SANDS & FOREST

SANDS & FOREST, by Jason M. Waltz, Artwork by Andrea Alemanno

The far edge of the empty grasslands came quickly.

Too quickly, in Sands’ estimation. Then he realized his horse had fled along a path new to him, though obviously not to it. Perhaps leaping atop the bare back of the shaman’s blue roan had not been his best idea. If this horse knew this path, odds were strong many of their pursuers did also.

A dark line of forest rose swiftly against the rising sun as his stolen steed’s hooves pounded the earth. Far behind came the sounds of many more hooves accompanied by the whoops and hollers of angry tribesmen. A lifetime, youngster though he may be, spent ahorse told him he led the raging mob by mere moments. As if to emphasize his estimation an arrow plunged into the back of his shoulder.

It was supposed to have been a simple—and quick—snatch and run. Or rather: sneak, snatch, slip away. Bored, he had followed the ‘map’ he had stolen from drunken gaming opponents while spending the last of his coin for a meal and an ale at a roadside inn. Then slipping away in the darkness before anyone else awoke without the influence of alcohol befuddling their envious—or curious—minds.

A few days ride following the sparse map had brought Sands to a few score tents in a clearing within a great forest. Since the canvas had marked the village with a crudely drawn human head atop a stake alongside a newer image of what looked like a great cat’s sabretooth, he had figured a silent approach off the beaten path a prudent idea. Observing from the shadowed woods, the Southland warrior had readily identified the sabretooth strung about the neck of the tribe’s shaman. He had also noted the cluster of colorful jewels secured around it with leather bands.

There had been no doubt he would steal it.

He had not paused to consider that this tribe posted no sentries. Not until after he had watched their horrific festivities for their evening meal did he understand they worried little about attacking forces. Or death, for that matter. The dead, after all, provided fodder. It mattered not at all if it were their dead or those of any other.

Sands had bided his time, waiting much longer into the night than he normally would. Nonplused by their savage appetites, he momentarily considered leaving and finding an easier score. As he pondered that idea the tribe members stumbled into their tents, the fires died to embers, and nothing stirred in the clearing beyond wisps of smoke. Then, when he had almost decided to depart empty-handed, the shaman had staggered from a tent with a hand on his groin. Liberating the sabretooth from a sleepy, drunken man pissing in the dark could not be easier.

Sands took it as a sign from his rapacious gods. Stealthily moving through the dark, he circled around intervening tents and found the shaman in the tree line. It was a simple matter to step up behind the man and wrap a strong forearm around his throat whilst jerking him backward into the darkness. Sands did not intend to kill the man. He had not fallen to the point of murdering an unarmed man from behind yet, though he cared not if he choked the shaman into unconsciousness longer than necessary.

Once the man’s heels quit drumming in the dirt, Sands quickly ripped free the thong attached to the sabretooth. Then he made the mistake of staying to rifle through the man’s voluminous attire instead of immediately departing into the covering woods.

Another drunken warrior stumbled around the tent and fell over Sands’ crouched figure. The tribesman’s yell of surprise was instantly answered by a roar of others.

Sands kicked the scrambling man in the head but he was too late. Dozens of figures rushed from nearby tents. Though still inebriated from their recent indulgences and barging into one another, Sands knew it would not be long before they spotted him. Seeing the horse held by simple slipknot beside the shaman’s tent, he did not hesitate.

Springing to its back and tugging the rope free, Sands kicked the horse down the trail.

He regretted leaving his own mount and meager possessions behind, but that was the least of his worries. He let this horse run unguided, trusting its knowledge of their location and the trail through the forest more than his own. Which is how, after their run through the woods and entry to these grasslands, they arrived at yet another forest, strange to him and in its appearance.

Unexpectedly the horse slammed its front hooves into the soil and came to a complete stop, its rear end rising high. Sands tumbled over the horse’s head, his heels flipping over his ass and carrying his entire body straight into the rough embrace of jagged branches.

“What the Pits?” he yelled and groaned when his head struck a rock embedded in the ground. He groaned again when the summersault snapped the shaft of the arrow still lodged in his shoulder. Sands staggered upright and looked behind him. The horse stood wide-eyed staring at him, chest heaving and foam slipping from lips curled back in obvious protest. It was not coming any closer to this forest. Movement behind his former ride caught Sands’ eyes and he saw a horde of screaming tribal warriors descending upon them. Even as he turned to run into the forest he noted the riders were reigning in their horses and starting to turn aside.

Once within the darkened screen of the forest’s edge, he peered backward. Sands saw the milling riders part and watched their shaman, supported by another man riding alongside him, come forward pointing at the woods and furiously gesticulating. Whatever made them hesitate, he knew the shaman would not allow them to call off the pursuit. He did not plan to wait around to see what they did next.

Sands scrabbled through the edge of the forest and slammed into the first tree he met. The sounds of dancing hooves and guttural exclamations pressed his wiry frame close to the trunk. He knew nothing of this foreboding wood. He was not even certain on which side of the forest he had found the village. He did know his man-eating pursuers wanted their tribal totem back…and his heart in their teeth, his ribs on their cook fire. Rogue and reiver that he may be, Sands had no intentions of leaving this mortal realm under such unsavory conditions nor for that matter any time soon. He aimed to avoid the damned Endless Pits and enjoy a well-lived life of bawdy, bloody brew and bounty so long as his storm-gray eyes and sword edge remained keen.

