Chapter 7 The Raxxars

For lack of alternative plans, Roland and Berch agreed to accompany Windglow to his homeland of Tishaara, although Berch made it clear that the fellowship was temporary and merely the best of limited choices. “If I had a younger back and fresher legs I would stake a claim to this land right here and live off the land. But since I don’t, I don’t see as I got much choice.”

Berch’s willingness to settle in this new world surprised Roland. For himself, all he could think about, now that he was not frantically trying to save his skin, was how to get out of the realms and back home. So far, however, no one seemed to have a clue as to how to accomplish that, and so he saw little choice but to tag along with Windglow. The female seemed incapable of making any decision beyond which foot to place in front of the other, and went with them by default.

Freed from fear of pursuit, they slowed their pace. They spent leisurely days traveling through sparkling green meadows that smelled so sweet they made one hungry to walk among them. Gradually, even Berch came to see that there was something different about this Third Realm, although he continued to downplay its significance. Every step injected another volt of electric brilliance into the blue of the sky and the rainbow robes of flowers that burst into bloom before their eyes like popping corn. Purple clover and pink wild roses festooned the hillsides, rippling like a flag in the breeze. Each blade of grass and aspen leaf sharpened into focus as if under a magnifying glass. Butterflies glowed such brilliant red and orange they looked for all the world as if they were on fire.

Roland thought it a thoroughly enjoyable journey until they reached the foothills of a mist-clouded mountain range. There Windglow’s chipper spirits gave way to distraction. Before long, Roland found himself having to repeat nearly every comment and question. When Windglow began throwing glances around as if his head were on a swivel, Roland knew something was up.

In the absence of any known quantities that might explain Windglow’s skittishness, the old nightmares returned: a forest filled with torches; a man pushed to his death; the cruel rasp of the executioner who had vowed to kill him slowly. No, don’t let it be them! Please, not the Brookings! Don’t bring them back into this!

On several occasions that day, he thought he had heard a skittering in the brush, beyond the usual activity of chipmunks and meadowlark. Each time he started to ask a question about this, he would see the haunted eyes of the female and decided not to introduce any more terror into her life than was absolutely unavoidable. He reminded himself that both Cohasset and Windglow had declared the Third Realm to be off limits to his enemies. He tried hard to ignore the fact that he had seen nothing in the makeup of the land that would discourage any kind of pursuit, much less the highly-motivated kind he had inspired.

Equally disturbing was that Cohasset did not strike him as a man easily frightened, and yet he wanted no part of the Third Realm. Despite Windglow’s bland assurances, Roland could not help wondering if that fear had some basis other than superstition, and if so, what was he getting himself into?

The comforting assurance that someone like Devil Throat would not dare follow him into the Third Realm had its flip side as well. Great, if this fear had saved Roland’s life. Yet, if there was something in this realm that intimidated that soulless creature, Roland did not even want to imagine what it might be.

“What’s the matter?” Roland finally asked in a strangled whisper, after seeing Windglow stare hard into the shadows.

“I am not sure,” said Windglow.

“What do you think it might have been?”

“Probably nothing at all,” said Windglow, pasting on a sickly smile. “No, nothing. Wind, perhaps. Small animals scurrying in the brush. Let us be off, shall we?”

But his face could never support a lie, nor even a hedge. His discomfort and wariness put Roland back on edge, alert to every sound and movement about him. With the way Windglow twiddled his fingers, flared his nostrils and flinched at every sound, stared into the hills, and spoke in a woodenly cheerful stage voice, Roland wondered how the others could help but be alarmed. However, the still nameless female was wrapped up in her repertoire of morbid, inwardly focused thoughts and miseries. Berch, despite his digs at Roland’s toughness, took his sweet time bringing up the rear.

They waited until he caught up and then Windglow announced, with a weird breeziness,“You will notice the path is disappearing.”

“Is that so?” said Berch, with a yawn. “I never saw a path in the first place. I don’t think we’ve been on one since we crossed into this so-called realm.”

“From now on until the outskirts of Tishaara, there will be none. To avoid the risk of

splitting up, shall we stay closer together?”

“That’s up to you,” said Berch. “I didn’t hear anybody say this was a race. You walk slower, we’ll stay close. You keep playing hares and hounds up there, it ain’t gonna happen.”

Stay closer together? Now Roland knew something was up. But what? Why wouldn’t the guy tell what was going on? Pretty soon I’m going to come right out and demand some answers, no matter who gets spooked. Well, no, he probably wouldn’t--he never demanded anything. But he was going to at least ask some really pointed questions. Alright, at least he would ask some questions. Maybe.

