Into Forbidden Lands

Days became moons and still they tarried. Seasons changed, summer slipped into autumn and finally winter was upon them, bringing the rains. The Heartwood mirrored the changes of the earth-cycles, the trees ablaze in their russet and gold garments before shedding all to stand naked in winter’s embrace.

The night skies were often filled with dense cloud. Irrsche, the Goddess of Dark, had grown stronger and now tinged the world with her unsettling red glow, robbing the night of the balm of darkness. Even during the daylight hours, the Illstar was visible, a stain of blood in the pure cerulean heavens of Âtras.

In time the rains turned to snow and the ground hardened with the cold.

Illiom and Tarmel shared a nook inside one of the Soultrees and from there they surveyed the beautiful, still world outside.

“You know this is all about to end?”

The Rider nodded and managed a small smile.

“Yes, but at the same time I have a feeling that this will never end.”

She smiled and stroked his cheek.

“You have seen it too, my beloved?”

He nodded again, looking at the expanse of snow and the frozen shores of the lake below before turning to meet her eyes.

“This will never end,” he repeated, and brought her hand up to his heart.

Three days later Hocri called a gathering.

They met in a sheltered grove that was completely protected from winter’s dominion.

“The time has come,” the Elleyadim stated. “The Wood wishes us to escort you as far as the western edge of the forest where the wasteland begins. We will depart in the morning.”

It was the last day of Howling, the twelfth moon. The morrow would usher in the Dragonmoon, and only twenty-eight days remained before the Illignment.

“How long will it take us to reach the Wood’s edge?” asked Malco.

“Four days.”

“And how far to the Onceland Sea from there?”

“As I have never been outside the Wood, I cannot say. Elleya’s tales suggest that they reached the forest within a handful of days after leaving the shores of the sea.”

The moment had finally arrived and Illiom felt a knot dissolve in the pit of her stomach. Anticipating their departure had brought up feelings of fear and excitement, yet all she now felt was a calm resolve.

“We had better prepare immediately,” Argolan said, once Malco had translated Hocri’s words. The Shieldarm’s eyes were steel and fire.

That night Illiom and Tarmel retired early.

Illiom knew that this could possibly be their last opportunity to enjoy such privacy with each other. They loved, and the intensity of their union was heightened by the uncertainty that lay ahead.

They lay entwined, murmuring to each other as lovers often do, eventually drifting into sleep.

Illiom was restless though, disturbed by a nightmare of death and destruction. She dreamed she stood in the midst of a devastation where a sea, filled with carcasses, lapped against the shores of a blackened and lifeless land.

An apparition pointed towards the sea.

“There are only seven Chosen,” it said with finality.

Illiom looked out at the water and saw in the distance a barren island, a pinnacle of rock with sheer sides that vanished into the churning waters.

“Only the Chosen can go beyond this shore.”

She peered questioningly at the speaker, but the cowled figure turned away.

“Any other who tries will die.”

Illiom was instantly awake, her breathing agitated. Calming down, she gazed at her lover lying asleep beside her, barely visible in the faint light.

She was still awake when dawn’s light stole softly into their little sanctuary.

Later, the group gathered beneath the Soultrees, but before Illiom could mention her dream, Azulya spoke.

“I need to speak with the Chosen, alone.”

As soon as the others were gone she continued.

“I had a dream last night, and in it I received …”

“A warning?” Sereth interrupted. “That no one but the Chosen should proceed past the shores of the Onceland Sea?”

Azulya nodded, as did they all.

“It seems we have all had the same dream. What are we going to do?”

“I do not want anyone else to die,” said Elan.

Malco turned on her with a scowl.

“Of course not! We will have to go alone.”

“And who is going to tell them?” Sereth asked.

“We all will,” Azulya said. “They will listen to us if we speak with one voice.”

“No!”

Tarmel was clearly distressed.

“I will not hear of it! Where Illiom goes, I go!”

His expression was grim, his hands balled into fists as though ready to fight anyone who attempted to convince him otherwise.

The other Riders, while not quite as vocal as Tarmel, seemed just as determined.

“I do not like this either,” Grifor said. “We have come this far together, and now this?”

Her words were echoed by the other Riders.

“This is not your decision,” Argolan said with finality. “We are committed to your protection. We were appointed by Queen Eranel herself. We intend to fulfil our duty, regardless of any dreams.”

Azulya stepped up to her.

“Actually, it is our decision, Argolan. We are the Chosen.”

Her voice was soft, but her tone was uncompromising.

Argolan held Azulya’s gaze for a few moments, then her shoulders slumped and she turned away with a nod.