Now those eyes roved the dark and oddly silent woods. No break in the foliage indicated even an animal trail. It seemed even to his inexpert eye that this forest was much darker than the last. Each tree arrested his gaze as if it leaned forward to confide a secret. He broke eye contact – Odd thought – and rested his head against the trunk. Peering backward, though he heard his enemies dismounting only a few yards away, he saw nothing through the thick greenery. No trace of his entry remained. Hugging the trunk, Sands looked for escape. He grunted.

An obvious path now wound its way ahead, curving to the left after a dozen feet. He attributed his lack of noticing it to exhaustion and the gash oozing across his forehead. Moving softly through the gloom he followed the open way, never noticing the blood from his forehead had filled a curious sigil tattooed upon the tree he left. Sands reached the path’s curve and found his way barred by a wall of foliage. Irritated, he glanced behind and discovered his return path equally closed. He squinted, barely hearing the muffled voices of those who followed him, but saw little in the shifting shadows.

Wiping his brow, Sands rested his hand against the closest tree and flinched at a sudden contraction beneath his palm. He examined the bark with care and watched the writhing wisps of blood from his handprint. Swiping at his wound again, he held his bloodied palm against the same spot even as the wood wriggled.

“Pits and damnations!” He yelled and jerked his hand away from the blood-filled sigil glistening against the dark wood. Shouts, oddly muted, erupted behind him and feathered shafts slipped through the trees. He glided around the vampiric tree trunk, putting it between him and the enemies now crashing loudly along the forest’s edge. Sensing movement ahead, Sands watched the forest pull apart to extend the trail.

Warily, he advanced. Muttering against vile sorceries, he drew his only weapon, a wicked two-edged knife; a blade he knew well. He had shed the weight of all his possessions but the long dagger and the stolen totem in his flight across the grasslands. Sands reached the end of this latest path and again stood beside a tree, menacing yet seeming on the brink of revelation.

Sands swiped his brow. Not seeing enough blood, he spread his fingers over his shoulder, searching for the broken arrow shaft. He muttered at the jolt of pain his questing fingers sent along his nerves as they thrummed against the splintered tip of wood embedded in the muscle behind his shoulder. He yelled out a Southland war hoop as he squeezed the flesh around the arrow. “Hokahey!”

An odd sound echoed in answer through the woods. Sands ignored it, squeezing the wound until blood flowed between his fingers. Swinging his red-covered hand forward, he slapped it on the trunk. The tree twisted and greedily sucked his flesh clean. Another sigil filled with blood; another pathway appeared. Slowly removing his hand, Sands felt the tree quiver.

Wytchwood. He had heard stories told of such dangers. Forests filled with vegetation that was no friend to mortal man. Plants that moved and tangled, obfuscated and ensnared. Some flesh-eating varieties would attack anyone who dared to trod through them, while others simply shifted and confused until trespassers died lost from starvation and exposure. Even worse, some were servant to sorcerers who used the wytchwood to capture unsuspecting men for their vile experiments and ingredients for their incantations.

A faint chortle came to his ears, informing him he no longer heard the tribesmen and that something lay ahead. Something that seemed to call him forward.

Blood is it? My blood? He stepped carefully, slowly, considering. Halfway through the latest parting he turned into the shrubbery and tried to force his way from the path. Crouching, climbing, blading his compact body and trying to thrust his shoulder up and through—none of it availed. The foliage twined tighter, bouncing but not breaking to his fist and knife thrusts. Even as he struggled to force his fingers through any gaps and pull the resisting branches aside, thorns and barbs sprouted along the wood.

“Shits!” He cursed and snatched sliced fingers free. He shook his right wrist to fling the droplets of blood away, watched the savage vines twist in pursuit of the tiny morsels.

Sands whirled toward sudden noise to his right. Sprinting to the end of the current trail, he tried to peer through the green wall separating him from frustrated yells. He recognized the harsh language of his pursuers and sank upon his haunches in silence, gathering his energy and considering his options. Slowly the other’s anger waned and the sounds of similar, futile fighting against the forest followed until all that remained were pants of labored breathing. All the noises ended flatly, muffled as if by a thick layer of wool. The air in these woods was thick and lay heavy on Sands’ shoulders. Despite the nearness of his unseen foe, he could see nothing, no wavering of the forest plants or flash of any color beyond the greens and browns surrounding him to indicate the presence of another human. Beyond the stifled sounds he could have been alone, the only human in leagues.

He stood and eyed the trunk of the great tree blocking his way. Glancing at his slightly bleeding fingers, he flicked the red drops against its dark body. The bark shifted and the brief outline of another sigil weakly flickered. Rubbing his fingers again in the blood from his shoulder, he poked at the area of the graven sign. Wooden lips rose from the surface, stretching toward his slowly extended flesh. Sands backed away. “Gods and Pits damn you!” Another gurgle echoed from ahead. To his right a surprised grunt answered, accompanied by a fresh frenzied attack on the foliage.

Sands once more thrust his fingers into the arrow wound and spread fresh blood across the tree. “Blood hungry, are you?” he whispered to the silent wood. “A deal then. I will gift you all his blood and you will grant me passage out of here.” Silence. “No? Is he yours? A man-eating child of a blood-sucking forest? He’s dying here, today, by my hand; I can shower your leaves with his bounteous lifeblood in one orgiastic feast if you show me an escape.” Nothing moved about him, the woods stilling even more, allowing another faint snuffling to pierce a quiet moment in the tribesman’s raging.

