Laura S. Fox
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Hungry Heart - Book #4 - Ch. 26
🕑 Added 2023-03-12 19:00:00 +0000 UTCChapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen / Chapter Twenty / Chapter Twenty-One / Chapter Twenty-Two / Chapter Twenty-Three / Chapter Twenty-Four / Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six – Lost in the Mist
“Mother?” Varg asked tentatively, and his own voice sounded squealy, like it belonged to a pup. How could such a thing be happening? He was himself, without a doubt, but he was also in his skin from many decades ago.
And, indeed, his mother was looking at him from above, in her human shape, and she opened her arms to catch him while he turned back into his human, and let his own arms lift of their own accord, to meet her half-way.
“There, you see?” Her voice was warm, like the summer. “I told you that you would find your wolf one day. Now, tell me, how did it happen? Don’t leave anything out.”
Varg felt a pull to reminisce about what happened those many summers ago, but he chased away the impulse. More important things were at stake, and as appealing as it seemed to have this chance of reliving his childhood, or at least a small yet significant part of it, he had to make a choice.
He allowed his mother to take him in her arms. Like always, her bosom smelled of herbs. It was unusual for wolfshifters to become healers, for the simple fact that they didn’t fall ill, and any wound they suffered in battle soon got better. But she was a healer, and Varg could tell that she was held in high esteem by everyone in their pack. She wasn’t just any kind of healer. No, she was the kind who knew how to undo the ill caused by magic, and that wasn’t something anyone could claim they could do, no matter how accomplished as healers they were. Varg also believed that the rest of the pack also feared his mother, because they couldn’t clearly understand what she was doing and the source of her power.
“Mom,” he said, while wrapping his thin arms around her neck to keep himself from falling, “what do you know about weaving magic?”
Maybe the weaver had sent him to the world of dreams because he wanted Varg out of the way and thought that giving him nice dreams would keep him busy, but he had every intention of using anything he could to get to the bottom of the strange curse that had fallen over Guthran.
“Weaving magic? Where did you hear about such a thing, my boy?” his mother asked. “Things like that are not meant for children to play with.”
It had to be a dream, so there wasn’t any danger in speaking the truth, right? “This is a dream,” he said out loud. “A weaver with a sharp needle stabbed me in the belly and promised me that I would dream the nicest dreams I’ve ever had in my life.”
His tone must have sounded serious enough, because his mom pushed him slightly away so that she could observe him carefully. “Where did you see this weaver, Varg?” She was serious, and her watchful eyes were also filled with worry now.
His mother couldn’t be hurt by the sly weaver, could she? After all, she had been gone for many years, and now, she lived only as a memory. Varg still thought of her, whenever his hopes were hard tried by the twists of fate. Her wise words, her comforting hand, the way she caressed his head when he was a young pup. They were all etched carefully on a portion of his heart that would never give up on him.
“Mother, I cannot explain it, and I know that my words will sound strange to you, but this is a dream, and I could use your help. You would be happy to know that I grew up to be a leader for our people.” He paused. He couldn’t tell her about the bad luck that had fallen on Whitekeep and their pack, dream or not. “Now, I am a strong wolf, and I travel the world with my close friends.”
His mother laughed and hiked him up in her arms, pulling him toward her to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You always talk like a wolf many times your age. It must be because of that that you’ve waited so long on your first shift.”
She wasn’t taking him seriously. But, if this was a dream, his dream, maybe he could make things happen even if the people inhabiting it were pulled by another’s strings. “I know it’s hard for you to believe what I’m telling you. I must have chosen this dream from a thousand for some reason.”
“And what reason may that be, my brave little wolf?” She nuzzled his cheek briefly and walked toward the cave where their den, a small cave at the foot of a rocky hill, was. Varg could recall every tree and bush, and they all brought heartache, but the kind dipped in honey, not poison.
“You can heal magic,” Varg insisted. “That means that you can heal me from what the weaver has done to me.”
The mentioning of the possible wound he might have received appeared to make her reconsider that all that Varg said was the figment of a child’s imagination. She hurried toward the den. The place was deserted, as it always was when the pack went hunting. The other children of Varg’s age had already shifted, so they were allowed to tag along, which meant that most days Varg was alone with his mom, helping her with the gathering of herbs and other things she needed for making her potions and cures.
How many days had he cried over how he was different from the others? He feared he would never grow up to be a strong wolf like his father. His fate was to be a lesser wolf, someone the others would laugh at, all the time. In a child’s eyes, such are the tragedies that seem to be nothing less than the end of the world.
