A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (7 page)

With Megan saddled, and nothing handy for breakfast, Corlin was eager to be away from the bleak moor and back on the road. The morning was fresh, the clear air, blue sky and a bright but watery late winter sunshine banishing the previous night’s weirdness to the back of his memory. A few yards from the other side of the road he noticed a broad swath of rough grazing near the top of a small rise and steered Megan towards it; at least one of them would have breakfast. He dismounted while she grazed, and stood leaning across her saddle, letting his gaze travel along the road’s long brown length until it was hidden from sight by a dip in the ground. A fire of anticipation rose in his chest and he reached across to gather Megan’s reins. Something glinted in the coarse grass in front of his feet. He crouched down, peered for a moment then picked up the shiny greenish-black shape. It was very light, a little smaller than the width of his palm, and at first he thought it was some kind of rare glass. He ran a finger-tip over it, and thought he could feel very fine ridges on its surface. Not sure what to make of the oddly shaped piece, he slipped it into a pocket, clambered into the saddle and took to the road again.

The dip in the ground was further away than it actually appeared, and Corlin heard the bubbling and rippling sound of water long before he reached it. Wide, shallow and gravel bedded, the stream cut a fast-flowing channel through the moor as it rushed south on its journey to the distant sea. Knowing that the water wouldn’t bother his sturdy mount, he kneed her forward, letting her stand for a moment or two and quench her thirst before scrambling up the rise on the far side. The prospect of a clear run through open country faded rapidly as they climbed onto higher ground. At the top of the rise, with a clear view of miles of rock-strewn moorland, Corlin looked to his right, grimacing at the thick pillows of purple-black thunderclouds rolling out of the north-east. Ahead of him only a few scattered rocky outcrops were all that looked as though they might provide any kind of shelter.

He patted Megan’s neck as he thought out loud. “Half an hour I reckon, lovely girl, then it looks as though we’re in for a soaking.”

Urging her into a canter, he headed for a huge granite bastion which stood back from the road about a mile ahead. Deep and sonorous rumbles of thunder announced the approaching storm, along with something else it carried with it, an acrid odour that hung in the moisture laden air. A WestLander born and bred, Corlin was well used to thunder-storms, how they felt, how they behaved and how they smelt. He’d never known one that stank like this. It was nasty, the vapours it carried irritating his nostrils and catching at the back of his throat. He turned Megan’s head away from the livening wind, dismounted and led her into the lee of the massive towering lump of granite. There was every chance they would still get very wet, but at least the rock would shield them from the worst of the storm. He had just unfastened his gimalin and tucked as much of its length as he could inside his jacket when the edge of the storm-cloud met the edge of the sunshine. The first large raindrop bounced like a pebble on the wide brim of Corlin’s hat.

The voice came from somewhere above his head. “You’ll be standing there a long time waiting for this to pass.”

Corlin didn’t need to look up and get any wetter to recognise the voice. He waited for the bow-legged man to come down and join him. He even half expected to see an entrance open in the face of the rock. Instead, to his mild surprise, it stopped raining, but only over the spot where he and Megan were standing.

The bowlegged man appeared just in front of Megan’s head. “I can’t do anything about the weather, but that shielding will make it more bearable. It should stay with you for about an hour, if you can get to where you’re going in that time.”

Although grateful for the magic which would keep him dry, Corlin had no intention of enlightening the gruff-voiced man of his destination. “Thanks. No doubt we’ll meet again before long, and as you seem to know my name, perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell me yours.”

The straggly beard waggled as the man’s mouth opened to release a hearty chuckle. “You know it already, Corlin Bentfoot. How many magicians have you come across on your travels?”

There was a long pause as thunder rumbled and rain hissed to the ground all around them. Then Corlin’s mouth fell open with the surprise of recognition. Before he could say anything the magician had vanished. The minstrel gave the matter some serious thought as he strapped the gimalin back on Megan’s saddle, mounted and headed once more for the road which was now beginning to resemble the stream they had crossed earlier, if not quite so deep. All around them the heavy rain bounced off rocks and coarse turf, but he and his mare stayed perfectly dry. Corlin felt as though he was riding in a bubble, and the view of miles of moorland ahead made him feel certain that the bubble would burst long before he reached shelter. Every so often the wind blew holes in the sheets of driving rain, and he fancied he could see a long dark cloud along the horizon. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t a cloud. It wasn’t moving.

