Chapter-1-1

⁠—⁠—⁠— I ⁠—⁠—⁠—

Nospherus—

The very name was an omen of evil, an invocation of phantasmal terror. It was the domain of the demon Doal, and few who crossed into his forsaken wastes alone ever returned to the Middle Country. It was called a no-man’s-land, for although many mortals lived there, none of them could truly be called “men.” The closest, perhaps, were the Sem, small creatures that looked much like monkeys and sported tails as furry as the rest of their bodies. The only other humanoids were a fabled race of giants who stood more than a few times taller than the Sem—the barbarous Lagon, who were equally hairy, but who were even less intelligent (it was said) than their simian cousins.

In its climate, too, the hot outland of Nospherus was far different from the homelands of humankind. There were hardly any seasons, the thirsting landscape never knowing the spring grace of green leaves or the brightness of fresh blossoms.

It was a desert waste, its bleak badlands perennially cloaked in stone gray and dust-brown.

To the east of Nospherus rose the lumpy ridges of the Kanan Mountains, while to the north lay the eternally snow-capped peaks of the Ashgarn range, beyond which were the icy Northlands. Along the southwest flowed the Kes, the black flow that separated Nospherus from the outlying settlements of the lands of men.

Thus hemmed in by natural borders, Nospherus had come to host an unusual and unique kind of life. Wildling humanoids lived side-by-side with all manner of monstrosities: sand leeches, sandworms, bigeaters, giant scorpions, wispy angel hair, foul yidoh…

These foul yidoh! thought Istavan the Crimson Mercenary. Whatever madness it was that drove Archduke Vlad to covet this accursed land, I’ll bet he’d change his mind if he saw this! He grimaced and looked out on the bizarre sight before him. It was worse than anything even the boldest kitara players sang about in their fanciful tales of heroic deeds.

Istavan, his friend Guin the leopard-headed warrior, and the forty or so warriors of the Raku tribe whom they led had followed the young Captain Astrias' routed troop of Mongauli knights to the last plain where the wildlands dipped down towards the River Kes. There they had seen the main host from Alvon Keep marshalling for action, a massive army augmented by reinforcements from Torus and led by the Lady of Mongaul, Amnelis herself. It had become apparent then that the duchy had finally launched its long-planned invasion of Nospherus.

With no less than the survival of the Sem tribes at stake, Guin, Istavan, and the Sem scouts, intent on warning their comrades, had made haste toward the village of the Raku. But it seemed that the aged weaver Jarn, heavenly guider of fate, had other plans for them. Perhaps he felt that they had not been tested enough.

Though pressed for time, the party had had to run north to throw their Mongauli pursuers off the trail. When they finally turned east and toward the village, it was into a far greater danger than that from which they fled.

For whether the Raku guides had taken the wrong path, or the land itself had shifted to baffle their progress, what they now found before them was not the village of the Raku, where the twins of Parros, Rinda and Remus, their faithful companion Suni, and the high chieftain Loto awaited them. Instead, they had marched into the midst of a colony of primitive jelly-like creatures—yidoh—that undulated now as one eerie mass. By the time the quick-moving warriors realized their plight, they had gone far into the valley. The dread creatures swarmed and oozed perilously close to them.

“What is this? How—” rasped Istavan, his voice hoarse and grating from thirst.

“Not so loud,” Guin hissed. The yellow eyes peering from his leopard face narrowed and shone with startling ferocity. “They know something is here, but they have not yet sensed what we are, or they would have moved in for the kill.” Guin’s voice was low and calm. None understood better than he that his life, and those of Istavan and the forty brave Sem youths, depended on him keeping his cool and making the best move.

For Guin was their undisputed leader, though he had never been appointed as such. There was no need—from the beginning it had seemed natural for them all to entrust their lives to him. Although Guin did not know this yet, a rare ability to lead was as much a part of him as the strange leopard mask that covered his head. He was one of those very few to whom others turn for leadership, guidance, and protection as if by primal instinct, and the wont of such a one is to bear the burden without expecting so much as a promise of loyalty in return. So spontaneous was his compassion and sense of responsibility. And without a doubt, the lives of Istavan and the Raku rested in his hands now.

