5. Driven Off the Path

Martimeos was woken the next morning by the sunlight pressing against his eyelids, a strange pressure on his chest, and an odd, deep rumble filling his ears. When he groggily stumbled out of slumber, he was greeted by a pair of fierce, yellow feline eyes staring directly into his. They belonged to a large gray cat perched on top of him – larger than any housecat, the size of a fox – gray, and speckled with stripes and spots, with a yellow-furred underbelly. Its ears were long and pointed, with black tufts of fur at the tips, and though the cat was well-furred all over, hair grew thicker around the beast's throat, forming a small mane.

Martimeos stared at the cat for a moment as it purred at him. He could feel its long tail flicking back and forth on his legs. His sleep-addled brain dulled the panic he might have felt. “Well, hello,” he said bemusedly. As if in response, the cat leaned over to the side, reaching over to the pile of leaves the wizard slept in, picking up the limp corpse of a rabbit in its mouth. This it dropped unceremoniously onto Martimeos’ face.

“Fah!” he shouted, bolting upright. The cat leapt off his chest and looked back at him, offended, but quickly returned to nuzzle up to him, still purring, as he delicately picked up the dead rabbit and looked at it, frowning.

“He likes you,” Elyse said. She was already awake, standing over the blackened ash of their campfire, and to his surprise, Flit upon the brim of her hat. “My Cecil. He thinks you smell good.”

The cat circled around him as Martimeos stood and stretched until his limbs trembled. Shaking the sleep out of his head, he plucked leaves from his hair. A good night’s sleep had done wonders for him. Not just for his aching muscles, either; for his mind, as well. He no longer felt so drawn in upon himself, so paranoid and suspicious. Fear had done that for him, true, but so had exhaustion. Now, in the mid-morning daylight - much later than he usually woke - as he watched Elyse feed Flit bloodberries by hand, she now seemed much more harmless than she had when he went to sleep. Perhaps he had been too long on his own to be so hard towards his fellow man. “Are berries all it takes to dull your suspicion, Flit?” he chided his familiar, and the cardinal merely stared at him blankly, very slowly and deliberately accepting another berry from Elyse.

“‘Twas berries, and me complimenting his morning song, I think.” The witch gave the last of her berries to him, and rubbed her red-stained fingertips together. “You named him Flit?”

“It is the name he chose for himself,” Martimeos replied, brushing leaves from his clothes. He watched for a few moments as his familiar twittered and burbled at the witch, then whistled until the little red cardinal fluttered away from her to alight on his outstretched finger, hopping back and forth as it babbled in its furious bird-speech at him. “Actually,” he added, as Flit preened himself and chirped out his morning report, “‘Tis short for his full name.”

“And what is his full name?”

Martimeos rolled his eyes as he released Flit, and the tiny bird quickly climbed into the sky above the trees, circling high above, for the pure joy of flight. “He who flits on crimson wing through the night, terror of crow and hawk, the scarlet sentinel of snowy wood and field…. ‘twould take me all morning to tell you it in full. Cardinals are pompous little birds.” He glanced around the campsite, noting that the dead rabbit was not the only prey Cecil had brought back; a muskrat, still damp, lay by Elyse’s feet as well. “I suppose it is Cecil who will be bringing us our suppers. So when you said that you were a great huntress, you actually meant that your familiar was.”

Elyse gave him a dark look as Cecil padded over to her to lay down before her feet. “Cecil’s kills are my kills, and mine his. Isn’t that right, Cecil?” She leaned down to rub the thick fur of her familiar’s stomach. “You’ll be much more well-fed either way, wizard.”

Despite it already being further along in the morning than it usually was before he set out, Martimeos found himself lingering. There were Cecil’s kills to butcher, for one, though Elyse made quick and expert work of that, and despite his trail-feast last night, his stomach still grumbled at him, so they ate a breakfast of bread and walnuts as well. Flit found a pair of doves that he wanted to speak to, to see if they had seen anything, and it seemed wise to let him rest some more as well - he had pushed himself in flight as hard as Martimeos had pushed himself walking. He and Elyse fell into talking of glamor, and as it was, the sun was nearly halfway through the sky before they decided to set out.

As he slung his satchel across his back, he glanced at the witch curiously. “Do you not have a pack?” he asked her.

