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"These are the areas of interest, but it would do well to get a more accurate map. Tomorrow we'll fan out and measure. The day after that we shall journey to our second camp site, probably about here. From there, we should be able to reach the base of the mountain," Arn, the prospector said, tapping on various locations of the crude map.
Arn and Benold were standing in a large tent, with the din of men settling in for the evening casting a backdrop over the buzzing of insects. The voyage back to the Forbidden Isles was been uneventful, and it was time for the real work to be done. He'd arranged a much larger team for this expedition, loath to make the same mistakes as before.
"It's best we head further northwest than that, to get closer to this river. I suspect the best deposits will be found there. But before crossing this threshold I marked in brown, we need to stop here, at the twin boulders and make a burnt sacrifice," Stellan said, drawing attention to features on the map.
"It really is a shame to waste such a fine ram," Benold murmured.
"You will not consider it a waste when it appeases the mountain spirit." Stellan countered sharply. He sighed and continued in a softer tone. "Although he'll be the main obstacle, there are other spirits that can be troublesome. If you see a water spouts and then an old man or a fair horse nearby, be wary. And don't follow any dancing lights at night."
"Oh, we are well acquainted with will-o-wisps," Arn said as he looked up from the papers. "Maybe we'll camp closer to the boulders. Leading a sheep far through the forest is inviting trouble."
"I concur," Benold said decisively. However, the confidence was a ruse as his mind was otherwise preoccupied as he kept looking at the elevated cot he'd brought along. How lonely it seemed, shoved in the corner of the large octagonal tent. He wondered if Trosyn was alright. But he also found himself wondering how Caorain was faring. For that matter, how Mrs. Gray was coping with her in her charge. What a mess.
Benold's thoughts were drowned out by irritation. A smell offended his olfactory senses, and he sniffed despite the odious odour, trying to identify it. It was smoky, but also sulphurous. There was also something fishy about it. He blinked a few times, interrupting the men discussing the finer details of the expedition. "What is that smell?"
Stellan stopped what he was saying mid sentence to sniff the air. Following, his face was stricken pale. "Oh no... no no no!" Stellan rushed out of the tent.
"What? What is it?" Benold demanded, going after him, followed by the bewildered prospector.
"Stop that! Stop that now! Put it out!" Stellan hollered at the men surrounding the camp fire. The man with a handful of scraggly kindling looked up in astonishment, but did not oblige Stellan's desperate pleas.
Stellan charged at the fire, kicking dirt onto it.
"Hey!"
"Don't burn seaweed! It's dangerous!" Stellan admonished. "It attracts him!"
"Who!?" Benold demanded. "What are you on about?"
Stellan was too busy grabbing the pile of dried seaweed to answer. Instead, Benold's inquiries were met with a sound like an intense gale whistling through trees. Yet not a single leaf ruffled. Hooves thundered, men shouted and pointed.
Benold rubbed his eyes and felt a pang of pins and needles as he gazed at the monstrosity that had broken into the clearing. Sinewy and devoid of skin was an grotesque horse with a hideously misshapen rider on its back. The equine had a single red eye that glowed malevolently as it snorted out a yellowish plume, which withered nearby plants. The flayed horse reared up on its hind legs, which had curious fins protruding from them. Benold covered his ears and quaked as the creature unleashed an otherworldly shriek. To his horror, when it came bounding towards the camp, he realised it did not have a rider. Nay, the humanoid figure, whose over-sized head lolled side to side as if too weak to hold it up, grew out of the horse's back, with disproportionately long arms trailing down its flanks.
Benold ran into the tent to fetch his rifle, shouting of orders as he did so. He could hear the horses they'd brought with them whinnying and stamping. With his gun loaded, Benold stepped out, primed for action.
A man dove out of the way lest he be trampled by the rampaging creature while someone else screamed to set the horses free. The horses' nostrils flared, and their ears pinned back. One of the men rushed over, cutting the tethers, and was kicked and trampled in the horses' frenzy to get away. They all scattered in different directions as the loathsome horror reached the hitching post. The monster reared again and stamped the ground, as if deciding what to attack next. During its hesitation, Benold took his shot, aiming for one of its heads.
BOOM!