“Blood,” Sands growled in the common trading language, “give it blood.” Come on, you bastard, come on! Not knowing if the tribesman understood, Sands moved forward along his new passage, blade extended, eyes alert. The din of the angered warrior’s exclamation of surprise signaled his foe had heard him. Sands reached the end of the path, this time between two gargantuans of the mighty forest. He waited in their shadows, feeling the ache of multiple wounds but gritting his teeth in fierce determination and intently watching the far side of the tree on the right. Sure enough, the branches fluttered, then separated, revealing a shadowed figure racing around its bulk from another path.

Slipping around the bole, Sands squatted then surged upward with a fierce snarl. He thrust his left forearm bulging with hardened sinews under the man’s chin and into his throat, forcing the sharpened teeth away, slamming the head against the tree. Sands drove his blade into the man’s stomach then up, behind his ribcage and into his heart. Over the dead man’s shoulder, Sands watched the break the man had traveled through the forest close and spun upon his heel, shoving the corpse away. The fierce expulsion of bloody foetid breath that came with the man’s dying scream had blown a ruddy foam across both trunks. Even as the woods snapped closed upon Sands’ last path, he saw the flare of sigils writhe upon the trees. Not just my blood.

Sands grinned and bent to rip his blade free, slicing it back and forth through his enemy’s abdomen as he did. Stabbing the blade into the trunk of the tree, he shoved both hands into the gore of the shredded stomach, then stood and smeared the filth upon both trunks blocking his way. Two paths appeared, snaking straight through the dark forest to either side of each tree. He studied them, canting his head toward one or the other, waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside. Nothing indicated which to choose, no sound or smell or sign of previous travel. He glanced at the body then at the trees, an idea glinting in his gray eyes, though he curled his lip in disgust.

“I’ll give you blood,” he snarled. Tugging a hatchet from the man’s belt, Sands’ hands expertly patted the soggy clothing, seeking anything of benefit. Two sticks of dried meat, a waterskin, a bronze rune on a neck thong, the belt, and a pair of moccasins. Donning the thong, pocketing the meat, and tying the footwear and waterskin into a sling he looped over his back, Sands picked up the hatchet and studied the corpse.

It would not be pleasant, but he did not see another option. A grisly thing, what he did, but he knew without hesitation he faced worse were he captured. Nor would the wound in his shoulder allow him to dally. He set to work.

Only an occasional sound from what or whom ever awaited him deep within the forest disrupted his labor, its sobbing cries echoing every few moments. Sands was uncertain if the snorting was taunt or challenge. After hacking the body into limbs, torso, and head, he looped the man’s belt through an ankle tendon. He worked swiftly, muttering imprecations against bloodthirsty fiends and what murderous cannibals forced him to do, though trying very hard not to consider how similar it was what he did. All the while, he worked to conserve as much blood as possible.

In Sands’ experience the Gods rarely helped mortals, especially in moments of need, but in this instance, they had gifted him another’s blood in lieu of his own. He decided to keep his mind on that thought then what his hands did.

Again he peered down both paths. So far the bounteous blood he had bestowed upon both trees had kept these passages open. Toward the unknown fiend or away from it? Deciding the creature had to have an exit from this forest near its lair, Sands waited for the next chortling sob. As soon as the haunting noise sounded, he hitched the dead man’s leg above the sigil on the left-hand trail and watched the blood flow down the wood, following the contours of the bark into the sigil. The tree shivered and tiny lips smacked as it slurped the feast.

Sands propped the torso, other leg, and one arm at the base of the tree. Quickly, without overly considering what he did, he used the hatchet and then his knife to remove the base of the neck and the brains from his enemy’s skull. Propping the rough bowl between the roots, he grabbed the right arm by its fingers and began slicing its meat in long ribbons. Blood showered into the grisly basin and spattered about his feet. He shivered in revulsion and tried to ignore the roots writhing beneath him, battling for the red nectar. He circled his fingers around the wrist, slowly sliding them down the stripped arm, massaging its meat and wringing the remaining blood free. Finished, Sands shrugged and tossed the arm ahead of him down the left-hand trail. Every little bit might help.

Resisting an urge to gag, Sands rose, though a moment of lightheadedness almost sent him back to his knees. Slowly he slipped the hatchet and dagger into his own belt, and hefted the sword. It would be awkward carrying both the head and the weapon, but he was not about to risk losing it and without a sheath he had to carry it. Carefully he retrieved the blood-filled skull with his right hand and, with one more look at the blood oozing over the sigil, struck out down the path. Swiveling his head from front to rear, Sands studied everything, heeding the trembling of the forest edges to either side but nodding in satisfaction as the path remained free ahead and behind him. He discovered he had been holding his breath and released it as he carefully stepped over the mangled arm and came to a sharp bend away from the other trail. Another ten feet or so ahead, the path either halted or hid another hard turn.

“All or nothing, you damn bastard,” Sands muttered. Bringing the skull close to his chest, he rushed ahead, quickly finding the wooded passage opened back in the direction he had been first heading. The bole of the largest tree he had seen yet blocked the close of the longest open stretch the woods had granted him thus far. Without pause he sprinted forward, fiercely hoping the bleeding leg kept the avenue open behind him.

Then a root snagged his foot and he tripped, sprawling forward in a series of catastrophes. The skull of blood bounced away to his right, splashing its viscous fluid across the wall of foliage. The tip of his sword jabbed into a thick root and wrenched away into the dark woods, twisting his shoulder out of joint. His face jumped across several roots, scraping his forehead wound open, crushing his nose, and making him bite the inside of his mouth.

