Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [30]
Either It knew where It was going or their “guide” did, because they reached the end of the swamp safely at last, coming out at the bottom of a box canyon. So thankful were they to be out of the horrid place and away from the stench that the prospect of a steep climb up into the rocky cliffs towering above them appeared an inviting one. The path was clearly marked — Mosiah wisely refrained from asking Simkin who or what had marked it — and in the beginning it wasn’t difficult to follow. Breathing crisp, cold air and feeling the sunlight upon their faces again gave them added energy. Even the catalyst cheered up and kept pace with them.
But the trail grew more indistinct the farther they went, and the way grew steeper.
After two days of clambering over rockfalls, backtracking to find the trail, and sleeping out on windswept, exposed ledges, Saryon was so exhausted that he walked in a somnambulic state half the time, starting to wakefulness when he stumbled off the path or felt Mosiah’s guiding hand upon his arm. He managed to keep going only by setting his mind to walking — putting one foot in front of the other — and shutting it off to the cold and the pain of both body and mind. In this state, he often staggered on when the others had stopped to rest, and when they had caught him and brought him back, he slumped down on the ground, his head on his knees, and dreamed he was walking still.
Eventually, however, the exercise and the fresh air gave the catalyst what he had long been needing — nights of sleep so deep that not even the memory of the dying warlock or the aching of his sore muscles could penetrate it. One morning, on the fifth day of their journey, he woke to find his head clear and, other than stiffness in his joints and sharp pain in his back from lying on the ground, he felt unusually refreshed.
It was then he noticed that they were traveling in the wrong direction.
8
The Glade
They were on top of the cliffs now, looking down into thick, rolling woodland, The morning sun, which should have been shining directly in their eyes as they walked, was rising to its zenith from their right.
We’re heading almost due north, toward Sharakan, Saryon realized. Merilon, if that was still their goal, lay much farther to the east. Should I say something? he wondered uneasily. Perhaps Joram has come to his senses, changed his mind and decided not to go to Merilon after all. Perhaps he’s too proud to admit to the rest of us he might have been wrong. Or perhaps he made the decision, discussed it with the others, and I was just simply too exhausted to pay it any heed. Saryon tried to remember if he had heard the young men talking about a change in direction, but so thick had been his fatigue that all memories of the last few days were hazy and distorted.
Rather than appear foolish, the catalyst decided not to mention the matter, hoping something would happen to explain it. Simkin led them down the cliffs, into the forest below. At first, all of them were thankful to see that it wasn’t swamp but thick woods. They felt less cheerful about the forest on entering it, however. Although it was winter, the trees unaccountably retained their leaves. A sickly brown color, the foliage smelled of decay. The trail they were following was overrun with a broad-leafed vine that twined among the trunks of the tall trees, blocking their way.
“There’s something about this plant … Can’t remember what, though,” Simkin mused, staring at it. “I think maybe it’s edible….”
Mosiah stepped gingerly in among the tangle of the vines. Instantly the leaves wrapped around his ankles, tripped him, and pulled him headfirst into it.
“Help me!” he shouted wildly. Long thorns emerged, digging into his flesh, and Mosiah began to scream in pain. Drawing the Darksword, Joram waded into