Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

21 Chase

Grùwoud, Erdil

    It burned. The air, like fire, devoured Färin's lungs. Sheyå clung to his shoulders and pinned herself to his back with the strong clutch of her bony legs... and he ran. The trees he sped past blurred into the background. His heated chest ached for more oxygen, and his vision zoomed in with focus wherever he looked. Too crisp and detailed to be normal. Färin turned his head to the right again and saw a shadow pass between two enormous tree stumps. With the amazing focus he possessed in that moment, he watched a tiny leaf flutter down from its home on a branch at least thirty strides away.

    If he wasn't burning up, he'd have delved deeper into this sudden clarity. His muscles joined in the chorus of flame, bemoaning their lot, exclaiming their exhaustion, but his eyes enjoyed exquisite details bordered by a fuzzy world. A twig snapped to his right, just a few steps behind them. Färin pushed himself harder. I have to run. Whatever had been chasing them seemed to be getting closer. It looked to him like one of those shadow creatures who'd attacked them at the edge of the desert, though it also looked to be alone. I hope it's alone.

    This time Sheyå's sorcery could not save them. Färin feared for his life, horrified at the notion of never seeing Asrya again. Just when he thought that he'd mastered the panic, imminent death would snatch away his breath and his courage. Fathers, I don't want to die! I have so much left to live for. He wasn't even sure the Fathers listened to his prayers, but Färin put his hope in the moustached man who had visited his dream. He might hear me and answer.

    The uneven terrain of the forest floor made Sheyå hop about on Färin's back, up and down with each stride. It was uncomfortable, but in that current situation could not have been helped. Färin tried to steer his mind to better things, but the impending doom flashing in the shadows of his path gnawed at his sanity and reason, like a nagging mosquito waiting in the dark to sap his blood.

    Before long Färin's feet were pudding and he was running through a river of custard. This is pointless. It felt as though his feet sucked in the air, like liquid, making them heavy and hampering his movement. 'Cursed Thëlon, what the blazes am I supposed to do now?' Färin whispered under his breath. Soon his sluggish feet dragged, but he kept on pushing forward and looking back, terror-stricken. Sweat came out of every pore he owned, making him rather pungent and wet.

    Sheyå's little fingers struggled to keep their hold on his sweaty neck and arms. Färin adjusted his hold on the darling package he was trying to protect. A shadow flashed before him, stopping Färin in his tracks like a hand to the face.

    'What was that?' Sheyå's young voice quavered with trepidation.

    Färin, whose panic was now reaching a crescendo, did not answer. He was too busy trying to spot whatever had been hunting them. Sheyå's big, fear filled eyes scanned the trees around them. The forest seemed its usual self, except that not one bird could be heard chirping. Ominous.

    'Show yourself!' Färin yelled into the trees.

    'Sheyå can you muster up any sand?' Färin whispered into his shoulder, feeling nervous as hell. 'We might need to fight, and I don't know how many there are.' His sentence hung in the air like the stale stench of fish.

    'I... I will try.' Sheyå mumbled coyly.

    She closed her eyes and called out to the sand, her friend, with that inner voice. She felt her own energy pouring out from her like vines, like reaching fingers searching for their mother. Where are you? Sand? My friend, my brother, my mother?

    Sheyå felt the soggy soil under their feet, around them, between the tree roots whose networks were like vast tangles beneath a sodden surface. Her silent call echoed like a vibration, sending back signals of strange objects deep underneath them to her. A mole digging its tunnel through the soil. She could feel how it itched, almost similar to the way it felt when a mosquito's poison burrowed its way into your skin, except that it felt right—natural.