Sands lie still in shock even as his brain recognized time slipped away. Get up, you whore’s son! Get the blood! With a roar of pain and anger, Sands shoved upward onto hands and feet and crawled after the skull. Through blurry vision he saw gaps widening in the trail wall. Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, Sands stared. The ranks of vinery twisted and twined, fighting itself in its haste to consume the abundant blood splashed about it. But it was a sparkle in the dark vegetation that Sands’ eyes fixed upon.

Glints of silver behind the shifting greenery snared his attention. As his eyes again caught the shimmer in the unearthly darkness, the voice of the distant antagonist rose in volume and consternation. Through gaps between the branches and vines, he spotted a small clearing, strangely shaped as a tall man. Sands crawled closer, examining what he could through the ever-changing openings in the screening brush. It took his addled mind a moment to discern what lay before him.

A spear of some sort faced away from him, its butt only a hand’s breadth beyond the tree line. The brush and vines that smothered everything else in his sight did not touch the spear but outlined it in blackened edges. The further end held too many barbs and edges, but that was no matter. It was a weapon, one it appeared even the woods avoided. A plan formed, and he acted immediately, swiping his good hand across his bleeding mouth, nose, and forehead and smearing it against the brush as far as he could reach to his right. The instant the foliage shifted eagerly toward it, Sands thrust his body forward and forced his arm to the shoulder through the opening.

Sands grabbed as far up the shaft of the spear as he could reach and yanked. His hand had just returned to the open air of the path when the trees shook and the foliage slammed shut, closing every gap and encircling the spear. A groan shook the forest like a mighty wind and leaves scattered to the ground around him. Thorns and barbs sprang from the brush and stretched toward his flesh, tearing and gnashing at his knuckles and wrist. Yet even as the forest itself fought against him, he heard the chortle-cry of his unseen companion rise in seeming encouragement.

“No!” he snarled and jerked backward. A furious tug-of-war ensued. Sands roared and spat and swore at the living forest as he hung to the spear with all the strength in his right arm. The woods attacked, thrusting branch after branch at him, trying to ensnare his wrist and hand to keep him from freeing the weapon. Only the distraction of his freely flowing blood prevented that, as each branch fought for each drop as it flew forth.

Sands rolled onto his damaged shoulder and yelled in pain as he pulled his knees to his chest. He spun around until he could press his boots against the resisting trees. Slowly—even as his feet sunk into the foliage and he began to feel sharp pricks digging through his leggings—he slid the spear free. He yowled at an intense spike of pain as a branch impaled his calf. Abruptly he fell backward. His body slammed onto the forest floor, shoving the obsidian arrowhead in his other shoulder through the meat of his collarbone. He almost swooned.

The furious forest recoiled from the freely moving spearhead; the moving and smoking spearhead.

Pain from both shoulders surged through Sands’ body. His head throbbed with pounding aches even as more blood trickled from his sundered calf. Slowly the silence of the woods settled upon him, broken only by his gasps for breath and groans of pain. Then the sound of jubilant chuckles echoed. Sands wearily eyed the forest wall, then rotated his head upon the earth to glance toward the path. It had shrunk in width but remained open. Must. Get. Up. He struggled to sit up, then pulled the spear close and cradled it in his lap. Where the silver-edged head dragged across shrubbery it left a clean-cut, blackened edge as if a fiery blade had sliced its way through.

Sands studied the strange weapon.

Runes circled the hardwood and silvered shaft capped at the bottom with a great silver heel and ball about the size of his hand. At its top rose a three-pointed trident head, the longer center point a great spike straddled by two curved points with wicked outward-slanted barbs. Unusual, however, were the two broad blades that swept up both sides opposite the smaller barbs. They looked like scimitar blades that had been melded to the silver-encased shaft, their tips ending just below the spread of the trident’s points. Silver also covered most of the shaft, the wood revealed only in positions of strategic handholds. It would take an extremely accurate and powerful blow to shear this weapon in two.

Sands spun the trident slowly in his hand, his eyes following the trail of runes from his fingers upward. He could not read them, but the direction they led was obvious, finally culminating in a figurehead crafted into the silver between the two blade tips and at the base of the three barbs. A majestic stag stared back at him, its sweep of tines wrapping upward and around the shaft, too numerous to count. He saw, then, how clever craftsmanship had turned the widest spread of its antlers into the upswept outer points of the trident head. Even in the shadowed outlines of the silver etching, the regal intelligence in its eyes awed him. Every land told legends of such a creature. The Stag of the Wood.

 

 

Sands did not know what such a weapon was or why it was here or even why he had been led to it. He believed, though, it came from the greatest mythical creature he knew of, the being all men from all climes acknowledged as King of Nature. The Great Kyng of the Wyld himself. As he stroked the shaft below the figurehead in reverence, he noticed a blemish above the Kyng’s right brow: the first tine had been broken, its irregular contours an ugly mar to the beautiful figure.

Shifting brush broke his reverie and he looked back, watched as the return path shrunk further. Realizing time wasted, Sands snagged the bloody skull on one tine of the trident and then, using the spear as a support, pulled himself one-handed to a standing position. Without hesitation he struck out back toward the duo of trees where he had slain the other man.