She lifted one of the layers of her odd dress; beneath it, close to her side, was a waterskin and a small leather purse. She must have seen his dubious look - he did not think that could carry nearly enough for long journeys - because she scowled at him. “Cecil finds me food on the trail as I travel, and this is enough besides,” she told him, slapping her waterskin. “I have been wandering for some time, Martimeos. I know how to take care of myself.”

He shrugged, and let it be. He supposed she must, at that.

When they set off down the road, he set Flit to watch behind them once more. It still would pay to be wary, even if it seemed that the vulture-men had lost them. He thought if they still pursued that they would have caught up some time ago, given the long rest he had taken. Still, extra caution never hurt. Cecil, for his part, melted into the woods, not deigning to walk on the road; he skulked alongside them from the woods, and Martimeos would catch glimpses of the cat from time to time.

He and Elyse fell to talking about the demons, as they walked. Though she had observed them, she knew little about how or why they had come to be here, either, claiming to have only been in the One-Road Wood a few days more than he had. While they spoke, Martimeos considered her manner. She had a sharp tongue and a ready laugh and could be quick to mock, but she seemed friendly, in her own way. Strangely so, actually. While he had looked with her with suspicion, for her, there never seemed to be a question of whether or not she was in any danger while with him. It was many little things - how quick she was to grab his arm or playfully clap him upon the back - something small that Martimeos realized that he himself would not feel comfortable doing with someone he had just met, as if she had a different idea of what was appropriate or not to do with strangers.

He had traveled far enough by now to know that custom and attitude could vary from place to place - he had even been to villages where casual acquaintances might kiss each other on the cheek as a greeting, kiss! And like all who worked with the Art, he was aware that wizards and witches and the like were apart, in some fashion, from the typical customs of normal folk. But her manner seemed more than eccentricity; it was an odd naivety, as if she had never learned to be on guard against strangers. Her open attitude put him at ease, despite himself. He found that he had to make a conscious effort to be on guard around her. Companionship lifted his spirits. It felt almost as if a hard knot tied in his head began to loosen.

They had not been on the road for very long at all when the witch suddenly seized his arm. “Hold, wizard. Do you feel that?”

Martimeos glanced down at her. He had been in the midst of explaining a meandering thought of where the demons had come from - with the Dolmec here too, perhaps other demons had been drawn to it - and noted her stern, somewhat fearful expression, her dark blue eyes scanning the woodline in quick darting movements. And then, drawn out of his thoughts, he felt it too. A sense of unease, of something out of place.

She tugged at his sleeve, trying to pull him off the road. “I think we should hide,” she whispered urgently, and then everything happened all at once.

First, from behind them came a great yowl and a hissing, and they spun to see Cecil bounding down the road at them. The moment they did, a crude stone-tipped shortspear passed through the space where their heads had been only moments before, close enough for Martimeos to feel it brushing past his hair, and clattered into the road. And then the air was filled with the hoarse screams of buzzards, with shadows moving through the woods to their side and the underbrush shaking, and Martimeos found himself pushing Elyse over the opposite side of the road and leaping over after her, clinging to the ground just as another spear sailed overhead.

He heard panicked breathing and frantic cursing to his side, but his crossbow was in his hands, and he peered up over the edge of the road with it, only to immediately fire it with a curse that was half-shout, half-scream. One of the vulture-men had already been charging down the road at them, and in two steps would have been upon them.

His bolt took it somewhere in the side, and then he immediately scrambled backwards, pulling Elyse with him, as it fell upon them. Whatever injury his bolt had inflicted did not seem to slow it in the slightest, and it screamed at them, this wretched and broken thing, its eyes flat and dumb with mad hunger, and Martimeos had only barely managed to bring out his sword and rise to his knees when it came at him with talon-tipped hands outstretched.

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It was only the arrival of Cecil that saved him. The cat leapt, a gray, howling blur, at the demon’s face, clawing and spitting. It shrieked, shaking itself free, and Cecil leapt nimbly aside before the thing’s claws could find him. It was all the time Martimeos had needed to grasp his blade in both hands and thrust as hard as he could, sinking his sword deep into the creature’s chest. It screamed and grabbed at him as he danced back out of the range of its feebly grasping claws, and it chittered and kicked as it died, its overlarge beak snapping at the fallen leaves.

