The Withering Pt.2

  The Withering began like a sickness, a darkening; the greying of the leaf, drying of berries, a cracking and weakening of nut and seed. In time the bark seemed to dry and shrink, stretching thin and splitting, exposing the inner wood. That wood had taken on a sickly pale color, yet with a disruption to the grain. Fruit trees produced altered versions of their fruit, yellowed and darkened, mealy and bitter.

  A blight had befallen the wood. Within weeks, creatures had fled, when they could, or died, as this strange menace manifested further into the heart of Shahda. No folk or creatures could withstand the blight, save those that fed on death. Though, even among those ranks, it was not a time of harvest. The wolves and bears would not eat those dead. The hawks and carrion birds had gone. The crows stayed on to observe and to recall the dark happenings, as is their way.

  The hnagral alone seemed to relish this bitter yield, and increased from this fetid harvest of doom.

  The devastation broke the heart of the great forest and was a heavy weight on the soul of old Gantu, who was hard set upon to halt the flow of that dark affliction. Gantu had built up a mounded barrier in the western wood that he hoped would hold off the Withering for good, or for time enough to find solutions. Though, in truth, the outlook was very grim. The affliction had taken hold so swiftly.

  At first he had traveled east to see to the ailing trees. Unable to heal them, he had returned to the central wood to consult with the Old Ones and the sheeves of Lore that they held. While there in consultation, the Withering had spread quickly, unchecked.

  The Old ones and Gantu were certain this was not natural in origin. But who would unleash such a horror on the land, such a terrible curse? And why?

  Coming as it did from the eastern edge of the great Wood, it was logical to question the involvement of the Nuarmen, and their questionable practices. Shahda had always scorned them and offered no shelter to their kind. Yet this seemed so far beyond their capabilities. And their numbers had never been great, restrained as they were by the ill-liked hnagral; an odd balance of unpleasant forces.

  There was a whispered legend among the darkest hnagral, of a great circle around the sun. A fire-serpent being devoured by darkness, even as she devours the firey sun. Wie Hatherunginir - the Withering of the Light, it was called. But that was just a legend; a tale to scare Nuarmen and children. Or so it had been believed.

  Not many knew the deeper origins of the ancient hnagral. Gantu knew more than most. He knew of the deep earth and the old stone, the cave and crevice, the dark and down-below. He knew of the shadow underground, as well as the fires under earth and of liquid stone. The deep dark old secrets of the world, secrets of long ago. And often long forgotten as well.

  If this was tied back to those old legends of withering, this Wie Hatherunginir, it had not sprung forth of its own accord. Someone had unleashed this horror. Or something.



  Far to the East, in a dark cave of Night’s own cloak, an eye gazed upon the Withering wood with a cold satisfaction. All was according to plan. A dark and dire plan set forth many years ago, when a young mage fought a fantastic dual with an ancient sorcerer, a dark wizard of the Sethern Vas, enemies of the Sun. Mercy would become a curse. Death would visit life, ten fold. Debts would be repaid. Cold. Calculating. Oh yes. He would be repaid for what he’d done. If it took a thousand years. That cold eye looked out from the empty darkness and gazed upon the Withering that it had unleashed.



  Back in the Withering wood, Gantu prepared powerful magics he had hoped would reverse the illness infesting his realm. These he tried. As each failed, and more of the forest would succumb to blight, Gantu grew more despondent and morose. The forest had grown weaker and weaker, and Gantu had to draw on other sources of power as he tried to halt the flow. In the end, he had to return to the oldest of the earth powers that he knew. It was not without cost, but the stakes had grown. If this Withering was not held back, it would flow unbound over the whole of the natural world.

  Gantu readied himself for this massive undertaking. He would sever the land itself, creating a great rift so deep that the plants and the Withering blight could not cross it. And there he would remain upon the other side, to keep watch. And maybe, in time, learn to reverse that plague. If that was even possible. The fire of his hope was fading, though it was not yet extinguished.