Varg allowed his mother to take him inside and lay him on a thick fur. She examined his belly carefully, touching him gently, but prodding him when she considered it necessary. Eventually, she got up and sighed, not in worry, but relief. “There is no sign of any stabbing, my child. Stop scaring your old mother over nothing.”
That was how she joked about herself. Varg had never thought she was old. In his eyes, she was young and beautiful. Only growing up, he understood that his mother and father had had him when there had been little hope for them to have a progeny. His tardiness in mastering shifting had also been attributed to that. As he had grown, he had begun to believe that it was the conditions of his birth that had more to do with him being stronger and wiser than the rest. Later, when he became the leader of the pack, he still believed that he had his parents to thank for making him like no other wolf.
He touched his own belly. Of course, there wouldn’t be any proof that he got stabbed by that strange weaver. That had been his body in his mature years. But how could he make his mother believe him? It had to be this dream because she could help him. Now, the only thing he had to do was figure out how to convince her to share her knowledge while taking him seriously.
It was truly annoying to be trapped in a child’s body while having the mind of a grownup. Maybe he was trying to make his mother see something that wasn’t there and, as wise and clever as she was, she just couldn’t tell him she believed him when it wasn’t so.
“How strange,” his mother said while taking a look outside.
Varg propped himself up on his elbows and stared as well. The forest in front of their eyes was slowly being covered by a fine mist.
***
Toru had run back to the town as fast as he could, but it felt as if all his paws couldn’t move fast enough because Guthran was in sight, and yet he couldn’t reach it. At the same time, the mist around him thickened, making it hard to see more than a few feet in front of his eyes. He didn’t dare to steer left or right, in hope of getting rid of the mist, because there was a chance that he would never reach the town and miss it completely by mistake.
All of a sudden, he felt a pang of something unfamiliar stabbing his chest on the inside. He had left Varg with the weaver, assuming that their benevolent host had a kind soul only because he cooked delicious food. What if the weaver was Te’cla? What if he was torturing Varg now? The ominous warning lay heavily on his mind. To prevent them from walking by his side to the Scarlet Peaks, the hermit would give each of Toru’s companions the punishments he considered fitting.
For Varg, it would be the loss of a pack to belong to, forever. Toru increased his pace, more than ever decided to cut through the mist and reach the town, again.
***
Varg followed his mother out of their den, and they both looked around, surprised at the changes to the landscape from earlier. It had been a warm summer day, as pleasant as Varg remembered it had been. Everyone in their pack had been happy to see that Varg had found his wolf, and his father had been relieved. Things like that happened rarely. While those who couldn’t shift too well or at all weren’t sent away from the pack, they became loners or chose to go live with humans in their settlements of their own accord. Without any possibility to help the pack by hunting and being part of it, these sons and daughters of the wolves quickly understood that remaining there would only make them a burden on the others.
He himself had never thought that, and he had seen it happen only once during his time with the pack, but he understood what those half-wolves that couldn’t turn must feel inside.
That beautiful summer day was gone now. Around them, the forest turned bleak, darkening as the mist appeared to bring only a dim light with it.
“What is this?” he asked out loud, although he didn’t expect an answer.
“I don’t know, son.”
Suddenly, he recalled how, on their way to Guthran, a heavy mist had been falling. Could it be that it was the same thing? If it were so, that meant the world of dreams wasn’t completely separated from the real one. And if a path between them waited to be found, he would be on his way.
A warm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Where do you think you’re headed, young man?” his mother scolded him gently.
He looked at her, and seeing how he needed to tip his head back to do so, it was fairly easy to fathom why she believed she had to protect him. Insisting that he wasn’t some pup served nothing, so he changed tack. “I want to see what’s beyond the mist.”
“And I think,” his mother said and took his hand firmly, “that we should go back inside and wait for the others to return.”
“They’re out hunting. That means that it could take days for them to return. And what if the mist stands in the way and they cannot find our den anymore?”
As troubled as she appeared to be over how a mist so heavy had appeared out of thin air on a day when the sun was up in the sky, without a cloud in sight, she didn’t appear keen on listening to him. “We must go back inside. You can help me dry the herbs by the fire.”
He was pulled toward the den so strongly that he quickly understood that his mother wouldn’t be beyond using force to protect him, as all wolves were wont to do with their young when they showed signs of recklessness.
***
“What do you think of this?” Duril made a vague motion with his arm. “The mist is growing heavier.”
Claw had his face schooled into a deep frown. “I can’t say that I like it. We were supposed to go around Guthran, searching for signs or things that don’t belong with a quiet town of farmers and merchants. I can tell you that I don’t like it one bit.”