Guin glanced back swiftly. The Raku youths remained calm, or at least, appeared so. The sight of the leopard warrior riding tall at their helm gave them heart, and Siba, the foremost among them, was skilled at keeping order. The Sem gazed warily upon the roiling reaches of the valley of death, and stood silent in their ranks, holding their breath, waiting for Guin’s orders. They knew from experience that while the yidoh were fearsome carnivores, they were not as aggressive as the bigeaters or the sandworms. For the moment, waiting quietly was the wisest course of action.

“Now,” whispered Guin in a low voice, “we go back. But we will not turn yet. We must keep our faces forward, and retreat one step at a time. Walk slowly until we reach… that bend in the path with the reddish rocks. There, we turn and run out with all our speed. Once outside the valley, we will wait for any who have fallen behind. Good? Move as one, and move quietly!”

“Yes, Riyaad,” came the Sem warriors’ hushed reply.

While he spoke, Guin never shifted his eyes from the yidoh filling the valley. The primitive forms quivered and surged, like too much jelly in too small a pot. The entire valley floor was covered.

An ancient, primal form of life, the yidoh were possessed of neither eyes nor mouths; nor were their bulbous shapes equipped with appendages of any sort. Their lack of jaws and sensory organs made them no less dangerous, however. Like giant white amoebas grown to an illogical extreme, they sensed—and fed—with their entire bodies. Now, numberless, they flowed together, soundless and slick, so that the valley was filled with a translucent white pool that rippled and murmured. It was impossible to say where one yidoh began and another ended, for wherever two of the creatures touched, one would engulf the other, even as, on its opposite side, another yidoh was splitting into two new masses. This they continued endlessly.

“And I thought I’d seen it all,” muttered Istavan, gently backing his horse to follow the Raku warriors on their slow retreat.

Guin replied without a trace of humor in his voice. “Remember, mercenary—-no spitting. They may not have eyes to see us, but they know prey has entered their valley. If one of them tastes a glob of warm spittle, they’ll all be on us in a flash.”

“Doal’s arse,” Istavan swore under his breath and kept moving backward. He remembered all too well how it had felt when one of the amoebas had latched onto his leg back in the desert—an experience he had absolutely no desire to repeat. The turn in the path where the reddish rock jutted out seemed farther away than before, though they had not taken a step. He imagined the mass of yidoh launching themselves into the air as each reacted to the prospect of something more succulent to digest than other amoebas, and fear churned in his stomach.

Yet the stealthy band of warriors did reach the bend in the trail after what seemed an eternity of slow, backwards shuffling.

There they turned as one and ran like runners at a fair, Istavan and Guin bringing up the rear on their horses.

Siba and the other Sem were the first to reach the exit of the narrow gorge that led into the valley. There they waited in tight formation. Their round eyes shone uneasily, and it seemed that they were huddling together as much for reassurance as for defense.

“Riyaad!” Siba came running over to Guin’s side.

“All your men are unharmed?”

“Unharmed, Riyaad.”

“This valley of the yidoh—did you not know of it?”

“No, I had heard, but—” Siba made a sour face. He had led the party astray, and the guilt made his ears burn and his throat dry. “They were not here before. That is certain. The yidoh move,” he explained. “They moved, and came to this valley.”

Guin nodded thoughtfully. “Hmm. Surely you are right. The creatures must move far during the night in search of food, leaving nothing whole in their path. Their coming here is not your fault. We were unlucky.”

“Yes, Riyaad.” Siba’s hairy face showed a mixture of shame at his own failure as a guide and relief that the party had escaped unharmed.

“Hey, Guin, what’s the monkey saying?” asked the irritated Istavan.

Ignoring him, the leopard-man said in the Sem language, “We must go around. I hate to delay our arrival any further, but anything is better than sitting here.”