The gunshot echoed and the large head wrenched to the side as black blood spurt out from the wound. No splatter reached the nearby post; the black ichor dissipated immediately into vapour. The humanoid torso slumped forward, its large head limp against the back of the equine neck. It turned towards Benold, a glowing red eye leering at him. Another puff of the yellow-green gas caused a nearby branch to peel back and shed its leaves.
"You can't kill it with that!" Stellan cautioned.
Benold raised the rifle as the creature reared again, trumpeting its war cry. "No? I'm still going to try. I thought metal hurt the spirits?"
"Only certain kinds. Watch out!" Stellan called, quickly getting away.
Bullets flew, men screamed, chaos ensued. Benold lined up a shot and took it, hitting the being straight in its glowing red eye. Its horse head jerked to the side, but the momentum was too great for it to be stopped. Benold had to dive out of the way, rolling as he hit the ground. It veered to the side, narrowly missing the tent. Although its one eye appeared to squint, it did not otherwise appear hindered.
"What do we do, Stellan? What is that thing?"
"An ocean spirit!" Stellan hollered back. Benold sought a greater explanation than that, but there wasn't time. The beast was wheeling around for another charge at Benold.
Benold had to think fast. He dashed to a narrow gap between two sturdy trees. "Ocean you say? Where was that river you mentioned?" Benold shouted to Stellan as the angered spirit stamped at the ground, seeming to survey the campsite. More men fired at it, causing it to rear up and expel a larger cloud of gas, the area around it losing all life. Its tentacle-like tail whipped about in a fury as the torso, having recovered somewhat, pushed against its neck and held itself upright again. Still, the head, with its sunken, empty eyes tilted to the side. But now it showed its teeth in a hideous grin.
"River... oh good thinking!" Stellan called back. "This way!"
"HOLD FIRE! Retreat! Follow Stellan, but spread out!"
Stellan made a run for it, which grabbed the sea spirit's attention. It let out a series of rattling, coughing noises that almost resembled a laugh. It pointed a spindly finger at Stellan's back, and then advanced at a mere trot, toying with its prey.
"LOOK OUT!" Benold cautioned. Everyone else mobilised, heading into the same direction Stellan had gone, but giving the mad spirit a wide berth.
Benold wasn't sure which was going faster, his heart or his feet. He divided his attention between avoiding obstacles a forest was rife with and watching Stellan. He had to admit the man was surprisingly nimble, several times barely avoiding being trampled down by the hideous manifestation. However, Stellan's agility didn't just keep him barely out of danger's grasp, but by degrees he had run beyond Benold's field of view.
Now what?
Benold was breathing hard. Although he had served the Kayonn in many battles, it was not as a foot soldier, and prolonged running was never required of him. A familiar tightness about his chest and pain in his ribs reminded him that he had not fully recovered from his injuries. He stumbled to a stop, leaning against a tree, coughing. Although he could still hear shouts in the distance, they faded away.
"Blighters..." Benold breathed out, then began coughing anew. Benold considered if it might not be prudent to just return to the camp and wait for everyone there. But what if that thing came back for him? With great trepidation, Benold trudged onward, following the trail of broken branches and dead plants.
Relief washed over Benold at the sound of rushing water. He headed in its direction, weary and sore. In his distracted state, something caught his foot and he tripped, flailing madly to grab at something to halt his descent to the filthy ground. His hand clasped a branch, but it was dry and withered, snapping in his grasp, and he landed on the boggy ground with a thud. Benold scrunched up his face, disgust at the mud that now caked his clothing and face. He sat up, whipping out his handkerchief and wiped at his face as he looked for the offending root that had dared to grab his noble boot.
No such root presented itself. Nay, the guilty party was a gnarly hand sticking out of a scraggly bush. Benold inched forward to identify just who had met such an unfortunate fate, but he quickly decided against it. It was enough to know someone in his party didn't make it, and he could surmise the person's identity through a process of elimination later. Benold picked himself up, dusted himself off, and walked warily towards the sound of water. He constantly scanned his surroundings, fear of the malevolent creature lurking in each shadow.
Benold stepped out onto the river bank. He saw a variety of tracks in the mud. They came from various angles and openings in the woods. Some appeared to head straight into the river, which was folly. Benold groaned inwardly, hoping they didn't go and drown themselves in a panic. This was a poor beginning to his expedition. Benold eyed the other tracks which all ran down the river side. He could not see any hoof prints, as he would have expected.