  In time, and with great effort, Gantu performed the magic and the land was ripped violently apart. It split and foul vapors burst forth along with tremendous heat and strange lights and energies. The eastern edge dropped while the western shore heaved higher. The nearest edge of the wood caught fire from the violent energies and heat, yet it did not burn for long. The Withering had changed the wood.

  In the tumult and upheaval of the rifting, a promontory of rock was raised up on the western side of the rift. With the aid of magic and men, Gantu built a tower of old stone high up on the rock. From there he would watch and wait and learn what he could.

  Time passed and the folk of that land on the edge aided old Gantu in many failed attempts to alter fate. Over those years, the rift filled as melt water from up in the old mountains wandered its way down to the sea. It proved both a blessing and a curse. It provided much needed water to that lonely tower and the isolated folk who dwelt there. Yet it also allowed some plants to cross the gap, however slowly. And so as creeping fingers, the Withering spread.

  One evil thorny finger of that dark withered hand came eventually to visit old Gantu. That thorny-vine weed secreted itself, and grew and grew through that tower. Till the day it caught old Gantu in his sleep and killed that fine old Badger sage, the greatest and best high mage of Shahda.

  They sealed up the tower then. And rarely was it entered.

  I broke in and said what of the daughters? And of the Dukes of Mourn? And for that matter, what of the castle itself? Kob looked at me with a most disapproving expression and sighed heavily. It seemed he needed additional lubrication if he was to complete this grand tale.

  The sun was low in the sky and I realized I might be staying in town for the night if I wanted to record this story. As I ordered another round, I inquired about lodgings from the pleasant woman behind the counter. She set to full mugs on the bar with a slosh and told me I was out of luck. This little village had no inn. I asked about a spare room to let but she said no chance. Apparently I looked too questionable for sensible bar maids to take a chance on.

  I chuckled as I brought Kob his brew. It would be another night under the stars. The glorious wonders of the night sky, and a rock in the back. Kob drew deep on the fresh mug of brew, bitter and warm. He began where he had left off.

  When old Gantu died, they had nearly given up. Many had, and left for other lands. But those closest to Gantu and to the Great Wood, those who were ’of the wood’, could not. They built a small village at the base of the tower rock. In time it grew and walls went up, being replaced and upgraded till sturdy stone was the norm. Those who remained would carry on with the task Gantu had left them; to keep the Withering at bay, reverse it if they could.

  Their quest was a thankless one. And sad. For, to keep this blight at bay, they must cut down all the new growth upon their side of the Skardfloe, as it runs through the old rift. The task was doubly sour for them as most were ‘of the wood’ and lovers of leaf and limb, green bud and vibrant stalk. But there was naught else to be done. This was the way, however dire.

  Those of this place were known as the Mourners of Shahda, and the Faithful, the True of Gantu. And the bold ones who would lead them came to be known as the Dukes of Mourn. For the village came to be called Mourn, and the soul of Sorrow, sitting out there on the edge of the Withering by the Rift of Gantu, last bastion against the blight.

  Yet not all who called Mourn home were of the wood. As time stretched, the Legend of Mourn went far, and was told and retold. Some who heard the tale sought out the place.

  And so it was that a bold young woman from a far land came one day, with her brothers, and renewed the waning spirit of that dire place. It was from far off in Vidasvard, out in Nord, a cold and rugged place. And rugged and hardy were Alora and her two older brothers, Rolard and Agorn. Big and bold were they, as well are all the folk of Nord, northwest of the land of Nok and a great distance yet beyond. They were a welcome and mighty aid to the folk of Mourn and eased the task of the ever-felling of the growth at the fringe.

  Solon, the current young Duke of Mourn, was fast friends with the mighty brothers from afar. And well too did Solon shine when Alora was near, but spoke not of it. For this was Mourn. And he had other responsibilities. Alora understood this well and kept her tongue, for a time. But not long. For what little joy could be had in Mourn, she had thought, should be grabbed swiftly, held surely, and enjoyed all the more thoroughly for its rarity, in spite of the Withering.