“Same here,” Duril agreed. “The town is barely there, as far as our eyes can tell us. And that’s where Varg and Toru are.”
“Trapped.” That sole word fell from Claw’s mouth like a rock.
Duril moved closer and looked his companion in the eye. “We don’t know that for sure.”
Claw shook his head. Something of what was going on around them was frightening the bearshifter, and Duril couldn’t understand why. While it was worrisome to find the place they had been heading for suddenly sunk in that deep mist, that was only a sign for them that they needed to put their minds to work, not worry.
“Claw, what’s wrong?” he asked and took the bear’s hand.
The bearshifter started and almost pulled his hand away. But then, he looked at him and appeared to come back from whatever dark place his mind had dragged him to. “Hey,” he joked, “do you intend to drag me away for a romantic stroll through the mist?” He gestured with his chin at their linked hands.
Duril laughed and disentangled their fingers. “I don’t say that I’m completely against romantic strolls, but it’s hardly the time or the place for such things. I’d say that we should discover what is causing this mist. As far as I can tell, it appears to be unnatural.”
“Magic.” Claw nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not so far-fetched to believe Shearah’s warning about this place. It is a trap, and not the usual kind. How do you get out of a mist?”
Duril nodded. “We don’t know where it starts and where it ends.”
“Which means,” Claw said, and this time his voice sounded calm and steady, “that we’re lost in it.”
***
Varg kept stealing glances outside, pondering over the meaning of that well-crafted ruse. So, the mist was there, and it was also in Guthran. Where did that leave them all?
“I know you would have liked to play today and see how far your wolf can take you.” His mother busied herself with her herbs, and it was clear she didn’t need any help from him. Even though she wanted to keep him occupied for his sake, as all parents did when they sensed danger looming, it was not possible for her to see the true danger.
Just as he was pondering over how to make his mother less vigilant over his whereabouts so that he could go outside and explore the heavy mist, something appeared to move right outside the den. It happened so fast that he thought at first that his own state of alert had conjured the vision out of his tired mind.
But he wasn’t tired, and he had all his wits about him. That meant that something was out there. He turned toward his mother, wanting to tell her that he wanted to go outside, just for a bit, when he noticed that her face lit up.
“Osric,” she said and rushed toward the mouth of the cave with her arms open wide.
Osric was his father’s name. Varg looked where she was heading, and the blood froze in his veins. What was supposed to be his father was a tall dark apparition, made from mist, a shape barely seen by the naked eye, and his mother was hurrying toward it.
***
Toru was never one to give up, but he felt as if he was wading endlessly through that sea of mist.
“Hey, young tiger,” someone called, right in front of him, but still hidden from view by the heavy fog.
“Is that you, Thamolit?” he shouted. “Where are you? Where is Varg?”
“I left him out in the fields to continue with the harvest. But the mist grew so heavily that he asked me to come get you.”
Toru moved toward the sound of the voice, willing, more than ever, to get to Varg. He was grateful that the weaver had thought of searching for him.
“Come closer,” the voice urged him. “I can barely see a thing.”
“Same here,” Toru mumbled and just as when he was about to say that he had spotted a glimpse of the weaver’s mussy head, something sharp stung him in the middle of his chest.
He looked down and saw the end of something thinner than a spear sticking out of him. He didn’t even have the time to shout or express his dismay. The ground beckoned and he fell, heavily, with a thud, on one side.
His eyelids grew heavy and there was no choice but to close them.
“I have you,” Thamolit’s voice was near, and it sounded as if he intended to protect Toru from all harm.
How could that be? The thing that stung him had been nothing other than Gurelin, the weaver’s faithful needle, and Toru knew that to be the truth in such stark clarity to the haze inside his mind that he almost startled awake.
Thamolit’s hand was heavy on his eyes. “Sleep for now, young tiger. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
***
The first thing he understood about his new situation was that his hands were tied behind his back and so tightly that he felt the rope cutting into his wrists. He growled and tried to break free, but, to his stupefaction, the rope held.
“Don’t fight it, young tiger,” a voice announced the presence of another.
Toru blinked and looked ahead, but the darkness was so deep that not even his eyes could see through it. Another thing he could tell was that he was tied to a chair, another rope wrapped around his waist, and others around his legs. Under his feet, his soles touched hay and a dirty floor.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Show yourself.”
“That is not possible,” the voice replied.
“I know you, anyway. You’re that weaver,” he spat with disgust. To think that he and the others wanted to help this forsaken place. And the only one with his wits still about him treated him like this.
“Don’t mistake me for that servant,” the voice said with contempt.