The wooded path had almost fully closed when Sands finally reached the suspended limb. As he arrived the blood on the sigil dried and it vanished into the wood. A glance revealed the path on the right had shut, while the left remained slightly open to the severed arm lying across it. Even as he watched, it shrunk as the brush sucked the blood dry. He sighed. Can’t fight one-handed. Better now than later.

Pulling the emptied leg from the tree, Sands slowly unstrapped the belt then folded it in half. It was slow work one-handed; blood loss and exhaustion threatened his concentration and thickened his fingers. He placed the leather between his teeth and clamped down. Quickly and savagely, he slammed his left shoulder against the tree. He moaned and speckles of light and dark flicked across his sight and mind. He allowed himself to sag to the earth, resting his head against the dirty roots and allowing his reset shoulder to relax. Then, before he could reconsider, he wriggled his fingers to confirm they still functioned and brought them up to probe at the arrow tip straining against the flesh of his other shoulder. He pulled his knife free and ran its keen edge across the skin trapping the arrowhead.

Twisting around, he pushed backward against the bulk of the tree searching for the broken shaft of the arrow. Sands groaned at the shiver of pain caused by brushing the shaft against the wood. Then he leaned fully back into the tree until the arrowhead burst through the new slice he had carved. Again darkness crept about the edges of his mind and eyes. Furiously he blinked it away, even rubbing sweat into his eyes, hoping the sting would help keep unconsciousness at bay. Biting down harder on the belt, he dug his fingers into the open wound and pinched the shaft behind the exposed arrowhead. Steadily he pulled it free.

With a moan, Sands dropped the arrow to the dirt and rested his head against the tree. “Pits be damned,” he groaned as he turned over and dug into his pocket. Making himself as comfortable as possible among the roots, he opened the waterskin and took a small swallow. The tepid water freshened his dry mouth and woke his hunger. He was ravenous. The meat stick was tough so he left the tip of it in his mouth and let his tongue and teeth worry at it while he worried at his dilemma.

As Sands rested, recovering from his separated shoulder and the blood from his many wounds crusting over, he replayed the events of the last few days. A roadside inn, wenching and wagering away his meager coins until he finally overheard of another possible target. Departing—never sneaking away—under cover of darkness before anyone thought to search for their map. Sands snorted: the ‘treasure’ map had simply been a single X at the name of what had turned out to be that very crowd of tents where all his latest troubles began. He doubted he would ever again view a crudely drawn human head atop a stake in the same manner.

Sands came from the Southlands and was a newcomer to these Midlands. He had much to learn of this land that was far larger than he had ever considered. When he had finally reached the location of the X on the map, he found a brutal tribe whose shaman wore the sabretooth Sands sought as a talisman upon his chest.

It had not taken Sands long to learn these were cannibals who tortured their food before rendering half of it in some arcane ritual of abasement before their shaman and then rending the other half with ravenous desire. He shuddered recalling their horrible hunger, worse even than that of the starved mongrels he had once witnessed consume an injured deer. He tried not to remember what the shaman had done with the totem.

Sands slipped the sabretooth from the pocket sewn inside his leggings along his loin. Holding it up, he took his first real close look at it. Slightly longer than his hand, the base of the tooth jagged, like it had been snapped off, and the whole thing tapering to a fine point sharp enough to bring a prick of blood to his fingertip. Interestingly, for a tooth it seemed quite rounded and smooth. Several bands of leather, each with a different color stone stitched in place, had been shrunk tightly about its length. The gems he recognized—sapphire, emerald, ruby—were more than enough to satisfy his lust for treasure. Finding buyers would be easy, whenever he escaped this forest.

“When I escape,” he growled and slid the tooth into its pocket then once more used the trident to hoist himself up. Testing his shoulders and taking a few practice cuts with his new weapon, he learned it sliced easily through the brush and the scorched edges it left behind did not grow back. Time to try the other side. Two hard slashes and he held a stout branch long enough for his purposes. Using his dagger to slice an opening in the ankle of the remaining leg, Sands shoved the long branch through it. Again he began shredding the leg meat until blood flowed. It was noticeably less than what he gathered from the first leg. Suspending the grisly prize across two of the tree’s lower branches, Sands positioned the dripping appendage above the righthand tree sigil.

He crouched and hacked the chest of the torso open with his hatchet, then scooped the heart and what he could of the guts into the skull bowl. Heaving the exposed chest up, he rubbed it up and down the tree trunk, pushing the bloody meat into the bark and further shredding it along the rough surface. A sigh of ecstasy rippled through the woods and the shrubbery to the right sprang apart. A bellow from his curiously silent ‘friend’ rang through the woods. It sounded like approval.

Sands dropped the body, glanced at the slowly oozing blood from the leg, then set off down the new path. Blood bowl held close to his left side, he allowed the spear to trail behind him, its trident head bouncing along the roots, charring and scorching as it went. He did not plan on returning this way, but he was not taking any chances.

Again the trail took a hard turn away from the other, then once more turned left, back in its original direction. Another gigantic bole blocked his path, at least until he slapped blood from the skull along it until finding the sigil. Still repulsed by its smacking wooden lips, Sands quickly pressed goblets of intestines into the tattooed symbol. Another trail erupted through the forest, this time in a very long straight line. Darkness shrouded its far end. Not deterred, Sands quickened his pace, occasionally looking behind him to ensure the effects of the dragging trident. Brush sprouted about his heels in jagged bursts, some areas thicker than others, but never enough to completely close off retreat. Given time he was certain the woods would overwhelm again. The thought energized him and gave more speed to his feet.

