hignutt
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