  She eventually told Solon so. And kissed him, such that the Duke could not speak for a full tenner, such was his shock and delight. The brothers of Nord laughed loudly and sang a bawdy rhyme of their homeland, as Alora grinned at an ever-reddening blushed Duke of Mourn. Several Mourners chuckled as they passed, with wide grins as well.

  A new season was upon the village of Mourn. And the spirit of Shahda returned to the halls. As if by some strange magic, the viney-thorned creeper of long ago that had been the end of Gantu and had been thought eradicated, had in fact been growing. Secretly, in hidden cracks and crevices of the old tower and the rocky heights, that old vine had grown thick with age, and had changed. The Withering that had once infected it, seemed gone. It grew, green and fine, out of the tower windows seeking sun. Fresh buds and pale flowers bloomed on days when the dreary clouds let the sun shine down on old Mourn.

  Alora and Solon had taken to each other, and it was not long before Alora was with child. Or, as it happened, with more than one. In the fullness of time they had two daughters, Riga and Jena. Of mourn, and of Vadisvard, of Nord, by extension.

  That year, a feeling of hope and determination spread. And Solon decided that he would commemorate this monumental occasion by dedicating it to the woman who had brought such new joy and vigor to those old stone walls, those cold stone halls; Castle Vidasvard.

  And her brothers, those giants of Nord, now smiling uncles, he made stewards of Mourn. Life felt a little more bright. Children laughed and played within the walls. And that mysterious vine grew and seemed almost like a tree, rooted in the rock of the tower. The fair scent from the flowers would drift down to the castle in the evenings. And Solon believed he might just be happy here, for the first time in his life.

  But this village is called Mourn, and not for naught. Things moved on the edge of the scene, unobserved and unobstructed.



  Far to the east, but not as far as before, in a dark crevice of black night, hidden out in the once great wood, a cold eye looked out from the Withering wold. A cold eye that knew no remorse, nor pity. No love at all was within. All desire had turned toward death. And ruin. The Withering was the cloak of its soul; dark, twisted, unhealthy, and unwelcoming. A plague that would infest anything that it touched. Or anyone. Even if they were stout and true and a noble giant of a man of Nord.

  As winter crept in, the daughters were growing into small children and their parents were happy, Alora and Solon. Out in the snow, Agorn would play with his nieces and tell them stories they could not yet understand. But he told them anyway. There was a great bond there. No less was the bond with Rolard, but he was often away. He sought to understand the nature of the Withering, that he might defeat it and so end the threat to his family and the people of Mourn that he had come to love.

  As is the way of Nord, he was brash and quick to action. He had taken to traveling further into the Witherwold with his scouts, a select group of folk daring enough to aid him in these reckless ventures. One of them was a middling adept. She had learned from the old sheeves that Gantu had brought to the tower long ago. No one should have been in that old tower, but Aelis was never one to listen to orders. She was wild. She was ‘of the wood’. And she had dreams of great things. She would show that damn Withering that the true and natural wood could not be defeated forever.

  She had heard the old tales of Gantu and had loved that old sage and all that he’d done for the wood, and for middlings like her. For everyone, really, when you thought about it.

  She learned from the old knowledge. In secret. In the tower. When no one noticed. It was Aelis who had suggested to Rolard that they might find the source of the Withering out there, in the festering wood, wilder and darker than a fevered dream. And so, in secret, they had formed their little band. Over months, they’d been taking more and more risks, riding farther and farther each time.

  On one such trip, they had found a strange thing. It seemed like a hnagral, but was much altered and near dead. Aelis suggested that they take it and study it, and Rolard, who knew no better, had agreed. That creature should have been left where they found it. But such is the way of the foolhardy, the brave, and the uniformed.

  Solon had heard rumors that some mourners were out roaming, longer and for reasons not known. He asked around and ultimately came to Rolard, who was reluctant to answer his questions. Dark fortune intervened and Rolard was called away. Thus it passed, but left Solon more concerned than before.