Several days passed uneventfully, however, without a proper opportunity presenting itself. Windglow seemed more relaxed, and Roland had almost rid himself of worries by the time he awoke to find that winter had arrived during the night. He shivered under dew-covered blankets with his knees curled to his chest. He could hardly wait to get started on the day’s climb so that he could work some warmth back into his toes.

The travelers climbed a steep gorge into a conifer forest where dazzlingemerald needles turned to bronze when they fell to the ground, forming a slick rug that

shone like burnished armor in the sunlight. When Windglow suggested a break, a concession to the sharp grade of the ridge, Roland took a swig from the canteen and absently passed it back to the hand reaching out from the base of the boulder on which he leaned. An instant later, he remembered that he had been at the rear of the line that day. A stranger was helping himself to their water, so nonchalantly that Roland had to second-guess himself as to whether the man belonged with them or not.

Birch had no such identity problems. “Hey, give that back, you stinkin’ freeloader!” he shouted, reaching across Roland and ripping the canteen away from the intruder. “What do you think you’re doing? Where did you come from?”

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Roland stared at the stranger in disbelief. He seemed to be Roland’s age, but with large brown eyes sunk into a face too deeply creased with the lines of wisdom and experience for one so young. He was short and delicately featured, with a small, triangular face that came to a point at the chin, rather like a fox. His small bones swam in a loose-fitting brown cotton shirt and leggings and a half-empty pack.

“Is this who you saw following us?” asked Roland.

“You saw someone following us? And you never told me about it?” cried Berch. “You two keepin’ secrets up there?”

Windglow shook his head in astonishment.

“What’s the deal?” Roland wondered aloud. “Does everyone in these realms sneak up on you from out of thin air?”

“Is anyone here familiar with declarative sentences?” said the stranger.

“Sir, may we ask your name?” said Windglow, warily.

“Be my guest.”

After an awkward silence, Windglow asked, “Then, please, what is your name?”

“Digtry.”

“What are you doing here--stealing our water?” demanded Berch.

“I’m here at the request of Ehiloru.”

“The holy man? Why did he send you?” asked Berch.

“Protection.”

Eying Digtry’s slight physique, Berch broke into a loud guffaw. “You?! Protection from what?”

“Not sure. But you have company,” said Digtry, nodding at the hills, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

That nagging sense of dread flooded Roland’s entire body.

“Alas, that is so,” said Windglow. He seemed relieved to confess the secret he had been harboring so poorly. “I have twice spotted a Raxxar sneaking about. A Raxxar of all things!”

A Raxxar? Not a Brooking? Not Devil Throat? Roland breathed a little more easily. Not that he was entirely certain his sense of relief was merited. Windglow had described the Raxxars--wild, lawless, spiteful creatures that inhabited isolated mountain passes. The part about the bat wings that allowed them to soar and the jagged talons had made an especially vivid impression. The Raxxars’ Third Realm gift was courage. They were dumb, brutal beings who feared nothing. Once aroused, they were bold to the point where the prospect of violence attracted them like moths to light. As Windglow noted, courage without compassion or brains made a frightening combination.

“I thought you said they lived off to the south,” said Roland.

“They do,” said Windglow, his fearful eyes probing the shadows ahead. “I am beginning to believe someone has tipped the entire realmlands on its head. I have never heard of a Raxxar venturing this far north and east in my lifetime.”

“Are they dangerous?” asked Berch.

“That depends on their numbers and their mood. A Raxxar or two prowling about is unsettling to be sure, but--”

“I’m guessing a couple hundred,” said Digtry.

“What!” Windglow yelped. His face lost what little color it had. “Are you mad, begging your pardon? Where?” His fear was so contagious that Roland began to wonder if he had improved his position at all by entering this Third Realm.

Digtry swept his hand across the ridge.

“But, but-!” gasped Windglow, “have you any idea what those things are like when they start mobbing? What are they doing here?”

Digtry made no reply, but Roland thought he caught him throwing a critical glance in his direction. He stood numbly, strongly suspecting that he had escaped the hangman’s noose only to fall into his torture chamber. On the other hand, the malice of the Raxxars, (which Windglow had hinted could be considerable) would not be personal, and would be directed as much at his travel mates as at himself. There was some comfort, after all, in shared misery, if for no other reason than that it diffused the white-hot focus.

