It wasn’t long before Ben pushed the encounter with Miss Toadwart to the back of his mind. This was his first time out of Dunport-Salem, and it dazzled him, to say the least.
The road meandered through the pastures and fields of the city’s outskirts before merging with the vast expanse of the Blackwoods ahead. The forest border reminded Ben of an army’s frontline, with the silver bark of the beeches resembling armor and the twisted branches akin to weapons.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, a tapestry of colors painted the sky in hues of red and purple. The coast emerged beneath a low cliff to his left; he knew well enough that Dunport-Salem’s docks lay on the other side of it.
The salt breeze carried a sense of freedom with it, though. Ben took a deep breath and held it in for a long while. It was as if he thought this experience was to come to an end at any moment, that someone somehow would deprive him of his newfound independence.
Ben continued in this state of reverie well until the first stars appeared in the sky. As the woodland closed in and weariness set in, an unshakable feeling of being watched replaced his initial sense of freedom. He remembered the ghost stories about the place, where a bloody Civil War conflict had taken place a few decades earlier. A couple of days ago, he would’ve dismissed these as mere old wives’ tales meant to keep children out of danger, but after recent events, he wasn’t sure if that would be a wise thing to do.
Better ghosts than witches, Ben thought. He continued to approach the line of the Blackwoods, and a profound sense of foreboding settled upon him. The passage from Dunport-Salem’s outskirts to the forest proper was stark. Trees parted like an archway where the road snaked its way in. A dense canopy created the illusion of it being an actual tunnel.
The air was thick with the scent of earth and moss, and something else along with it—a distinct stirring that clung to him, that clung to everything. Magic. Ben cursed under his breath. The Blackwoods provided enough mundane perils of their own. As an inhabitant of the World That Is Not, what could he expect to encounter?
Regardless of the answer, dwelling on it would do him no good. Ben steadied himself and ventured across the gloomy tunnel formed by the encroaching branches. Once inside, a profound change came upon his surroundings. Ivy and lichen stifled the trees to either side of him, and each step he took rustled with the brittle sound of dead leaves.
The road itself became narrower and harder to navigate. Still, Ben trudged on, and it wasn’t long before the scarce light that emanated from the entrance disappeared behind him. Night had fallen.
If it had been difficult to see before, now it was nigh impossible. Ben could truly see nothing. He walked cautiously with one hand outstretched before him and made sure of his footing before each step he took.
He continued like this for the better part of an hour—or had it been two hours? It was hard to tell, until a deep weariness spread throughout his body. This exhaustion, compounded by the use of magic earlier in the day against Miss Toadwart, weighed heavily on him.
His progress slowed to a crawl and he nearly tripped again, so Ben made the choice to halt for the day and set up camp. He just needed an adequate spot. Somewhere he could sleep without worrying about beasts of prey, or worse. He veered off the road but maintained it in sight until he noticed a site that could work.
A beam of moonlight filtered through the thick foliage over his chosen spot, a small area where trees did not grow. It was far from a conventional clearing, but a welcome break from the forest. Ben’s eyes fell upon an old tree; its roots formed a protective hollow at the base of its trunk. He nestled into it for protection.
Within the tree’s embrace, Ben at least felt a small semblance of safety. He stared at the moonlight, which bathed the clearing in a gentle glow. A nocturnal symphony played around him: the rustle of the trees, the chirping of insects, and the occasional hoot of an owl. The rhythm of it all cradled Ben. Only a moment had passed when he had already drifted into an untroubled sleep.
⦶⦶⦶
“Do not make any sudden movements if you wish to live.”
Ben opened his eyes, only to find himself face-to-face with the tip of an arrow aimed directly at him. It was barely an inch from his nose, nocked in a bowstring taut with tension. Frozen in place, he slowly lifted his gaze to look at his aggressor.
From the waist up, he appeared to be a regular, albeit wild, man. His skin was weathered by the elements into a deep tan, with long hair that cascaded down his back. An austere wreath made of twigs and leaves sat on his head like a headdress. It was, however, his physiognomy from the waist down that rendered Ben speechless. Instead of a man’s legs, his body seamlessly melded into that of a chestnut horse, muscular and sinewy.
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He heard a well-mannered voice speak from behind the archer. “It would seem our friend here had not hitherto encountered a centaur.”
Ben narrowed his eyes. A single shaft of light pierced its way through the dense canopy, which illuminated his surroundings to some extent. He discerned another two silhouettes: one smaller than he was, the other similar to the creature in front of him. The small one rummaged through the contents of his knapsack without too much care for their integrity.
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he examined the supposed centaur in front of him again. Humanoid as it was, he could now distinguish its equine traits. Almond-shaped eyes, a broad nose, and tufted ears that flicked incessantly with every single forest sound. His nostrils flared as he regarded Ben with suspicion.
The centaur cocked his head to the side. “Found anything?”
“Naught of dubious nature insofar,” the smaller one replied. He upended his empty knapsack to make sure he didn’t miss anything. His provisions lay scattered carelessly across the forest duff. His stomach grumbled in protest. Should’ve eaten before falling asleep, he thought miserably.