As Benold approached where the river narrowed, movement out of the corner of his eye set him on high alert. He unslung his rifle from his back and held it protectively. From the treeline the monster emerged. Benold froze, hands going cold as he gripped the rifle for reassurance. The fiend sidled to the side, like a nervous horse as both heads stared at the river. Just as Benold suspected, it was not fond of fresh water. He tried to sneak back to the tree line to hide himself before it saw him. Just as he was about to reach safety, his foot fell upon a particularly dry and brittle twig. Curse that creature withering everything! The horse portion reared and the lanky arm pointed at Benold.
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Benold was a gentleman. He would NEVER use uncouth language. Certainly not the slew of vulgar curses that ejaculated from his lips at that moment. No. He maintains deniability, since there were no witnesses beyond the murderous sea spirit. The rifle would not serve him, so he slung it over his back and ran straight for the river. His feet slipped on the silty mud, and his left foot splashed into the shallows. Before losing all traction, he made a clumsy leap, hoping to make it across.
Benold did not.
His mouth filled with river water as he flailed and felt his body tugged by the swift current. The shock of the cold waters knocked the breath out of him and he barely got his head above the water, to see the creature rearing up and shying away from the splash of fresh water. Although at that moment, his brain wasn't ready to make sense of that. All he was concerned about was getting his limbs to coordinate enough to keep himself afloat.
The sight of a rock, whose tip just barely peeked above the surface, grabbed Benold's attention. He fought his way towards it, able to get his arms about it and anchor himself there long enough to rediscover the lost art of breathing. After blinking the worst of the water out of his eyes he glared at the monster. It stamped its foreleg a few times before turning and heading back into the forest. He was not going to forget this any time soon. Blasted spirits.
Benold kicked off from the rock and swam towards the opposite bank. Once out of the river, he laid on the ground, not even caring about the mud at that point. He was exhausted and intense pain wracked his body. As Benold laid there, he began reconsidering whether or not Trosyn was worth all of this trouble.
"Guv!"
Never had Benold been cheered by the sound of Stellan's voice. Benold lacked the energy to sit up and greet the man. He stared skywards as the scruffy face of Stellan came into view, peering down at him. "You made it."
Benold placed his hands on his chest. Composed, despite his recumbent position, Benold tilted up his chin, eyes going half lidded. "Now would you mind telling me what that was?" It took all of his effort to speak calmly and hide the pain in his chest.
"No idea. We didn't see it the first few times. Just heard a commotion and our crops were ruined and our animals sick. By the time we realised it happened from making fertilizer with seaweed, we stopped." Stellan stood up straight, giving Benold a rather unflattering view of the fellow man. He chose to close his eyes at this point. "Anyway, Governor, it won't cross the river. How did you know that?"
Eyes still closed, Benold masked a wince of pain with a fake yawn, covering his mouth politely. "I read."
"...Ah.... then do you know what that was?"
"No idea. I read about sea spirits that could not cross streams, but usually they just drowned people in the ocean." Benold's speech was noticeably slowing down to accommodate the need for shallower breaths.
"We just call him the soggy blighter," Stellan remarked. "By the way, would you care for a hand up?"
"Hmmm I suppose. Thank you," Benold held up his hand coolly. Locked at the forearm, Stellan pulled Benold to his feet. The waterlogged gentleman began to wring out any loose fabric as he fell in step with Stellan. "Where is everyone?"
"A grove not far from here. We have no equipment, and no one wants to go back to the camp. We were just deciding what to do."
"We will have to go back. But..." Benold held back a groan, then continued after a pause, "...we will be safe if we move our camp to the other side of the river. Come, let us regroup."
It took all of Benold's force of personality, and some promises of greater pay, to convince the team to return to the camp. Benold had expected the camp to have been completely ruined, but was pleasantly surprised. It was only half ransacked. The crates containing some of the food were overturned and spoiled, and one of the tents was flattened. A few possessions were strewn about. However, the chaos was easily rectified before sun down.
No one slept well that night, fretful about a return of the abomination.
When the morning sun heaved over the horizon, the camp was torn down. The effort to move their camp to the other side of the river was fraught with difficulty. Everyone was on edge, and they were down four horses worth of muscle. While moving the ram they'd brought with them, one of the men called out in dismay.
"Our sacrifice has black tooth!"