Gamely, he fought to control his panic, a battle that Windglow was losing badly.

“A couple hundred Raxxars, you say! If that is so we have no hope at all of making it through the mountains.”

Berch glared at Windglow with contempt. “You ever hear of a little thing called preparation? Like weapons, maybe? You’d think you would have the sense to--”

Digtry cut him off. “On what terrain do Raxxars prefer to fight?” he asked Windglow, as he shouldered his pack.

“What? Oh, uh, they are most effective in the open,” said an ashen Windglow. “Where they can use their gliding ability. I suppose if they were to choose a point of attack, they would wait until we were out of the woods and upon more open ground.” He gestured up the mountain. “Like the mesa at the top of this climb.”

“Good. That gives us time. May I lead?”

For a moment Windglow swayed in helpless indecision, rubbing his sweaty neck and moving his lips soundlessly. But even when frightened near his wits’ end, his

trusting nature bobbed unfailingly to the surface. He stopped wringing his hands long enough to gesture Digtry to assume the lead. Roland noted, with some discomfort, how willingly the Tishaaran had placed all of their lives in the hands of a total stranger.

It was a grim, silent, skittish group that trudged single-file up a goat track in the long shadows of dusk. Roland was busy trying to block out any clear features that were forming in his imagination from the sketchy description of the savage Raxxors when Digtry declared, “We camp here.”

No one could believe they had heard correctly. They stood on a steep, wooded slope perhaps a quarter mile below the summit. A few yards to the right, the mountain fell away at a harrowing angle to a valley far below.

“Are you nuts! A mountain goat wouldn’t camp here,” groused Berch. “Where’s a flat surface? Show me one flat surface! How are you going to sleep here?”

He had tolerated, for lack of a better word, all the incompetence he could stomach. So when Digtry drew Windglow off to the side and began speaking in hushed tones, Berch erupted in protest. “What do you think you’re doing, whispering like a couple of thieves over there? Out with it! What’s going on? You seen any more of them Racketmen?”

“Raxxars,” said Digtry, breaking away from the Tishaaran, who stood behind him shaking his head, fear etched into his face. “We shall discuss them in a moment. But first, refreshment. There is a spring ahead. You’ll see it from the other side of the split aspen. Berch, please escort the lady and Windglow there while Roland and I organize the camp.”

Berch’s scowl betrayed what he thought of this cocksure late-arrival taking over as if he owned the expedition. “Who do you think you are--”

“I said ‘please.’”

Berch glared at Digtry, who disinterestedly accepted the challenge of the staredown. With great reluctance Berch finally swore in disgust, took the nameless female’s hand, and led her slowly up the slope.

Windglow’s jaw hung nearly to his chest, and his shoulders drooped under the weight of impending disaster. Only when Digtry spun him around and gently nudged him did he follow the other two, furiously chewing on his fingernails.

As the three disappeared into the thick stand of hemlock near the spring, Roland grew increasingly anxious. If there really were Raxxars lurking about, it seemed criminally careless to split the group, especially in view of the growing shadows and the buffet of ambush opportunities. Nor did he appreciate being left alone with this questionable character. For all he knew, Digtry could be an agent of Rushbrook, an assassin as cruel and merciless as that butcher on the island. There was no doubt he had the ice in his veins that hired assassins required.

Roland licked his lips and looked anxiously at his friends disappearing into the trees. “Actually, I could use a drink myself.”

“No.”

“What do you mean? Who are you to--”

“Stay here.”

“Why?”

“I asked you to.”

“But I don’t even know you,” said Roland, trying to form at least a skirmish line of protest.

“This isn’t a marriage proposal.”

“Look, you just appear out of nowhere and I’m supposed to--”

“You don’t see the irony in that statement?”

“What do you mean?” asked Roland, thrown off balance again.

“Which of us appeared out of nowhere? Literally.”

“You know, I really need that drink. I’ll be right back.” He turned and took a step toward the spring.

“Move up that hill and you’re dead,” Digtry said quietly.

Roland froze.

“You and all your friends.”

Oh Lord! They should have known better than to trust him. None of them knew a thing about this character who offered no credentials other than a vague claimed acquaintance with some crazy holy man and with Cohasset. For all Roland knew, those two had been caught and were now chained to the rack in some torture closet. He tried to penetrate Digtry’s mask of calm, teetering in indecision, wondering whether to try and make a break for it and join the others.

Until Digtry added two words.

“And me.”