Siba exchanged looks with the Raku standing next to him, then turned back to Guin, shaking his head. “But we cannot go around, Riyaad,” he said.

“What?”

“There is this valley, then another valley, and then there is the village of the Raku. Riyaad said we must hurry, so I showed you the one path, the secret path that goes straight to our home. There is no other way through the mountains from this side.”

Guin thought in silence.

“Guin? What do we do?” Istavan demanded in a vexed tone. “What’s he saying?”

When Guin quickly translated Siba’s message, Istavan guffawed and said, “You’re kidding! By the gruesome ghouls of the Roodwood, I’ve had enough of those yidoh to last me a lifetime. Let’s backtrack some more. There’ll be a way around to the east if we get out of these hills.”

“Mmm,” said Guin, thinking. “That we cannot do.”

“Huh?” Istavan raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“If I were a Gohran captain, the entrance to these hills is just where I would leave a full troop to catch anyone coming back out.”

“Ah… that’s right. We were being followed, weren’t we?” Istavan muttered. The mercenary swore a silent oath and glared at the hills that barred their path.

“That, and we’re running out of time. Look—the sun sets.”

Guin hunched his shoulders. Istavan looked up to see the Marches sun slipping behind the top of the mountains. In the rush of their flight, he had forgotten that night was coming. The wildlands night, deep and unforgiving, boded great danger and darker mystery.

The huddled Sem warriors peered uneasily up at the setting sun and occasionally cast questioning looks at Guin. Their eyes were filled with trust and loyalty toward the leopard-headed warrior, but there was also fear.

“I couldn’t have planned a better trap,” Istavan observed, grinning as if it were someone else’s pinch. The seasoned mercenary was no mere rat. “We go forward into the valley of the yidoh, or we go back and the Gohran host cuts us to ribbons. There’s no third way on account of these bleeding hills. What’s more, it’s growing dark, and if we don’t get to the Raku village, our friendly wildlings could be taken by surprise and put to the sword, the lot of ’em. So, my leopard-noggined generalissimo,” said Istavan with a flourish of his hand, “whatever do we do now?”

Guin growled deep in his throat.

The mercenary added in a grumble, “Tell you one thing— I’m not becoming any yidoh’s dinner.”

Guin raised a hand, palm upward, as if to say he held no secret means of getting them out of their predicament.

Istavan shook his head and looked up into the deepening violet of the Marches sky. “What’s with all the angel hair, anyway?”

Since they had stepped on the road that led down into the valley, the wispy white angel hair had been falling thicker than usual, and now it formed a veritable fog on all sides. Though they knew it to be harmless, the sight of the white tufts descending on them did little to soothe their frayed nerves.

“By the white beard of—” began Istavan on another tirade of colorful oaths, when a thought struck him. His black eyes sparkled. He leaned over and slapped a hand down on Guin’s shoulder. “I’ve got it! Why didn’t I think of it before? It’s so simple. We use fire—fire! By the sulfurous spittle of Migel, that’s it! Didn’t you say when you saved me from one of those things before that fire was the only way to deal with the yidoh? We’ll just burn a path through the slimy sons of—”

“And send up a beacon of smoke the Gohrans are sure to see?” interrupted Guin, who had already considered that option some time before.

Istavan scowled and fixed his leopard-headed companion with a glare. The former pirate’s obsidian eyes flared in the gloaming. “Fine, then what do we do? We could just walk back and forth in this valley until one of our enemies finds us. And we all know the yidoh move at night.”

“That, they do.”

“Yeah, so what—”

Guin raised a hand to silence the mercenary. “Siba!”

“Yes, Riyaad?” All the Sem grew suddenly tense, ready for action. They could tell that Guin had made a decision.

Guin gestured to Istavan, and the mercenary reluctantly leaned closer. The leopard warrior looked over his companions once, then said, in the tongue of the Middle Country:

“The fate of all the Raku hangs on our every move. We have no choice. We must cut through the valley of the yidoh.”