Determined to enjoy the unique experience of staying completely dry while riding through a downpour, he kneed Megan into a canter. They drew nearer to the shadow on the horizon much faster than he would have thought possible, and as its outline became clearer he began to suspect there was more to Grumas’ bubble than a rather novel way to shelter from the rain. He also felt certain that once he entered that shadowy depth which lay ahead, he would be caught up in a very different kind of storm. As if reading his thoughts, the magical barrier dissolved leaving him and Megan exposed once more to the elements. His uncomplaining mount flicked raindrops off her ears as icy rain blew into Corlin’s face. Slowing to a trot, he pulled the brim of his hat forward to shield his eyes and kept going. A few minutes later he realised that the downpour had eased to a soft windblown mizzle and the rising breeze was bringing with it hints of that same acrid odour which had troubled his nose and throat earlier. Wafted away as quickly as they came, they were temporarily forgotten as he raised his eyes to see where the road was taking him.

A hundred paces ahead the road veered sharply to the left, running in a long and gradual curve out towards the edge of the moor and widely skirting the tree-line of a vast forest which stretched as far as his eyes could see. Even though it still appeared as an indistinct greyish mass stretching from almost one side of the moors to the other, he was certain that it could only be the infamous Whispering Forest. Knowing that his own success was the only chance of freedom for his younger brother Clies, he felt nervous but at the same time buoyed up, keen to get into the forest’s heart and locate Malchevolus’s clock. Easing Megan to a walk, Corlin studied the seemingly endless expanse of heavy-limbed trees which lay ahead of him. The impression he felt most strongly was of an incredibly ancient entity, one which harboured many secrets, some of which he sensed would be best left undisturbed.

At the angle of the road he stopped, frowned and climbed out of the saddle. Crouching down he touched the road, picked up a small handful of dirt and let it trickle through his fingers. It was thin, sandy and bone dry. He ran his hand over the winter-brown grass at the side of the road. The grass wasn’t just dry, it was dead, and Corlin realised that this ground hadn’t felt the touch of rain for years. He stood up and looked across the desiccated brown slope which lay between the road and the tree-line. Dead, dry leaves still clung tenaciously to some of the winter-stark branches of tall deciduous hardwoods, interspersed with stands of evergreens and conifers, their dark presence accentuating the brooding and quietly threatening atmosphere which pervaded the very air around them. Rather incongruously Corlin wondered how far the searching roots of these forest denizens would have to go down to reach ground-water.

He turned round and looked back towards the open moors. Over a mile away the thunderstorm was still making its way steadily south-west, its progress punctuated by an occasional sonorous rumble. Above him, the sky was a flat leaden grey, but spared not one drop of moisture for the parched ground below it. Megan had wandered a little way off and was nibbling dejectedly at some tufts of coarse greenish tinted grass on the other side of the road. Corlin gathered up her reins, clambered into the saddle and urged her steadily forward down the long dry slope towards the looming forest. All was very quiet. No birds sang, and no tiny creatures rustled in the sparse undergrowth which sprawled in a haphazard tangle round the base of the nearest trees.

To Corlin’s surprise, as they drew closer, Megan balked, almost wrenching the reins out of his hands in her haste to turn back up the slope. He let her have her way, not only because he trusted her judgement, but because he also had an ulterior motive. Letting her take him onto the comparative comfort of the dry road, he used his more elevated position to scan the forest edge. There seemed to be no obvious way in. Staying on the top of the rise, Corlin kept Megan to a walk, keeping parallel to the tree-line as he searched for an opening or some sign of a disused road.

Half a mile further on, he found it. Not obvious at first glance, but just different enough to be noticeable to anyone deliberately looking for it. Their upper branches meshed and interlocked, a pair of tall, heavy-girthed elms stood side by side, far enough apart for a horse and rider to pass comfortably through. He turned Megan’s head towards the downward slope, hoping that this time she would be more amenable. Branches began to tap against each other and dry leaves rustled, making an eerie skin-prickling sound like a crowd whispering. Another few paces further on and Megan’s ears went back, as her legs braced in a whinnying head-tossing refusal. Corlin let her stand, holding her on the spot as the trees continued to rustle and whisper, undisturbed by any breath of wind. Then he realised that someone was repeating something over and over, a hoarse crackling voice struggling to make words as if someone had the speaker in a stranglehold.