Benold walked over. "Show me."
The handler got the ram in a headlock with some difficulty, while another man peeled back its lips to expose blackening teeth, and pustules on the tongue.
"Stellan. You said the sacrifices have to be in good health?" Benold sought confirmation. Stellan walked over, looking gravely at the woolly animal. Once let go, it shook its head, nearly knocking one of them men with its curved horns.
"Yes. We tried giving runts and diseased offerings before, and it just provoked the spirit. Perhaps if we can find one of the horses that got free, we can sacrifice it instead," Stellan suggested.
Benold pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. "I miss the city." Amidst Benold's lament for simpler times, yet another problem presented itself. With their meat spoiled, they would not be able to stay as long as Benold had hoped. "Well, slaughter the ram, cut away the bad parts, and we'll salt what we can salvage. I'd offer to hunt... but I lost my rifle in the river. Perhaps we can use some of the undesirable parts as bait to catch something else."
The loss of his rifle was certainly something Benold was mourning already. He cursed the sea fiend three times over as the sheep was led away to be processed. The rest of the expedition team continued their labours to move the camp across the river as safely and efficiently as possible. This took nearly the entire day, and the evening was set aside for foraging and fishing.
That night Benold dreamt again of seeing Trosyn in the reflection of a pool. Again he dreamt of a thread that led from his chest to Trosyn. This time she was sitting with the starved calf's head resting in her lap. A cowherder dressed in white approached her, with robust black cows trailing behind him. He took the calf from Trosyn, who screamed and fought. The calf became smaller and smaller and was placed in a jar. A third thread stretched from Trosyn to the jar, and from the jar to Benold. Benold pulled on the thread, trying to bring the jar closer so that he could give it back to Trosyn. But instead of getting closer, it drifted further and further away. The thread, which had accrued plenty of slack, sprang to life and wrapped around his chest. He tried to scream, but could not. In a blink he was kneeling over a lava pit. Unable to balance, he pitched towards the molten mass below.
Benold awoke, his brow hot and sweaty. He tried to catch his breath, but a sharp pain in his ribs made it difficult. He groped around for his gun, feeling as though something were threatening him. But his darling gone was lost to him. As his mind shifted to the waking world, the feeling of danger subsided.
Benold held another meeting, and it was decided that some of them would work to try and locate the horses, while others focused on mapping. No one was to go beyond the markers Stellan indicated before they procured an appropriate sacrifice. And one unlucky devil would have to recover the body Benold claimed was by the river. That person would not be Benold. Instead, he was quick to volunteer to scout for horses as, to him, it seemed the least bothersome task.
The natural melodies of birdsong failed to brighten Benold's mood. Rather than enchanted with the ambience, he found it all a cacophony reminding him he was far from his comforts of home. The twittering birds were too high pitched, and the clicks and burr of insects grated on his frayed nerves. Still, the fresh air was at least rewarding, and the exercise dispelled the tension that lingered from his nightmare. He occasionally called out in a cooing voice and clicked his tongue, hoping to attract one of the lost horses.
Benold took his search to the river, rationalising that the horses would become thirsty. As he strode up the river bank towards the shore, he allowed his mind to wander like a leaf on a stream. The past, the present, and the future all melded together as he tried to imagine his ideal future once Trosyn was saved, tried to whitewash his own misdeeds in the past, and hoped that this trip would reward him twofold.
As he was musing, Benold spotted a form just around the river bend, which gave him simultaneous panic and relief. Wading in the river was a handsome buff coloured horse with a white mane. For a moment just the equine shape had brought to mind the sea demon. But as it had no misshapen torso and its hide was intact, and it was wearing a bridal. Benold approached softly, speaking in as calm of a voice as he could to the horse. Its ears swivelled towards him and it nickered softly, shaking its ivory mane.
"Hey now, easy does it, come on. Come a little closer, you handsome stud," Benold tried to beckon the horse closer, hesitant to ruin yet another set of boots in the river. His first waterlogged pair were still drying by the fire, and he was dubious they could be salvaged. The horse turned away. "I know, I know, maybe stud was going a little far since... what the deuce?" Benold squinted as he peered at the horse. He could have sworn that they brought only geldings. But the intact rear end of a stallion was flicking its tail mockingly at him, testicles on proud display. "Okay... well as long as you're well trained and a polite horse, we can get along just fine. No mares within miles, right? No reason to cause trouble."