Of course, they had been warned. Toru struggled to see something, anything, but as much as he blinked, he was a good as blind. Was it possible that Te’cla had stolen his sight? It didn’t matter; he’d use his nose to find that trickster and punish him. After all, they appeared to be alone there.
Too bad the hermit didn’t appear to smell of anything. Could it be he didn’t even have a body? Toru was certain he wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. The hermit was such a strange creature. In his continuous search for stealing knowledge, maybe he had stumbled upon means that made himself no longer seeable by others’ eyes.
“You have another guess,” the voice offered magnanimously.
“Te’cla,” Toru said.
“Ah, I see you know my name.”
“That’s not the only thing I know,” Toru added.
That appeared to make the hermit consider his next words carefully. As the silence stretched, Toru sniffed the air again. It was musty; that wasn’t a surprise. The hay spread on the floor was wet.
“So, what do you know?”
“I know that you lured me to this place because you want something from me,” Toru replied.
“I see. And what could I possibly want from someone as young and unknowledgeable as you?”
Toru smiled. The hermit could pretend he was clever all he wanted, and maybe he was, but he was lacking in many things. That made him, as young as he was, better than this creature that wanted nothing but to feed on knowledge with no purpose in mind.
“If you wanted me here, you know who I am,” Toru said.
As much as he wanted to start shouting at the hermit, asking him where Varg was, he knew that a clever being like that had to be met with strength of will instead of body.
“And who are you?” The voice appeared to find whatever Toru was saying barely worth taking into consideration. Maybe it was meant to make him feel foolish, but Toru didn’t mind it. He had learned some things from all the adventures he had been through by his friends’ side. Showing signs of pride to someone like the hermit would bring him nothing good.
“I am the one who defeated Hekastfet and brought his dark reign to an end.” He used a steady voice as he said the word so that he didn’t appear to brag.
“Hekastfet, of course.”
“You know who that is?” Toru questioned.
“Young tiger, I know everything.”
Maybe not everything, if you’re so willing to get me here, tied up, only to question me.
“If you know so much, what do you want with me?”
Another pause, longer this time, followed. So, the hermit was biding his time, waiting for him to make a mistake… or so he thought.
“You didn’t defeat Hekastfet. He’s now spread all over the world, broken into little shards. Broken, but not broken.” The hermit laughed, a hoarse, unnatural sound that made Toru wince.
“I will defeat him again. That was why I wanted to see you anyway.”
“You wanted to see me?” There was genuine surprise in that. Could it be that the mighty holder of all knowledge didn’t know that Toru wanted to pay him a visit, there, on top of the mountain where his shelter was?
“Yes. You know everything,” Toru said, despite what he had just thought. “So, you must know that. What do I do with all the shards, once I find them?”
“Silly shifter,” the hermit said under his breath, “you don’t even know what is going to happen to you?”
“No, I don’t. I’m not you.” Toru restrained himself with much difficulty from hurling insults at his invisible kidnapper.
“I see. How could you? Well, I feel magnanimous today. I will tell you.” Another pause, probably meant to make Toru impatient. He knew better than to show signs of annoyance. “Once you have gathered all the shards, they will come together as one, and it will be you who’s going to be defeated.”
Toru snorted. “I know that already. I thought you knew more than that.”
For a moment, it seemed as if the hermit had lost his composure. “You cannot defeat Hekastfet by yourself.”
“I know I can’t,” Toru replied, using his most patient voice. “But that is also why I planned on seeing you ever since I discovered what you have just told me.”
“Tell me,” the hermit commanded as if Toru was some kind of servant, at his beck and call, ready to be questioned and deemed unworthy, regardless of what he said.
“I can destroy Hekastfet over and over again,” Toru began. “But if, each time, he breaks into shards and I have to hunt them down all over the world, that doesn’t mean my quest is over.”
“I must say, you are a lot cleverer than I pegged you to be,” the hermit commented.
For a moment, Toru felt tempted to puff out his chest in pride, but this was the hermit, a trickster and a stealer, and all he did could be nothing but another thing to use to his advantage. So, he waited, as patiently as he could, for Te’cla to speak again.
“You cannot do it by yourself,” the hermit said suddenly. “You must bring the shards to me, once you have them all. But you must make sure that you have found them all.”
“How will I know that?”
The hermit paused again. “They must give you a sign, now and then. Don’t they?”
“Yes. I feel them,” Toru confirmed.
“Then, you will know when they find their soul complete. When that happens, don’t waste a moment.”
“The path to the Scarlet Peaks is not an easy one,” Toru said. “But I will do my best.”
There was no offer from the hermit to make things easier in any way.
“Do you truly know what to do with the shards?” he asked.
