Chapter 1: Chapter Eight – What Lurks in Miremurk

This time, as Curesoon walked through the shadows of Miremurk anew, his mind filled with the memories of that other wood through which he had so recently searched.

Blackthorn had the same evil feel, yet it was also quite different. It had a kind of dark beauty that left the mind unguarded. Where Miremurk had only dry dead leaves in its trees, Blackthorn was alive with dark-green glossy foliage that was almost black in its color. These leaves were beautiful in appearance, and yet within their shadows they hid long menacing thorns.

On his first trip through Blackthorn, Curesoon’s father had been taking him on business to Silverkeep, the capital city of Freeland. The bard had been only twelve years old, and he had never been away from the lands of his father’s holdings.

At one place, the road to Silverkeep split so that one route went through the dark forest of Blackthorn, and the other went the longer way around skirting the forest’s border. His father had taken the quicker road through Blackthorn with the hope of saving time.

They had made their way rather quickly down the lane, which wound like a snake under the low hanging branches of the wood. One of these limbs had only lightly brushed Curesoon’s brow, but its hidden thorn had cut him deeply so that he bled not a little.

Now, as he walked through Miremurk, Curesoon felt the scar that lay hidden within the thick hairs of his left eyebrow.

He also remembered the booming shout of Sir Beset. “Leave this place before the night come and evil takes you!”

The old warrior had startled Curesoon, his father, and their horse. He could still see the tall man standing in the road adorned from head to foot in his black shining armor.

After having startled them with his cry of warning, Beset had collapsed. Both Curesoon and his father left their cart to attend to the old knight when, out from the shadows, there leapt a smaller older man. The bard could still see him in his mind.

“Tippleglee,” Curesoon whispered his name as he thought of him with a grin.

Tippleglee had been slightly less than four feet in height, and a long beard of dirty-gray hair covered most of his wrinkled face. He also wore a bright red pointed biggin upon his head, but above all, Curesoon recalled that the little man had been exceedingly ill-tempered.

He was well aged then, so it made perfect sense that the bard had not found him still lurking in the shadows of Blackthorn.

“Surely, he died many years ago,” Curesoon reasoned to himself.

With that thought still echoing in his head, the bard was abruptly awakened from his absentminded recollections, for Curesoon’s nose was suddenly overwhelmed by a terribly foul odor. The smell was a horrible mix of dung and death, and it shot a cold sliver of fear through his heart. Though the whole of the bog stunk, strangely, he had not noticed this new and stronger reek before.

He followed his nose gagging from time to time as he carefully made his way. He hoped beyond hope that the smell was not coming from the rotting corpses of anyone he knew.

Soon, the sound of buzzing flies came to his ears, and the stench became that much more intolerable. The smell of Miremurk had been disagreeable, but this new reek, had begun to be utterly nauseating.

When Curesoon had almost come to the point where he could stand the smell no more, he found the foul source of the awful reek: there before him, in the deeper shadows, lay a steaming pile of dung that rose to almost half his own height.

The bard gagged stifling a vomit. Looking at this pile, he was gripped by a new more pressing fear.

“What manner of beast could leave such an enormous mound of dung?” he wondered to himself.

As he continued to study the pile while pinching his nose, he noticed something smooth and white peeking out of its side. His curiosity took hold, and so he picked up a stick and stabbed it into the dung near the object. Carefully prying away from himself, he awkwardly worked to dislodge it from the mound all while still clutching his nose.

Suddenly, with the sucking sound of wet mud, the object popped out and bounced down the pile rattling as it went. Curesoon's blue eyes watched it roll, and when it clunked to a stop, he found the two empty sockets of a man's skull staring back at him.

A cold panic filled his soul. His mind fought against two fears: while he feared for his own life, he also feared that the skull he now beheld might belong to someone he loved.

In the midst of this mental struggle, the whole dark wood seemed to spin around him for a moment. To catch himself, Curesoon quickly leaned against a nearby gray boulder that stood more than double his height. He was gagging again and beginning to think that it might be more tolerable to just have at it and release his breakfast, for the unproductive heaving was proving to be most unpleasant.

In the end, his breakfast simply refused to stay in his stomach. After finally letting himself vomit, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Feeling slightly better, he began to notice the rough texture of the massive stone against which he still steadied himself.

It felt porous like volcanic rock, but the oddest thing about the huge gray stone was that it did not feel cold to the touch. Instead, it felt as though it might have been slightly warmed by the sun. And yet, this was impossible, for not one ray of light could pierce the thick tangled branches of Miremurk.

As he was considering this, the huge gray rock suddenly shifted ever so slightly so that Curesoon wondered if he had swooned, for he was still feeling quite ill. However, he soon gave up this hope all together, for moments later the stone moved entirely out of his reach.

The bard slowly and fearfully gazed upward to see where the boulder had gone, and to his complete astonishment the massive stone had come to stand upon two thick gray pillars that were dreadfully bent. He dared not look further up to see what else the stone might have sprouted.

Between the two tree-sized legs, there hung down what looked like a great tattered curtain. However, there was no mistaking that the soiled drapery was actually a crudely made loincloth fashioned from a motley assortment of skins stitched rudely together.