Benold stepped carefully to the bank, feeling his boot sink into the mud with a squelch. He froze. With his other foot still on firm ground, he pulled his boot out of the muck with some difficulty. "Come on now. Please don't make me go in after you." Benold whistled sharply to get the animal's attention. The horse craned its thick neck, looking back at him with a snort. Benold took some grain out of a pouch, holding it in an open hand for the horse. It flicked its ears, then turned and waded towards him. "There's a good boy."
After nibbling at the peace offering the horse snorted again. Benold patted his jaw, admiring the sandy coat colour. "Well let's get you back to the camp." Benold trailed his hand along its neck as he moved beside the horse. The horse took a few more steps away from the mud and then stood patiently.
"Pity I don't have a saddle with me. This bridle will have to do." Benold drew in a deep breath, braced himself, and then mounted the horse bareback. The horse's ears pinned back and it whinnered, going into a gallop with little warning. "WOAH!" Benold pulled on the reins but it had no effect.
They reached a speed he'd never seen a horse dare in such confined terrain. It moved through trees with astounding reflexes before bursting into a small clearing. Panic turned to astonishment when wings sprouted from its back. Benold was unsure whether to laugh or cry as he held tighter to the horse. This was not one of theirs! "DAMN SPIRITS! CURSE THEM ALL!" Benold shouted as he closed his eyes, protecting them from the sting of the horse's mane blowing in his face.
When Benold dared to open his eyes again, he could see they were heading towards the looming peak of the dreaded spirit. "No! Not that way!" Plumes of smoke belched into the air from the volcano's vent, as if anticipating his arrival with some sort of malicious delight. "Set me down! Set me down this instant!"
Benolds demands fell on deaf ears, which were flattened against the stallion's skull. It stretched its neck forward as they glided far above the trees. Benold's ears popped as the altitude increased, and he found himself short of breath. He daren't loose the reins from his hands to clutch at his burning chest. Benold flattened himself against the horse's warm back as the air grew chillier. He hazarded a look down as they entered the dark cloud, coughing as smoke filled his tormented lungs. The warm glow of lava penetrated the haze. "Don't you..." Benold coughed, "...dare!"
Benold felt himself sliding as the horse banked sharply, nearly dislodging him. He put all of his effort into hooking his leg and holding on to the horse's mane. This was it. He was going to get dropped in a volcano. All because he couldn't cut his losses and move on with his life. Benold coughed some more, his eyes tearing up. He recalled the smoke from the incense in the seer's hut. In smoke this crazy quest began, in smoke it would end. Benold just hoped that his neck would break from the fall before his body hit the molten rock below.
With these grim thoughts in mind, he opened his eyes, ready to face his fate like a man. All he saw was a dark haze, but a delicate tendril of glitter could be seen, creating a trail through the dismal smoke. It reminded him of what he saw in his dream. And yet when he tried to focus on it, it fled from his sight. Benold closed his eyes again and tried to focus on the dream. Soon the air became clearer. He breathed a sigh of relief as they had passed the volcano.
"Oh thank the spirits..." Benold muttered, despite having cursed the spirits moments before. He patted the horse's neck. "Alright. You've... had your fun..." Benold was finding it hard to speak. "Let me down, please?"
The creature's ears perked forward and it tucked up its legs close to its body and leaned forward. Benold leaned forward as well, pulling up his knees as the horse began its descent. To his amazement, they had flown past the volcano. Perhaps the horse spirit wasn't so bad after all. He scanned the shoreline, hoping to see signs of someone living there. To his disappointment there were no beaches, but rather unforgiving bluffs and sheer cliffs that plunged abruptly down into choppy seas. However, he was still elated that he was one step closer to finding Trosyn. Perhaps she was in a cave somewhere.
"Good, good..." Benold muttered. The horse whinnied and stretched its legs out again, flapping to gain speed. "Wait... we're... that's the sea!" Benold sputtered as the horse flew past the rocky coastline. He stared at the frothy waves below, churning and breaking over jagged rocks. "I take it back! Bad horse spirit!"
A sound like a snicker erupted from his mount, but it did not quite sound human. Shock filled Benold's entire being as the solid form beneath him evaporated into mist and he pitched to the waves below.
It was not his day.