Corlin listened, and his blood ran cold as he finally made out the words. “Take... the creature...out. It must...not enter. Take the...creature...out.”

He sat and pondered who the speaker might be and what they meant by ‘the creature.’ Was it himself or Megan that ‘must not enter’? Taking a firm grip on Megan’s reins and his own courage, he called out “Grumas? Is that you I can hear?”

Branches near the forest’s edge thrashed and rattled as the voice repeated “Gru...mas. Gru...mas. Grumas.”

As much to steady his own nerves as anything else, and not wanting to cause Megan any more distress, he turned, the forest’s mocking tones following him as he rode her back up the slope until she was well away from the dead and dry perimeter of the forest. He didn’t quite know what to make of this Whispering Forest, but one thing was certain; he had to go in there.

To the southern end of the forest the afternoon sun was beginning to break through, casting a weak watery light on the tops of the trees, but failing miserably in its efforts to penetrate the heavy growth of branches and reach the shadowy forest floor many feet below. The whispering continued, the sound of voices uttering, not recognisable words but a constant susurration, reminding Corlin of the wings of a thousand birds in flight. A quick check of the sun’s position told him he had about four hours to reach the centre of the forest, find Malchevolus’s clock and get out. A plan began to form in his mind, and he smiled at the simplicity of it. Whether it would work remained to be seen.

He looked around, checking the road in each direction. He knew Megan wouldn’t stray, but if any traveller happened to come along, he knew that his gimalin would almost certainly disappear from his saddle. With the instrument under his arm, he gave Megan a few soft words and a reassuring pat, before starting back down the dry slope towards the forest’s edge. Increasingly aware that the forest was as sensitive to him as he was to it, he had decided not to be furtive but to share his quest with whatever entity, malign or otherwise, had made this forest its domain. Although it took a supreme effort to quell the rising urge to turn and run, the ultimate purpose of his quest kept him focussed. With a confidence that he found difficult to maintain, he approached one of the two massive trees which stood sentinel at the access to the forest’s shadowed realm. Removing the cloth which wrapped the gimalin, he held the instrument with both hands and lifted it high into the air, like an offering to some ancient, feared and little-known deity.

He took a deep breath to stop his voice from trembling. “I am Corlin. This is my gimalin. I’ll leave it here, for safety.”

As he re-wrapped it and crouched at the base of the tree, the whispering changed, its dry strangled rustle becoming softer, saying two words over and over. “Cor...lin, gim...a...lin, Cor...lin, gim...a...lin, Corlin, Corlin, gimalin, gimalin.”

The minstrel smiled as he rested it against the buttress-like base of the huge tree and pulled some dry stalks over to camouflage it. He turned to look at Megan grazing at the top of the rise. For a brief moment his heart skipped a beat at the sight of a shadowy figure standing beside her, but when he blinked and looked again, there was no-one there and Megan was unperturbed. Dismissing it as a trick of sunlight and cloud, Corlin turned away and moved forward into the Whispering Forest.

The noise was incessant, a constant breathy accompaniment to the patches of sunlight which struggled but failed to reach the deep shadows beneath the trees. The air was dry, unseasonably warm, and carried a barely discernible taint of the acrid odour Corlin had encountered earlier. Something snapped under his foot, his unbalanced gait making it impossible for him to tread quietly over the carpet of dry leaves and fallen twigs and branches. Afraid that the sound might have disturbed something best left to sleep, he paused and listened. Hearing nothing but the constant whispering he took a deep breath and moved forward as quickly and carefully as his bent foot would allow, the dim light just enough for him to find a route between the trees. Every few minutes he would stop and look about in the sparse undergrowth for a fallen branch he could use as a staff, but everything he found was either too small or too dry and brittle.

He was leaning against a particularly tall and well-branched tree when a brief and furtive rustle made him turn slowly and look behind him. Not daring to move he stared in disbelieving horror at the creature emerging from the concealment of the leaf litter. The gaze that met his own drained the blood from his face and put the strength of his sphincter in severe jeopardy. From near the top of a curved, horse-like head, a pair of round, close-set multi-faceted eyes stared unblinking from above a long tapering proboscis, while pincer-like jaws worked in a furious mime of mastication below a pair of waving searching palps. Lifting his feet carefully and keeping one hand on the tree for support, Corlin took a step backwards. Six multi-jointed legs covered in thick bristling hairs brought the long dark brown body skittering towards him. In rapid succession, one-two-three and pause, light footsteps pattered on dry leaves. The air around him became redolent with a stench like rotting meat, as the huge insect half-raised shimmering wings in a posture of threat.