  Off in the dark lower section of Gantu’s tower, Aelis poked and prodded the near dead hnagral. Dry, cracked, and almost charred looking, it was obvious that it was in pain. Aelis did not notice. But if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. No one would. The hnagral were seen as evil little vermin. Beasts to be trapped, killed, and gotten rid of whenever possible. Many folk believed that the hnagral had brought this Withering plague. But they were just scared, worried, little folk who were fearful of a great many things in a world full of dark, dangerous strangeness.

  But, as it turned out, it was right to be afraid. This hnagral, withered as it was, would prove a dark bane. To someone. Yet, it did bring them closer to truth. Upon its underside was a mark. Small, but very distinct. Gantu would have known it right away. It took Aelis a bit longer to work it out. And not the least due to the creature coming up missing.

  On the night after the hnagral arrived, which was unknown to most all in Mourn, Solon was taken with a bad fever and was given the Nain to help him sleep. It would help with the fever as well. As he slept in a deep repose, he had a most unusual dream. A figure seemed to manifest, just beyond the focus of his mind’s eye. He could not see it clear, nor fully understand its words, but what he could make out led him to worry in his fevered unconscious state.

  He had many other strange dreams over the next few days, for his fever lasted a week, and was a close thing.

  When he finally woke, weakened but free of fever, people looked at once cheerful, yet sad and worn down. No one would explain, at first, but the reddened face of Agorn and the absence of Alora painted a frightening picture. Solon demanded answers in a ragged, broken voice, almost screaming yet on the verge of tears.

  She was dead. Alora was gone. Agorn could barely get the words out.

  Solon broke down. He did not have the strength for this. All were sent away. In a while, he came to seek the full story. It was Agorn who told him, as he sat with the children, his sad runny-nosed little nieces. The hnagral that was both more and less than a hnagral had been the cause. And that required the story of his brother, Rolard and his secret crew, all of whom were gone.

  No, they did not flee, though guilt and remorse drove them. No. They had made a minor discovery, perhaps a major one. Time would tell. And they had rode out seeking justice. Retribution. Full-hearted and furious revenge.

  Solon learned of what they had been up to and what Aelis had discovered. The tiny mark of a Syrpynd. Something almost unbelievable. This meant that they did exist. It wasn’t just a myth. And they were facing one!?!
Solon closed his eyes and wept. For his love, now gone. For his daughters, and their future. For friends past, and that pure great wood, gone to ruin. And for himself, in a dark world, getting darker every day.

  After a while, he wiped his face and opened his red eyes. Looking firmly at Agorn, he asked for all that he knew about the discovery and where the group had headed off to. When Agorn was through, Solon, Duke of Mourn, stood. He walked over to his young daughters. He picked them up and gently embraced them. He kissed them both on the forehead and touched each upon the nose. One gentle touch, and lowered them back to their blanket.

  Without a word, the Duke of Mourn, more grim than any had ever seen him, assembled his gear and prepared his horse. He made one brief detour. He opened the door to Gantu’s tower. None had openly done so during his lifetime. He strode the stairs to the top of the tower and looked out over the land, east and west. He took several flowers from that gristled old viney thing that smelled of sweet spice, and hinted at a secret story few understood.

  Then he descended, walked out of the tower, mounted his dapple grey horse and rode away. After crossing the Skardfloe, he headed east, into the heart of the Witherwold. Grim Death smiled upon him and wished him well on his venture. It was dark business. And he had grown very dark indeed.

  He was the last Duke of Mourn.

  Kob stopped. He looked into his empty mug and set it down on the old worn table. I asked what happened next and he said he didn’t know. That was the tale he’d been told, and sadly news from abroad was not frequent in their little village. I’d have to find another to tell me more, if more there was to tell. All he could say was that those young ones grew up orphaned. But they grew up. And they were tough. And determined. That he did know.

  I thanked him for the tale and his time. It was late. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I was hooked. I had to know more. I’m too curious at the best of times.

  The night was upon me and I had nowhere to go. Kob had gotten up and hobbled down the road, toward home, I presumed. It was a nice starry, moonlit night, so I grabbed my gear and set out back along the road to Nohkanda.
[to be continued...]
copyright 2019 John Stevenson