“Very well, if that is what you must do.”

“I refuse!” Tarmel spat and glowered.

“Tarmel, you cannot,” Illiom pleaded. “I do not want to lose you!”

“And do you think that I want to lose you? While I am doing what? Lying about in a forest, waiting to hear that you have been killed? I prefer to die myself than have to bear that.”

Illiom placed a hand on his shoulder.

“But beloved, my death is far from certain, but if you come, yours will be! You must not accompany me.”

Tarmel looked down at her hand, and for a moment Illiom thought that he would brush it away in anger. Instead he took it in his own and brought it up to his lips.

“What if your dreams were sent by the Bloodrobes?” he demanded. “What if it is a ploy to get you to do just this, to rid yourselves of all protection? Illiom, if you are to die, I will be alongside you. I will die with you. There would be no life for me if you were gone.”

She pulled him to her and held him. She could hear his distress in his breathing.

“I love you,” she whispered softly, so that only he could hear. “I do not believe that I will die. And when I do return, I will need you by my side, my beautiful Rider.”

She rained gentle kisses upon his face.

“Please! Please stay here with the others and wait for my return. Do this for me.”

Tarmel looked at her, long and hard.

His eyes brimmed with sorrow and uncertainty.

It pained her to see him so.

“No,” he replied softly. “I cannot stay here. I will come with you, at least as far as I can.”

He turned to the other Chosen. “Your dream seems to indicate that we should not venture past the shores of the Onceland Sea, am I right?”

Azulya nodded and he turned back to Illiom.

“Then that is where I will stop.”

He spoke calmly now that he had reached a decision.

“But I promise you this, if you do not return I will come looking for you.”

They left the Soultrees with heavy hearts.

The Woedim carried all their gear and their supplies, which was fortunate, for the path out of the Heartwood’s beautiful valley proved much more challenging than the way in.

When their passage became impassable the Woedim bore them over the rugged terrain. The slipperiness of the wet, moss-covered stones did not seem to impede their progress and by day’s end they had gained the top of the cliffs.

By comparison, the following day’s march felt to Illiom like a leisurely stroll. She marvelled at Hocri who, despite his age, kept pace lightly and easily.

As they travelled through the Wood, more Woedim joined them, falling in alongside the main group.

“Maybe the Wood is making a final display of support for you and your mission,” answered Hocri when Azulya asked him about their growing number.

On the fourth day they noticed that the trees were becoming increasingly stunted and warped. Their branches twisted, leaning westward, and their roots protruded from the earth to form a formidable barrier against anything approaching from the west.

There was a change in the Elleyadim and for the first time since she had met them, Illiom noticed that Hocri and his companions were visibly ill at ease. They had slowed their pace and were looking about cautiously, a few of them even readying their bows.

They were nearing the edge of the forest.

Ahead, the thorny barrier had parted to allow them passage. Beyond was a completely denuded landscape, dotted only with the remains of dead trees that jutted out of the snow like broken bones, charred black by fire.

A chill wind howled directly into their faces and Illiom drew her cloak tightly around her, burying herself deep within the cocoon of her hood.

Then suddenly she spun away from the others, leaned for support against the nearest tree, and retched.

Tarmel rushed towards her.

“What is the matter, Illiom?”

“Is it not obvious?” Scald remarked. “Just look at this place.”

The party was about to resume their march, but the Elleyadim did not move.

“We can go no further,” Hocri announced. “From here on you must travel alone.”

However, even as he spoke these words, several Woedim walked past. They did not pause, but headed straight out into the wasteland beyond the forest.

Hocri blanched, appalled.

“This has never happened before! The Woedim never leave the Werewood. They will not survive.”

His voice caught in his throat.

Hundreds of Woedim were now stepping away from the protection of the forest.

Illiom reached out for the old man and embraced him.

“Thank you for everything,” she said, before disengaging. “I hope we will see you when we pass this way again.”

She moved aside while the others bade farewell to the kindly old man.

The party then turned towards the Elleyadim gathered behind Hocri, bowing in a final farewell before leaving the Werewood’s protection to join the waiting Woedim in the wastelands beyond.

The number of forest folk gathered was even greater than they had anticipated.

“There must be thousands,” Tarmel said in an awed tone.

“The Werewood has given us an army!” Malco exclaimed with glee.

When Illiom turned to look back at Hocri, he and the other Elleyadim were gone. The path had sealed shut behind them as though it had never existed.

The Werewood was forbidding and impenetrable once more.

Illiom turned her face towards the cold wind and together the party of humans and their accompanying army marched westwards.