“Climb!. Hurry!”

The voice was deep and ponderous, but its note of urgency was unmistakeable. Corlin’s groping hands located an overhanging branch, and he hauled himself off the ground.

“Climb higher; into my leaves.”

Not wanting to believe what he was hearing, but needing to escape from this horror which threatened to end his quest prematurely, Corlin felt his way from bough to bough, pausing occasionally to listen. From the tree’s trunk below, the sound of scrabbling urged him upward, high into the broad canopy. He peered down through the branches. The round, unblinking eyes glinted back at him as something slammed against his twisted foot and wrapped itself round his ankle. With a startled yell, he pressed himself against the trunk and kicked out. He heard something snap, and the pressure on his ankle eased.

“Stand quite still. She cannot easily reach you. My branches are too thick and close, and my old leaves too dense for her body to get through without tearing her wings.”

Corlin swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the experience of apparently conversing with a tree.”What is it?”

“She is Reduia, queen of Assassin Bugs. You have encroached on her territory, and she is hungry. She devoured her last victim when my leaves were still tiny buds, but it seems that your size is making her cautious.”

Sweat broke out on Corlin’s forehead and his hands felt slick against the branch he was gripping. His voice shook. “How long will I be stuck here? And who are you?”

The tree rumbled. “You may call me Quex. I am king of this forest. The duration of your stay in my branches depends on you. Reduia will outstay you, however long you wait.”

Corlin didn’t have time to consider his next move. It was decided for him, as Reduia’s searching palps found his other foot. He kicked out, making contact with something soft and yielding. Ignoring the huge bug’s squeals of rage, he pulled himself up onto the branch above, and swung his body round to the far side of the massive tree. His feet found the reassuring solidity of a thick, strong bough, and he crouched on it, surveying his surroundings while he waited for his shredded nerves to settle. Although the sun was now low in the sky and the light was fading, the darkness was not yet absolute, and he could make out dense black shapes of close-ranked trees silhouetted against the dark grey murk

Something rustled beside him. Not waiting to see what it was, he trusted to fate, took a deep breath and jumped. A couple of low, leafy branches broke his fall, and he let himself drop feet first into the carpet of leaf-litter piled round Quex’s broad base. Before he had chance to take even one step, a sharp acidic odour assaulted his nostrils, and he was slammed to the ground, his thigh pierced by white-hot pain. His frantic hands clasped around his leg, his screams of agony sheared through the rapidly descending gloom. This time, the darkness was absolute.

* * *

He woke with streams of fiery torment coursing through his veins. A steady throbbing jabbed at his thigh, like a hot knife being thrust repeatedly into his flesh. He was also flat on his back, and bouncing up and down to the accompaniment of a constant rustling and twittering which was almost deafening. He shook his head to try and clear it, but the noise continued all around him. Something was digging into his midriff. He groped along his waistline, his fingers tracing two thin strands of strong cord. Bracing himself on his elbows, Corlin tried to sit up. As soon as he shifted, all noise and movement stopped.

The voice was clipped and high-pitched, with a nasal twang. “Good. You’re awake. Keep still, while we remove your bonds.”

Too terrified, and in too much discomfort to argue, Corlin lay motionless as a number of hard, prickly things touched his bare arms. It was all he could do to stop himself screaming. He heard a couple of short, metallic snapping sounds, and the cords slithered from round his waist. Whatever was underneath him moved, and Corlin reached down to steady himself. His hands made contact with a hard surface, cold and smooth. He sat upright, eyes wide open, straining to see. All he could make out in the near darkness was the solid unmistakeable shape of a tree. Waving his hands about, he found only empty air.

His voice quavered, seeming loud in the warm, dark silence.”Who are you?”

A short ripple of clicks, like teeth chattering, surrounded him. The high-pitched voice spoke again. “If not for us, you’d already be dead. Arana won’t cross paths with me and my troops. She knows better.”