He could not say how long this path led him onward when he finally came, not to an even larger tree, but to an unbroken circle of trees. Trunks like a palisade wall reared high and extended to either side, their boles grown wider round than his arms could stretch. Their crowns of thick foliage shook in high winds, their lowest branches at least thirty hands above his head. The sense of something dark and unwholesome behind this barrier assailed Sands’ perceptions. Curiously, he also felt the smallest of urges within his very soul to answer a call for help he barely heard.

He studied the wooden wall, knowing his path led through it despite his abrupt lack of desire to do so. A peculiar sound swelled, low and guttural, and a pervasive miasma of dread seeped through the trees.

An odd mix of desperate weeping and rumble of hidden laughter scratched at Sands’ nerves like rats sealed in a barrel seeking escape. He knew without doubt beyond this barrier was the laugher who had haunted his journey, the mocker who had taunted him each step. The stench of the unknown raised the hackles on his neck and memories of previous encounters with strange sorceries and the fiends found in conjunction swept through his memory.

Instinctively Sands knew the blood he had fed the trees led to whatever lie hidden behind this wall. Something horrible waited within and he knew without turning around that the forest had closed entirely behind him and that the battle to retreat would be impossible or as terrible as the one before him.

Sands leaned the trident against the wall, noting the wee wisps of black smoke that immediately trailed upward at the contact of its silver blades. “I’ll be damned if I flee,” he spat. The chortle/sob answered, growing in crescendo. “If you need blood, you can bleed,” he shouted. “Monster or mortal, face me and die before the eyes of your vile creators be they the Gods themselves!” Sands grabbed up the trident and ran an edge down a single tree, then slashed across several. A brief gash parted the wood in both directions, then swiftly sealed closed. Black scars marked the wood but he knew it would be difficult to cut his way into the compound. The source of the power in the forest centered here and its strength to regenerate would always counter his new weapon.

Bending to one knee, Sands rested the trident head upon the other and studied its edges, turning the shaft until the majestic visage of the Wyld Stag faced him. This weapon holds meaning. It holds power in these woods. The blemish above the great stag’s eye nagged at him. Absently he scratched at the dried blood upon his face, his eye idly following the fall of flakes. He blinked and jerked alert. Quickly Sands scratched more of the gore from his forehead and shook it over the silver blades.

As each flake struck, the silver flashed and the blood vanished. Excitedly he wiped his rust-streaked hand upon the flat of the blade and watched the residue disappear. Sands stuck his finger in the congealed mess half-filling the skull and quickly drew a circle on each blade. “By all the Pits!” he muttered as the blade absorbed the sticky viscus. Curiously he took up the trident and slashed the newly bathed blade across the treewall.

The smell of burnt timber greeted his nostrils and the bark and wood parted like butter, peeling away from the edges of the weapon in haste. Instead of regrowing closed, the blackened gap remained. Wasting no time, Sands smeared more of the remaining blood along both blades of the trident and attacked the barrier. It was an awkward weapon to use such, and his aim less than accurate. Still, striking repeatedly at the same three lines—left, right, above—he slowly hacked deeper. Some of his blows sent a spark soaring through the growing smoke. When he felt his slices dull, Sands scooped the skull up and dumped it over the blades and trident head, shaking it empty and scooping out the cavity to ensure he used it all. His next blows gouged deeper into the wood, splinters with smoking tips raining to the ground.

Suddenly the sparks ignited and fire ran along all sides of his burrow. Flames raced wherever blood and gore had landed and soaked into the raw insides of the trees he had sundered. Still the wood held, barring his way. Furious, Sands swung with all his strength.

The blade lodged for a moment in the right gash, wedged into the thinning gap…then was through! He sagged against the wall and the head of the trident pushed further through, rending the wood. A wild roar sounded within as he recovered and drew the blade back into the cut and drove it toward the ground, slicing through all resistance. Sands’ answering roar echoed in the wooden tunnel as he swung the trident’s blade into the overhead cut and slammed it to the left. Tugging the weapon free, once more he charged the last connection, hurtling himself into a massive overhand blow.

The trident slammed into the gap and held fast.

Maniacal sounds rang from something just out of his sight. It turned to shrieking gasps as he struggled with the lodged blade, fighting against the trapping wood and the panic mounting within him. He coughed in the smoke from the burning wood surrounding him and shied from its red glow. The blood! The blood is gone! Angrily Sands released the shaft and stepped back, out of the fire-lined tunnel that almost opened upon the inner sanctum of whatever fiend awaited. He saw the fire had followed the blood, consuming it wherever it had fallen. Even the skull glowed like a dancing, crimson ball at his feet. He squinted, saw the burning ball had melted into the base of the tree and fire had burrowed into its wooden heart. Tendrils of smoke rose from the grassline in either direction.

Blood, if I’ve any left. Hacking phlegm from his lungs, Sands spat and stepped forward into the smoking tunnel. There was no time nor alternative; none his fatigued mind could see. He ran the outside meat of his right palm down the unstuck blade edge facing him. His blood ran freely down both sides, swiftly sinking into the silver. Sands laid both hands on the shaft and pushed, putting his weight into the effort. Nothing happened. The embedded blade stuck tight.

Sands threw his head back and bellowed against the world, raged against the sky. “Damn you Gods! Damn this woods! Pits damn you monster!” He shoved down upon the lodged weapon, “I. Will. Not. Die. Here. Today!” the muscles bunched in his shoulders, surging and rippling in great heaves at every word.