The affronted voice was his confirmation. “I do. And I am the only one who can help you.”
“Help me destroy them,” Toru added. “That is why I will bring them to you.”
“Of course.”
Toru wasn’t entirely sure he trusted the hermit. He would have to ask for the others’ opinions, but he could only do that if he was released and found his friends safe and unharmed. “Now, how about you free this town from its curse?”
“You’re the hero, Toru,” the hermit’s voice said, and it sounded full of disdain. “What better way to prove yourself than by undoing what I did here?”
“You made these people suffer,” Toru said through his teeth. “The least you could do is to remove the curse you cast upon their heads.”
“I could, of course I could,” Te’cla said with dark glee. “But I don’t want to. You see, young tiger, people shun me everywhere I show my face because it’s unbecoming and it scares them. Why should I care about them when they throw stones at me?”
“You can’t be that ugly,” Toru protested.
“That only goes to show how little you know.”
“Of your ugly face?”
“Of the world, young tiger, of the world.”
Silence followed. Toru shouted, but no one replied any more. He had met the powerful hermit and now had a curse to unturn. Such things had to be easy for a hero, Te’cla said, and, for some reason, the thought alone left a lingering bad taste on Toru’s tongue.
***
Something moved suddenly, out of the corner of one eye. Claw jumped and grabbed Duril’s hand. Then, just as quickly, he released it and chuckled at his own weak heart. “Something of this mist is making my hackles rise,” he admitted.
Duril took it upon himself to wrap his hand around Claw’s. “I think it’s better if we walk together like this. With a mist this thick, I fear that we might get separated from each other.” Something passed over his toes, making him jump. What was going on?
He didn’t have time to reflect over what kind of creatures lurked in the mist because he was hit hard from behind, causing him to stumble. Only because Claw was holding his hand so tightly did he not meet the ground face first.
The bearshifter moved quickly, pushing Duril behind him, and facing whatever the mist was trying to throw at them. “Dammit,” he heard Claw muttering under his breath, “is it that thing all over again?”
What was the bear talking about? Duril kept close to him and tried to peek at whatever was going on, but the mist was too thick to allow him to see anything. However, it appeared that he didn’t have to struggle that much. A blade of sorts touched his cheek, leaving a stinging sensation in its stead. Duril let go of Claw to touch his cheek and he realized that he must have been cut.
Claw released a low growl, long and menacing. Duril could feel the hair on his head standing on end and shuddered, as more of the same creatures they could see only as shadows rushed toward them.
“Keep yourself close to me and guard your face,” Claw shouted. “I’m going to deal with this scum.”
Why did the bearshifter sound like this wasn’t the first time he had confronted the mist creatures? Duril did as he was told, shielding his head and wincing each time the back of his hand was brushed by whatever those sharp things were. The first time, he had thought it must have been a blade that cut so deeply inside his skin, but now he wasn’t sure anymore. The pain came together with the flapping of wings, which meant that they were fighting against tiny flying creatures with the power to inflict that sort of damage.
The sound of crunching bone poured ice into his veins, but as Claw’s growls grew louder, he realized that it was the bear catching those things and crushing them between his teeth. “I will teach you,” Claw snarled. “This is the last time you will go against me!”
So, he hadn’t been wrong to assume that Claw had fought these things before. Duril hated to be useless, but he didn’t want to give his companion something else to worry about by acting without thinking. Claw’s hands and face had to be bleeding by now, which meant that at least he could help by easing his pain later with his poultices and cures.
“Claw, wouldn’t it be better to shift?” he shouted while still keeping his head down.
“Would that I could,” Claw replied, and his words came as if through grinding teeth.
The hermit’s knowledge of laying traps had to be at work if someone as strong as Claw had been divested of half of himself just like that.
“What are these things?” Duril bellowed, to cover the cries of the creatures dying at Claw’s hands and teeth.
“Critters that eat your sleep and feed on your dreams,” Claw shouted back.
Sleep and dreams?
“I’ve seen them before,” Claw continued, his words punctuated by more ripping flesh, more crunching bones. “Under the house of merchants in Shroudharbor. They always attack when you’re asleep, the bastards!”
But they weren’t asleep, were they? Duril began searching frantically for an answer. “Claw,” he yelled, “close your eyes. This isn’t real! Just tell these bad dreams to be gone!”
He didn’t know if Claw had heard him or if he had any intention of listening to him. But when he closed his eyes, he felt as if the mist was lifting.
TBC
Comments
Laura S. Fox
Aw, thank you, Margaret, you're so kind!
MM
Oh gosh! You are a master storyteller!
