sliver of moon sailed through wisps of cloud, its slender illumination falling on the fields before her. The shadows under the eaves of the house were very black, but she dared make no light. She thought of running back indoors and slamming down the bar, but she firmly put that thought aside. I’m a Bard, she told herself again. I shouldn’t be afraid. She could hear something breathing in heavy, shuddering grunts. She focused her perceptions: whatever was wrong was coming from the orchard, among the darkest shadows thrown by the trees. The ground there was stippled, grey and black and silver. Step by step, wincing at the smallest rustle made by her bare feet, she crept towards it.
She was almost at the orchard when she heard the groan again. It was much louder out here in the open: she stopped mid-step, her stomach flipping over with terror. What was it? It sounded like an animal in an extremity of distress: or perhaps a human, driven past the limits of speech by terrible pain. It was there, at the far end of the orchard. She could see where the shadows thickened on the ground into a figure. Slowly she put her foot down, feeling carefully so she wouldn’t snap a twig, and drew closer. Among the trees she felt trapped, as if she were entering a closed room: a silence seemed to have fallen around her, as if every living thing were holding its breath, hiding from some great predator.
Selmana tested her shield again, and strengthened it. The kitchen knife felt cold in her hand, and sadly inadequate. It was good steel, sharp enough to cut bone. It was all she had. She paused, and changed her grip so she was holding it clamped in her fist, ready to drive into anything that attacked her. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and she could see the tangle of shadow branches on the grass and the faint glimmer of the trunks under the leaves, but the clot of shadow before her resolved into no certain shape.
She had never been so afraid. She thought again about turning back. Even though she was a Bard, she was only a Minor Bard, and there was so much she didn’t know. But she didn’t turn back. She had come this far, and she would despise herself if she ran away now. She ran through the words of power in her mind, readying herself, and crept on, keeping to the shelter of the trees.
She could see it more clearly now, but she still couldn’t make out what it was, although she could smell it. A rank scent, an animal. Then it seemed to twist and fall over, letting out the horrible groan again, and a cloud lifted from the moon, and the form condensed into something recognizable. It was a wild pig, a boar. It was trembling violently, and its flanks heaved in and out as it drew breath after shuddering breath. Its jaws were slathered with foam, and she could see the whites of its eyes. The grass beneath it was violently churned up: it had been in the same place for some time. She had never seen an animal in such agony. It was unbearable even to witness.
Even as she realized this, the air seemed to thicken, as if the darkness solidified into something malign that sought to invade her mouth and nose and ears, seeking a way inside her. All around was an awful pressure, a heaviness that pushed her down to her knees, down further, until her mouth was pressed against the earth. Her pulse pounded in her ears, as if she were drowning. Selmana twisted in panic, crying out the word for Bardic fire:
Noroch!
The white flame sprang out of her, a fierce blaze that flared vividly against the night, so she was blinded. For a few dreadful moments, she could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. She only knew that the dreadful pressure had lifted.
She lay on the grass, gulping in air, conscious only of relief that she could breathe again. Then fear caught her up and she scrambled to her feet, grabbing the knife that she had dropped. She looked around, sobbing. Above her the branches of the apple trees still smouldered from the white fire,
She was almost at the orchard when she heard the groan again. It was much louder out here in the open: she stopped mid-step, her stomach flipping over with terror. What was it? It sounded like an animal in an extremity of distress: or perhaps a human, driven past the limits of speech by terrible pain. It was there, at the far end of the orchard. She could see where the shadows thickened on the ground into a figure. Slowly she put her foot down, feeling carefully so she wouldn’t snap a twig, and drew closer. Among the trees she felt trapped, as if she were entering a closed room: a silence seemed to have fallen around her, as if every living thing were holding its breath, hiding from some great predator.
Selmana tested her shield again, and strengthened it. The kitchen knife felt cold in her hand, and sadly inadequate. It was good steel, sharp enough to cut bone. It was all she had. She paused, and changed her grip so she was holding it clamped in her fist, ready to drive into anything that attacked her. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and she could see the tangle of shadow branches on the grass and the faint glimmer of the trunks under the leaves, but the clot of shadow before her resolved into no certain shape.
She had never been so afraid. She thought again about turning back. Even though she was a Bard, she was only a Minor Bard, and there was so much she didn’t know. But she didn’t turn back. She had come this far, and she would despise herself if she ran away now. She ran through the words of power in her mind, readying herself, and crept on, keeping to the shelter of the trees.
She could see it more clearly now, but she still couldn’t make out what it was, although she could smell it. A rank scent, an animal. Then it seemed to twist and fall over, letting out the horrible groan again, and a cloud lifted from the moon, and the form condensed into something recognizable. It was a wild pig, a boar. It was trembling violently, and its flanks heaved in and out as it drew breath after shuddering breath. Its jaws were slathered with foam, and she could see the whites of its eyes. The grass beneath it was violently churned up: it had been in the same place for some time. She had never seen an animal in such agony. It was unbearable even to witness.
Even as she realized this, the air seemed to thicken, as if the darkness solidified into something malign that sought to invade her mouth and nose and ears, seeking a way inside her. All around was an awful pressure, a heaviness that pushed her down to her knees, down further, until her mouth was pressed against the earth. Her pulse pounded in her ears, as if she were drowning. Selmana twisted in panic, crying out the word for Bardic fire:
Noroch!
The white flame sprang out of her, a fierce blaze that flared vividly against the night, so she was blinded. For a few dreadful moments, she could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. She only knew that the dreadful pressure had lifted.
She lay on the grass, gulping in air, conscious only of relief that she could breathe again. Then fear caught her up and she scrambled to her feet, grabbing the knife that she had dropped. She looked around, sobbing. Above her the branches of the apple trees still smouldered from the white fire,
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