It had been mere moments since Elyse had first grabbed his arm. Piercing, whistling, hoarse buzzard-shrieks filled the air, so sharp they seemed to cut straight through the skull, bleeding thought. There were more of them, more of them charging down the road, no, not charging, hurtling, and what made his stomach drop were that some of them ran backwards, legs and arms bending strangely, snapping, that enormous eye on the back of their head staring, and there was no waiting, no pausing, or those awful un-human eyes would be the last thing they saw. And so they fled, fled, in the only direction they could, away from the road and deeper into the forest.

Martimeos’ long legs and bounding strides carried him through the dense brush with haste, and his sword cut down what would slow him, but Elyse was smaller, she could not leap as he did over clawing thorns and snagging branch and soon fell behind, and then she screamed, so wild and desperate that she barely sounded human herself. His black-furred cloak whirled around him as he spun around, and there behind him Elyse lay on the ground, staring up at the demon that came at them, backwards, its limbs snapping oddly, the one wide eye on the back of its head gleaming, looking not at her but at him. And beneath this eye a pair of fleshy lips beneath the feathers opened up, a mouth, a human mouth, and it spoke in a voice that croaked, that groaned, that seemed on the edge of sickness but could not disguise its feverish glee: “we miss you we miss you we miss you come with us we’ve missed you”

Revulsion roiled through him, and fear gripped him, but need carried him forward screaming, for in a moment the creature would have fallen upon Elyse. He was beyond thought as he leapt at this creature, this vile thing, and so he did not know why, could never name why he ducked as he leapt, and crashed into the thing's legs, bowling it over, and then it was grabbing at him, tearing at him, and he was cutting at its raking arms with his blade as it thrashed on the forest floor, until suddenly it screamed so loud he thought his ears would bleed, and Elyse was holding a dagger stuck in its eye.

The demon still thrashed wildly on the forest floor, whether in its death throes or in pain they did not know, but they both scrambled out of the range of its bloody talons. “I cannot run,” she breathed desperately to him, before the demon screamed again, drowning out all thought.“My ankle-”

There were more coming, crashing through the woods, and there simply was no time. He wiped his sword hastily on the leaves and sheathed it, hoping it was enough, and then he picked her up and ran.

His heart hammered in his chest and his blood sang in his ears. She was surprisingly light, but it was still no easy feat running as fast as his legs could carry him with her in his arms. He was dimly aware of Cecil running beside them, snaking his way between the trees, and he could hear Elyse saying something, saying that if only they could get out of the demon’s sight that glamor might serve them. She might know more of glamor than he, but he knew it was near impossible to glamor your way out of someone seeing you who already knew you were there. No, there was only one hope he had, and he prayed that they had not already left it behind. It would either be very close or not there at all, and then they would be dead.

The screams of the vulture-men only grew closer, and he could not tell how many there were. He thought he could hear voices beneath those screams. He was bleeding from somewhere, and he could smell the blood, feel it sheeting down his skin with every stride. Elyse clung hard to him, trying to relieve the burden on his arms, but he knew he would not be able to keep up this pace forever, even with the strength fear lent him.

Just as he was on the edge of despair, he found what he was looking for. Through the trees, he spotted the slow-moving creek that he had bathed in yesterday, and beyond it the maples, with their bright red leaves. The creek and forest had continued alongside the road, and they had not walked past them yet. Hope gave him a second wind, and he put it to use.

In two strides, he was at the bank, and he unhesitatingly leapt out into the creek. Ice-cold water immediately soaked him to the knee, and he scrambled upon slime-slick rock, nearly dropping Elyse. But Fortune blessed him and he did not fall, and in this spot the wide creek was not too deep, and he was able to cross quickly, and make it to where the wood was painted red, beneath those odd, darkwood trees. Just as he stepped high out of the creek, he could hear the vulture-men splashing behind him, entering on the opposite bank. But he had a thin, frantic hope now. Now it was just a matter of getting deep enough.

And so with the last of his strength he flew, bounding down the paths made by the maples. It was easier going in this part of the wood, no underbrush here; just a carpet of red leaves. Elyse was saying something, but he could not hear her. Deeper into this part of the forest, all red leaf and black trunk, not caring where, so long as it was deeper. He ran until his legs howled, until his lungs burned and his breath tore at his throat. And when he could run no more, he could no longer hear the demons pursuing them.