Suddenly he was falling, the blade sliding through the last of the wood with ease and slamming his arms and face against the treewall. It shifted. Sands groaned and rolled onto his back, arms still extended above him gripping the trident. Peering back and upward through the slithering smoke, he eyed the door roughly his shape rimmed by daylight on three sides, a line of flame at its feet. Collecting his strength, Sands braced his feet against upthrust roots and pushed.

The thick door trembled. Sands eagerly rammed the trident against it. The slab fell.

The thump of its fall shook the ground and a great puff of dirt and forest refuse soared above its sides, obscuring whatever waited. Sudden silence as if something held an immense indrawn breath. Slowly, softly, the dust and smoke and leaves and embers blanketed the world. Sands rolled upright and crawled forward. He pulled himself atop the fallen section of trees, singeing his forearms and leggings on the hot edges. His sight cleared. His eyes met eyes above.

Pits and Gods. Horror crept along his spine. Sands rose into a crouched stance, feet ready to propel him in any direction.

Suspended in the middle of an ancient grove rose the mighty frame of the Kyng of the Wyld. Sands recognized the magnificent beast instantly. But the stag was twined with hundreds of roots that snaked from the enveloping forest and wrapped his gargantuan body in such number only part of his head remained free. Even it he could not move, as roots twisted and pulled taut most of his wondrous spread of antlers. On closer look, Sands saw that the frame he had thought mighty was shrunken and wasted, only the bulk of the many roots granting the appearance of great size. He saw, too, that smaller appendages from the roots closest to the stag’s snout had driven through his lips in horrid imitation of stitchery, stymying the Kyng’s speech. Sands’ eyes traced the binding roots about the once-strong neck and upward until he again met the eyes of the captured monarch.

Sorrow greeted him, and a long, low bellow—muffled, yet piercing his heart—surged through the beast obviously struggling to open its mouth. Sands recognized the sound as that which he had thought mocked him as he battled through the forest. Instead of laughter, he realized it was the creature’s attempts to call for help. He watched the Great Stag heave against its bonds in a brief burst of energy to no avail. Panic touched the edges of the sad eyes and strong puffs of air burst from its nostrils. He’s weakening. How long has he borne the burden of those monstrous roots?

Sands stood, holding the trident between him and the Kyng. Even though trapped and weakened, he was uncertain of its true strength and intentions. He moved forward until the head of the trident wavered mere inches from the heaving chest and studied the tortured being and the nature of its bondage. Roots thicker than Sands’ thighs bulged about the Kyng in layers, weighting the great beast down even as the mass of living wood thrust him upward. The debris of decades filled the crevices, rested upon the titanic back, disguised the immensity of the sheer bulk of timber that held the stag in limbo. The smaller roots about the mouth pierced the lips like needles, pinching the lips into a grotesque grimace. Blood, dried and crusted, lay in thickened rivulets that broke and dripped fresh, bright drops of red as the beast tried to rip its mouth open.

Understanding dawned. Two forces vied in this wood today. The wytchwood, obviously malevolent foe, sought his blood and snared this monarch toward unknown end. The Kyng of the Wyld, the other…Sands did not know if he should fear the beast or not. What he did know was that the enemy of his enemy might be his friend.

He looked up to the great eyes, then at the closest root, and shook the trident in its direction. The eyes widened and the head twitched and strained and finally, almost imperceptibly, dipped in the slightest of nods. Sands took the trident in both hands and carefully drew a blade across the root. Blood, dark and claggy, burst from the sundering.

“Damnations and abominations!” Sands said. “Aye, what takes blood gives blood. Is this the way? Shall I free you, Great Kyng?” He met the eyes again, saw an intelligence therein so old and knowing it sought to suck him into its depths. A spiral of epic scenes spun past, memories or other planes or even prophecies, Sands knew not. An eternity roared past his sight and for one moment he felt lost, a spec upon the colossal fields of time and space. Primal fears of chaos and the unknown sought to ensnare him. Something deep within his mortal frame howled and spat in terror, an instinctive essence of humanity’s barbaric will to survive seeking outlet. Sands staggered backward, in his mind from the indifference of cold creation and with his body from the timeless beast. He snarled and crouched into a fighting stance, the trident prepared to thrust or slice as needed. “Should I free you?” he asked.

Then he saw the pain, the terrible, terrible anguish threatening to overwhelm the Kyng. And Sands knew in his heart that should the Kyng of the Wyld succumb to this wrecking force that had unnaturally shackled him and kept him prisoner, all of mankind would suffer. He saw in his mind’s eye the ravaging destruction that fell upon the world should nature lose its monarch: vegetation swarmed the earth, growing unchecked to burst from the dirt and even erupt from stone, dislodging all that man built and rending all that was not itself; birds and insects multiplied and attacked in droves, diving in concerted attacks to smash into human prey even to their own deaths; and the beasts raged and campaigned, hunting and devouring until no man remained. With the death of the Great Stag of the Wood came the death of man.

Sands gazed at the regal but almost broken creature. How had this God been chained? Who enslaved you? His eyes ran over the mighty antlers, saw a broken tine along the right side of the Kyng’s forehead. Troubled, he spun the trident in his hand until the engraved figure faced him. The damage matched. In sudden understanding, Sands dug into his pants and freed the tribal talisman. He held it up so the great eyes could see it. A spark of hope lit the Kyng’s orbs, the surprise and delight growing. Even the roots enclosing the great head trembled from the joy rippling through the massive body. Then they constricted.

