the road splitting.
Reaching the split, he slowed. The familiar sound of the Sil was gone. Running back, he searched for the statue, but it was nowhere, as if the woods had shifted, and panic roiled through him.
He was lost.
Overhead, thunder cracked, promising a storm to shake the land.
* * *
Rain came in sheets, cleaving the canopy, and falling on Gray’s makeshift shelter.
He had made camp beneath a marmon tree. Mura always called marmons the safe haven for the wayward traveler, for the hollow trunk and awning-like branches was a perfect shelter.
Cold and hungry, he pulled flint from his pack and sparked it against a stone, but with no luck. He eyed his sword at his side. The blade glinted through the cloth bundle. Curious, he grabbed it and struck the flint against the flat of the sword. Sparks flew, lighting the tinder. He laughed in success and saw the blade had not even a scratch.
Gnawing on a hunk of bread, Gray eyed the two trails, waiting to be chosen. He looked away, stoking the fire with a stick. He knew he should sleep, but he wasn’t tired. Instead, the fire of purpose burned in his gut. At last, he walked into the downpour to stand before the two trails. One path was shrouded in cobwebs, the other paved with green moss.
“Often what is darkest, is that which pretends to be light,” he quoted, remembering the words from the one of the tales of the Ronin. Mura told him people from beyond the forest said the Lost Woods were alive; that it had a mind of its own. But the woods had never betrayed him before.
The pendant grew warm. He pulled it from his shirt and it glowed silver. Curious, he stepped forward, lighting both paths in a silver tint. Rain soaked his hair and skin. He closed his eyes and held the pendant before him, following a strange instinct.
When he opened his eyes the pendant’s leather thong was parallel to the ground, as if pulled by a fierce wind towards the darker path. In wonder, he took a step toward the cobwebbed trail. The pendant pulsed as if in agreement. With a laugh of triumph, he snuffed his campfire, strapped on his sword and pack, and then plunged into the waiting trail.
Darkness enveloped him. What he could see, he almost wished he couldn’t. Enormous webs hung from tree to tree, blending with the mist, from which spiders clung, each bigger than his fist. They scuttled as he passed, but he continued. At last, shreds of light pierced the darkness and he realized that night had turned to morning.
The day wore on, the light faded again. With the return of night, the spiders crawled from the trees, watching him with red eyes. Twice, a thick web blocked his path and he pulled his blade free, cutting it down. Once, a spider fell upon his shoulder and he knocked it free, running until his legs burned; but still he jumped when a branch brushed his shoulder. He distracted himself by cutting a notch on his leather belt, marking the passing days. Two days, he counted now, starting from the day he fell from the cliff. He had to keep track of time. Five days until the spells wears off, he reminded himself. Which means, I only have three more to make it out of the woods. He marched through mist, web, and vine. As he walked, his wound itched fiercely. He wanted to check it. It’s healing, something told him, and he trusted it.
Gray moved as if he could see Lakewood around the bend. Only when his legs could move no more, he stopped; but only to kindle quick fires for a few short hours of sleep. In the light of the small fire, he nibbled on a small hunk of cheese, or sliver of dried meat; but his rations dwindled quickly, and each time his gut felt more empty than last. Worst of all, he dreaded sleep and the inevitable nightmares.
Always his dreams involved Mura. Most times he was back in the clearing where he had left the hermit. Mura would cry out, and each time Gray would turn and flee. Other times, he would see the misshapen image of Mura’s head on a pike, eyes glazed in
Reaching the split, he slowed. The familiar sound of the Sil was gone. Running back, he searched for the statue, but it was nowhere, as if the woods had shifted, and panic roiled through him.
He was lost.
Overhead, thunder cracked, promising a storm to shake the land.
* * *
Rain came in sheets, cleaving the canopy, and falling on Gray’s makeshift shelter.
He had made camp beneath a marmon tree. Mura always called marmons the safe haven for the wayward traveler, for the hollow trunk and awning-like branches was a perfect shelter.
Cold and hungry, he pulled flint from his pack and sparked it against a stone, but with no luck. He eyed his sword at his side. The blade glinted through the cloth bundle. Curious, he grabbed it and struck the flint against the flat of the sword. Sparks flew, lighting the tinder. He laughed in success and saw the blade had not even a scratch.
Gnawing on a hunk of bread, Gray eyed the two trails, waiting to be chosen. He looked away, stoking the fire with a stick. He knew he should sleep, but he wasn’t tired. Instead, the fire of purpose burned in his gut. At last, he walked into the downpour to stand before the two trails. One path was shrouded in cobwebs, the other paved with green moss.
“Often what is darkest, is that which pretends to be light,” he quoted, remembering the words from the one of the tales of the Ronin. Mura told him people from beyond the forest said the Lost Woods were alive; that it had a mind of its own. But the woods had never betrayed him before.
The pendant grew warm. He pulled it from his shirt and it glowed silver. Curious, he stepped forward, lighting both paths in a silver tint. Rain soaked his hair and skin. He closed his eyes and held the pendant before him, following a strange instinct.
When he opened his eyes the pendant’s leather thong was parallel to the ground, as if pulled by a fierce wind towards the darker path. In wonder, he took a step toward the cobwebbed trail. The pendant pulsed as if in agreement. With a laugh of triumph, he snuffed his campfire, strapped on his sword and pack, and then plunged into the waiting trail.
Darkness enveloped him. What he could see, he almost wished he couldn’t. Enormous webs hung from tree to tree, blending with the mist, from which spiders clung, each bigger than his fist. They scuttled as he passed, but he continued. At last, shreds of light pierced the darkness and he realized that night had turned to morning.
The day wore on, the light faded again. With the return of night, the spiders crawled from the trees, watching him with red eyes. Twice, a thick web blocked his path and he pulled his blade free, cutting it down. Once, a spider fell upon his shoulder and he knocked it free, running until his legs burned; but still he jumped when a branch brushed his shoulder. He distracted himself by cutting a notch on his leather belt, marking the passing days. Two days, he counted now, starting from the day he fell from the cliff. He had to keep track of time. Five days until the spells wears off, he reminded himself. Which means, I only have three more to make it out of the woods. He marched through mist, web, and vine. As he walked, his wound itched fiercely. He wanted to check it. It’s healing, something told him, and he trusted it.
Gray moved as if he could see Lakewood around the bend. Only when his legs could move no more, he stopped; but only to kindle quick fires for a few short hours of sleep. In the light of the small fire, he nibbled on a small hunk of cheese, or sliver of dried meat; but his rations dwindled quickly, and each time his gut felt more empty than last. Worst of all, he dreaded sleep and the inevitable nightmares.
Always his dreams involved Mura. Most times he was back in the clearing where he had left the hermit. Mura would cry out, and each time Gray would turn and flee. Other times, he would see the misshapen image of Mura’s head on a pike, eyes glazed in
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