Elyse yelped as he dropped her, collapsing onto his hands and knees, sweat pouring off him. He wanted to turn, to look behind him, to ensure they weren’t pursued, but he was too strained. He needed air. Bright spots flashed before his eyes, and it felt like sand was pouring through his head. He gagged, and tried to keep from being sick, but exertion had his breakfast from him. Or maybe it was not merely exertion, but the fear as well, and the hate. He hated the vulture-men, the wicked, wretched things. They sickened him; they were vile.

After a few moments of gulping down air, panting, he found the wits to pay attention to what was happening around him. Elyse had worked something with the Art, he knew, a glamor to hide them, though he did not think it would be so necessary anymore. And then her hand was on his back, and her whisper in his ear. “Martimeos,” she said quietly, “I have hidden us best I can. You must have outrun them somehow, though I thought just moments ago they were still upon us. Can you quiet your breathing? They must still be nearby…”

“They will not be,” he told her in a hoarse growl. If the demons had still been behind him, they would already have been upon the both of them. No, he thought, his plan had worked. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and his blood slowed. It would still do well to be quiet. Other things might be listening now.

The witch was quiet for a moment, but seemed to take him at his word for now. When he could sit up, she silently guided him to sit with his back against a tree trunk. They rested now in a small divot in the land, almost cradled by the roots of nearby trees, and nearly enclosed by them. Cecil had kept up with him as well, and lay next to his witch, panting, his tufted ears twitching as he watched the woods. He looked upwards, and found Flit, as well. His familiar was sitting perched in a tree with his head tucked into a wing. Elyse was giving him a very serious look, her dark blue eyes intent on his. She was solemn, subdued. “I caught my ankle in a root and twisted it,” she murmured. “I was certain I would die. Thank you, wizard.”

“How is it?” he asked her, and she only answered him with a grimace. Then she was pulling at his cloak, at the neck of his shirts, pursing her lips.

“You’re bleeding from somewhere here,” she told him when he frowned at her. Then her eyes widened, and she breathed out slowly. “I don’t know if it’s Fortune, but someone certainly loves you.” He had been torn by one of the demon’s claws, though he could not remember when, and even now he felt oddly numb to the pain. It was not a deep wound, but it was very close to his neck. Too close. Any closer, Elyse told him, and it could have opened his jugular, and then he would have bled to death, likely before he had ever made it to the creek. “This ought to be bandaged,” she sighed, prodding at him. “I don’t suppose you have any spare linen?” He did not.

“They must have figured that they were being watched near the road somehow,” he said, as she worked her healing on him - her hands were very warm, even though he still felt as if his blood were hot beneath his skin. “They must have gone wide around and come out in front of us while we were resting. It is not your fault that you did not see them, Flit.” His familiar ignored him, and buried his face deeper into his wing out of shame.

“They are cannier than I thought them, then,” the witch muttered, drawing her hands back from him. Then she shuddered. “And stranger. I had not seen them go so…backwards before. And I did not know they could speak. What do you suppose it meant?”

“Meaningless demon-babble.” Martimeos turned his head and spat. Demons did not necessarily know the world, or speech, as normal folk did. It could be that what they said made sense to them, but it did not always make sense to others. “Idiot things.” But then why had that voice repulsed him so?

“Those idiot things set a fine ambush for us,” Elyse reminded him. She sat back, plucking a red leaf from her long, wild hair, and frowned at it, then at the woods from which it came. “Perhaps now you will tell me where you have brought us, and how we have escaped them.”

He did not answer her, at first. He breathed in deep, the fresh air of these woods. They seemed so serene, and though it was autumn, the leaves crowded so thick that even beneath the midday sun there was a quiet gloom beneath those trees. If only that peace and calm were true. He dearly wished for a tavern; this forest was much more dangerous than he had been told, and he was keenly aware that had he really been alone, he very likely would have been dead by now. This was not the first time he had worried for his life, but it was the first time he had been so certain he would have died.

He turned back to Elyse. There was nothing for it but to tell her. A part of her must suspect already, he thought. Though perhaps not. She was looking at him calmly, expectantly. She would not be so serene if she actually suspected. He breathed in, and caught her eyes with his. “This is a fae-wood,” he said.