Still not convinced he wasn’t going to be killed and probably eaten, Corlin tried to steady his jangling nerves. “Your troops? Who, or what, are you?”

“My name is Frix. Me and my boys make sure there’s no trouble in the forest. When you dropped out of the big oak, you almost flattened one of my rear-guards. He bit you in self-defence.”Another ripple of clicks carried through the darkness. Frix continued. “Then Reduia came hot-footing round the tree, and started spitting poison, so a couple of my boys whisked you out of the way. The rest of us held off old hairy-legs until you’d been carried clear. You were out cold, so we tied you on so you wouldn’t fall off.”

Deciding that if he was going to be killed, these whatever-they-were would have done it by now, Corlin released a sigh of relief. “So, can you help me get to the heart of the forest?”

“Tell us why you’re here first. Humans are rare in here, and they don’t usually last long.”

A cold shiver took one slow step at a time down Corlin’s spine. A sudden and painful spasm in his thigh reminded him of the potential power surrounding him.

His behind was beginning to go numb, and he wriggled into a more comfortable position. “I’m on a quest. I’ve been told that something lies hidden in the heart of this forest. If I can find it and take it back to a certain lord of the WestLands, he will free my brother from slavery.”

Frix clicked and hissed. He sounded closer than he had before. “Thought you’d be brave, collect your prize and get out, did you?”

“Something like that. Then I realised something big was behind me, and it was gaining. I didn’t know what it was, but I soon found out that hiding behind a tree wasn’t going to be any use.”

“Good job you ran into Quex. There’s only as many trees as I’ve got legs, who can communicate.”

Corlin opened his eyes wide in an effort to see at least some familiar shape or a spark of light. He could see nothing. He felt disorientated, and not a little apprehensive.

He turned his head, and spoke in the general direction of the voice, which seemed to be coming from below and to his right. “Is there some way I can see you?”

A brief burst of rustling and clicking filled the air, stopping as abruptly as it started. Seconds later, Corlin heard a noise like a thousand dry leaves blowing in a light breeze. As the sounds faded, a tiny spot of phosphorescent green light pierced the darkness. A second later another sprang to life, followed by others in rapid succession, until Corlin was encircled by a chain of pulsing green lights. They began to expand, casting their spectral glow ever wider. Corlin gasped as long slender antennae waved at him from huge triangular heads. Long, narrow-waisted bodies, each covered in a dark red-brown carapace, gleamed and glinted, disappearing into shadow as the light began to dim. Soon, all were once again enveloped in darkness. Impressed, Corlin gave the tough, smooth surface beneath him an appreciative pat. The giant ant flicked back its antennae, and brushed his arm.

Frix’s nasal voice cut through Corlin’s thoughts. “Right. Now you’ve seen us, let’s get going. Reduia is following, and she’d make a grab for you if we let her get close enough.”

Hard, strong limbs lifted Corlin off the back of his mount, and lowered him to the ground. “Now you’ll really have to run. Me and my boys can shift when we have to.”

Corlin’s heart missed a beat. “Suppose I stumble or go the wrong way? In case you hadn’t noticed I have a bent foot. Running is something I don’t do successfully”

A chorus of rasping clicks sounded from all around, and he felt something prod his back. Frix’s voice came from behind him. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep you on the right path.” Hundreds of feet began pattering over leaves, and Frix gave him a gentle shove.”Now, run!”

Corlin ran, his uneven hobbling gait pushing him forward into the darkness. Whenever he tripped or stumbled, he found himself pinned between moving walls of giant ant bodies, supporting him until he found his feet again. The hours passed, and still the army surged through the forest’s gathering night. Everything in their path, living or dead, was trampled underfoot. Corlin began to weaken. His limbs ached, and his thigh still burned with the effect of the ant-soldier’s bite. He staggered, and tried to call to Frix, but could only manage a feeble croak. Armoured bodies pressed against him, lifting him above the soft, uneven forest floor. With no strength left to resist, he felt his body being tilted forward, his arms and legs gripped and spread. His face met a cold hard surface. Gripping the edge of the carapace below the neck, he relaxed into the rhythm of being carried along face down on a giant ant’s back.

Enraged screams and spitting hisses jolted him out of his slumber. The ant army had stopped marching, but were not at a standstill. Corlin clamped his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out the din of clicking, hissing and rustling which swirled over and around him.