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Curesoon’s mind commanded his hand to draw out his sword, for his heart hoped that the sound of cold steel ringing as it was unsheathed would help his bravery return, but his hand was too busy attending to the spectacle unfolding before him to obey any order.

After several trembling attempts, Curesoon finally managed to grasp the hilt of his grandfather’s sword. Taking a few stumbling paces backward, he drew Fortuity and held it out making himself as ready as his shaking soul could be.

Slowly, the two massive legs hobbled around turning the huge gray stone-like mass so that its knobby knees faced the bard. At the base of these bent pillar-like legs there were two old, calloused feet with gnarled toes whose nails seemed to have never been trimmed.

Curesoon greatly desired to flee, but he could not find the strength to move.

The huge feet stepped toward him causing the muddy black floor of the bog to quake slightly. The squishing sound of the mire coming up between the huge contorted toes made Curesoon shudder all the more, for his mind imagined himself in the same state as the mud.

This thought startled the bard into fearful action. Clumsily, he swung around the shield that was hanging on his back. The strap became tangled so that it took far more effort than usual. Finally, he managed to bring it around while also twisting his pack about in the process.

Curesoon’s blue eyes peered fearfully over the top of his shield like a child peeking over his blanket for fear of the darkness in his bedchamber. In the same way, hiding behind his shield presented only a small amount of comfort, for like a blanket, it seemed rather flimsy at the moment.

While Curesoon yet watched with frozen horror from behind his shield, the massive legs squatted, and two gray wart-covered hands grasped the knobby knees. Then, quite suddenly, a gray haggard and age-worn face bent down into the bard’s bewildered view.

The old hideous face had spiteful eyes with no hint of white in them nor even any color. They were as black as the darkest parts of a moonless midnight. The face’s nose was huge, flat, and wart-ridden, and it hung down so far that it almost touched the person’s parched lips.

In the ugly face’s gaping mouth, there were only a few teeth remaining, and they stood in a jagged and gapped line. However, the mouth’s lower canine teeth more than made up for those that were missing, for they jutted up above the top lip like thick tusks. Though they were small in comparison to the rest of the face, these teeth were the size of Curesoon’s head, and he was frightfully sure that they could easily crush it like a melon.

The hot breath that huffed and puffed from this enormous mouth was far fouler than the smell of the giant pile of dung, and if he had not been so afraid, Curesoon would have retched anew.

The bard seemed to shrink while peering over his shield and watching the massive face. He could do little else! His sword rattled against his shield though he made great effort to hold it still.

The face’s black eyes seemed to consider Curesoon’s coat of arms for a terribly long moment, and then its giant lips curled back into a vicious growl revealing more of its jagged teeth while snarl lines creased its large gray nose.

Then, after a strange gurgling growl and a quick whizzing inhalation of breath, the great mouth opened dreadfully wide and issued forth a roar that sent horrible-smelling spittle onto the bard’s whole shuddering soul.

The roar seemed to go on forever, and the force of it made the face’s warty gray cheeks quiver. Moreover, the power of the blast blew the bard’s hat off and caused his long hair to whip about behind him.

The noise of the roar was so loud that, far away in the farmer’s cottage, Guileless and his wife heard the terrible sound echo across the meadow. The couple both trembled dreadfully, and not knowing what else they could do, they quickly knelt together and prayed to the King of Heaven for the poor sad seeker.

And still the roar went on!

Curesoon was sure that the reek alone would kill him long before the teeth began their work. However, just when he thought he could take no more, the angry yell came to an abrupt halt as the foul face heaved backward gasping and then forward again hacking and coughing directly onto Curesoon’s fear frozen soul.

A black syrupy liquid spewed forth from the cavernous mouth, and it splattered upon the bard’s shield with such force that it shook from the impact.

This jolted Curesoon into action. He drew back his grandfather’s sword, and before he knew what he was doing, he swung it as hard as he could. The shining blade struck the giant’s huge flat nose, but instead of cleaving it in two, Fortuity only made a sickening leathery thud upon the gray wart-ridden skin leaving no record of its passing.

Before the strike had fully found its target, Curesoon had instantly felt a regret that turned his stomach. He staggered backward hoping, in vain, that the giant would not retaliate, but he did not have to wait long to see his hopes dashed to pieces.

With great force, a massive rock-like fist crashed against Curesoon’s shield reducing it to little more than splinters and sending the bard backward into the filthy mud.

Almost as soon as he landed, Curesoon began to slide himself away upon his backside with what strength was left within him, all the while gasping to catch his breath. However, after only a yard or so, his retreat was suddenly halted when his back roughly bumped against a black slime-covered boulder.

Still seeking a way of escape, Curesoon slid upward against the huge stone and stood with a stagger, but before he could run away, the cruel giant pressed a huge thick finger against the bard’s chest crushing him upon the boulder and keeping him from taking another breath.

Slowly, Curesoon felt his legs lose their strength, and all that was before his eyes began to darken. What followed was the sensation of falling, and to his surprise, his fear seemed to fade away. Also, he was not suddenly seized by the dread of his impending death, but instead, only a single regret entered is mind.

“Alas!” he wordlessly lamented. “For I shan't see my sons grow into men!”

After that lone thought, everything faded to black, and Curesoon knew no more.

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