The third figure, which also seemed to be a centaur, pawed the ground impatiently. “Go pat the sorcerer down, Briacco. He’s not in the clear yet.” The voice was most definitely a woman’s, Ben observed.
The small one, Briacco, obliged. Ben got a good look at him as he got closer; a tangled mess of hair framed his face, and he wore a wreath similar to his companion’s. A pair of curved horns sprouted from his forehead, and his legs were those of a goat. His cloven hooves scraped the forest floor with each step he took. Ben heard the bowstring pointed at him tighten further—a warning from the male centaur not to try any funny business.
“Now if you’ll excuse me... Shan’t take long. Lift your arms if you would.”
Ben didn’t have much choice. He eyed his interrogator as he patted him down; his gaze fluttered from horns to hooves and back. Despite his beastly countenance, his demeanor was anything but.
As Briacco’s hands gently moved over Ben’s clothing, he continued the friendly conversation. “Permit me to reintroduce myself, young man. I am the satyr Briacco, as you yourself have no doubt already gathered. Alas, I wouldn’t have put it against you if my sophisticated manners made you think otherwise.” He stopped mid-sentence as his hand grazed the wyrdknife in his pocket. “What do we have here?”
Ben cursed his luck. He had been on the road for one day, and he had already disregarded Wilhelm’s advice twice. Briacco’s eyes widened the moment he realized what he held was a wyrdknife. A gasp escaped his lips, and he involuntarily took a step back as he released the handle. It fell to the ground noiselessly.
The male centaur, his arrow still trained on Ben, witnessed the satyr’s reaction and reacted with alarm. “What happened? Explain yourself!” Ben heard an ominous twang as the female centaur pulled out her own bow and arrow and immediately trained it on Ben.
The forest hushed in anticipation. Ben’s every muscle contracted, his gaze locked on the centaurs. He was ready to jump at the slightest sign of movement. Briacco composed himself and stepped in the middle, hands stretched at both parties in conciliation. “Let us not do anything rash, ladies and gentlemen. Why resort to arrows and spells when words would suffice, yes?”
The male centaur snorted. “He’ll be long dead before he can utter an incantation,” he said, turning to Briacco as his anger surged. “What was he hiding? Speak plainly, satyr.”
“I can speak for myself,” Ben replied in his stead. The bravado he feigned was far from what he felt, but the seed of an idea germinated in his head. In the meantime, it would be better to speak the truth. The three of them turned to him, the centaurs with special suspicion.
Ben carried on with his explanation, trying to sound as sorcerous as possible. “I bear a wyrdknife with me. I seized it from a witch I vanquished and named it my prize. I am just a passerby seeking the Two-Faced Man.”
The male centaur let out a dry laugh. He was not convinced. “A witch, now? You must’ve caught her by surprise. You seem too young to be doing any vanquishing.”
His female counterpart lowered her bow and got closer at a quick gallop. She did not seem to find Ben a threat. That’s what he hoped for, at the very least. “The Blackwoods are no place for lone travelers, child. They have not been so for a long time now.” Her equine half was covered with the pristine coat of a white horse, which seemed to reflect the silver hue of the beech trees all around them. Her upper human body was fair of hair and skin, slender in its curves.
Briacco eased his shoulders as the tension melted away. He addressed the male centaur. “I don’t think he’s our perpetrator, Amycus. I can’t see how a boy—sorcerer or not—would be capable of such carnage.”
The centaur, Amycus, turned to Briacco and lashed out. “Do not forget yourself! You know damn well what sorcerers are capable of,” he then turned to Ben. He raised an eyebrow as he eyed him with outright contempt. “But I concede this one seems too inexperienced.”
The female centaur sniffed the air with gentleness. “He smells of the World That Is. He couldn’t have crossed more than a week ago.”
“Ah, Meda, your input is as timely as ever,” Briacco chimed in. He mimicked her and sniffed the air as well, nodding in agreement. He then addressed Amycus with a measured tone. “Dear Amycus, may I beseech you to reconsider your stance? The boy seems bereft of ill intentions, and continuing to brandish your weapon may yield unnecessary complications with the Circle.”
Amycus snorted in mild irritation, but listened as Briacco continued. His tone remained gentle. “Moreover, it serves us no benefit to have fledgling sorcerers vanish within the Blackwoods. Such occurrences could draw unwanted attention to our already beleaguered realm, as if our myriad troubles were not ample.”
After a moment of contemplation, Amycus reluctantly lowered his bow. “Fine, but he stays under close watch. We’ll take him to the elder and let him decide his fate. Also, I’ll safeguard the wyrdknife. Meda, you’ll bring the runt along. Briacco, you take care of his belongings.”
And with that, he wasn’t in mortal danger anymore. Or at least, that's what he wanted to believe. The not-so-merry band of spirits sprang into action. Ben simply watched, incredulous. The way his week was going, he wondered if he would make it to the next in one piece.