The roots beneath Sands’ feet pulsed and shook him. He stumbled and watched them swell toward the trapped behemoth. They’re trying to crush him now!

Sands did not understand how the woods could know but he knew there was no time to waste. He began hacking the great trident blades left and right, carving large gashes and sending the reeking blood spewing. Roots parted and snapped free, springing about in writhing sweeps like the tails of dying serpents. The blood disgorged by this stank of decay and abominable rot. Another slash, and the freed root flung Sands away, slamming him against another bulging root. He shook his head and looked to the Kyng. The beast fought, savagely craning its neck toward him even as the roots piled upon it grew in bulk and squashed it to the ground. Closer now, Sands met the wild eyes that kept rolling toward the right then back to him, to his right hand.

A sharp edge bit into his palm, drawing blood and he looked down, saw the sabretooth—No! The broken tine! He looked up and saw the triumph in the Kyng’s eyes even as roots snaked over more of the antlers and spread to meet each other. They’re trying to smother his face!

Without further thought, Sands leaped, jumping from root to root up the side of the roiling wood striving to untimely entomb the Kyng. The roots tried to buck him off or turn away from his feet and send him spiraling down into their depths. He knew if that were to happen he would never rise again, instead be choked to a pulp in heartbeats. It was like trying to ride a slick and twisting sea serpent. Time and time again he neared the head, only to be shunted aside or just past his mark.

Grim determination overtook Sands and he put the tine between his teeth. Bringing the trident over his head in a two-handed grip, he leaped up and brought the weapon forward in a powerful swing. From the corner of his eye he saw a giant root rush toward him. Blades bit and caught in the roots and antlers above the Kyng and Sands braced. The root smashed into his back and battered him into the Kyng’s face.

Releasing the weapon and quickly snatching the tine from his mouth, Sands slammed its broken edge onto the Kyng’s brow. His aim was not perfect, but it did not matter. As soon as the tine touched the stag’s head it leapt into place, melding with the broken stub as if it had never been parted. A golden surge of light burst through the glade with a resounding boom of power throwing roots and trident and Sands away.

Darkness paled, then spotted, then slunk away. Sands cracked his eyelids, blinked, and opened his eyes to bright, clear sunshine filling the woods. Bird songs filtered through his grogginess, followed by the sound of gurgling water and animals moving through the brush. Eyes and mind clearing, he found himself cupped in a natural chair of roots gently supporting his heavy frame. Roots! Alarmed he sat up and tried to escape.

“Be at ease, mortal.” The rich baritone voice instantly calmed Sands, permeating him with a sense of peace. Sands raised his head and found the mighty Stag of the Woods staring down at him. Sunlight outlined the magnificent body, highlighting the glowing coat and shining antlers. No trace of broken tine marred the fierce headdress. Sands squinted and saw only scars upon the thick lips; nothing else revealed the great damage wrought upon the beast. The stag shifted sideways, and Sands saw the thinness of its figure, saw its need for nourishment.

“I will survive, thanks to you, man.” The stag lifted its head, indicating the surrounding forest. Sands looked about him, saw the once-threatening roots withered to desiccated sticks sundered across the floor of the woods, where only the dark smudge of old soot showed where the walls of the Kyng’s prison had stood. No trace of blood, fresh red or aged black, remained. Sands shivered and looked at his open palms. Though clean, yet he smelled the tang of iron. He knew he faced many dark dreams in the nights ahead.

“I cannot rid you of such memories.” The huge head shook, and the beast snorted. “Nor myself of mine own. Only thank you.”

Sands considered the words. Suddenly he realized he was not slathered in blood. He studied his hands again, saw only scars where he had just seen cuts and slices. He reached to his shoulder and felt only a thick scar where the arrow had burst free. It seemed he was healed, though the pain of each injury lingered.

“Nor can I rid you of the pain. Pain is but a memory anyway; the wounds are closed. We will both live.”

Sands listened and marveled at the renewed sounds of forest life. A dark aura had fled this wood. The Kyng had returned; it was almost as if nothing untoward had kept him. Sands stood, his head nearly coming to the bottom lip of the huge being.

“The tribe?” he asked.

“Extinct,” the Kyng answered. “Their shaman, evil creature that he was, is hurled into the Endless Pits. Nature has reclaimed their village. No trace of their existence remains. Except in my memory, a betrayal burned deep. And except for these.” He took several steps back and looked down.

Upon an upthrust root lay the gems that once had encircled the broken tine. Beyond them stood the trident, braced against a branch of the towering tree beside the stag. “I owe my life to you, manling. Creation owes you a debt it cannot repay. All the line of mankind bears its future to you, an obligation it will never know of let alone understand. I know these stones matter to your kind. Take them, spend them, rid them of their association with their former makers.”

Sands did not reach for the jewels. “How—”

“As I said, a betrayal. Once they worshiped me. Then they did not. Their dark theft snared and trapped me here. I waited half of one of your centuries before sensing a soul like yours held my stolen tine once more within these woods.” It stepped back further and nodded to the weapon.

“Whatever else you may be and have done does not disguise the truth of your nature. Despite my waning strength, I kept this trident from the tribe. Perhaps if I had not I could have freed myself, but there really was no choice. Not until I felt your presence and sensed your spirit did I drop my protections. If you had not secured the trident, we both would have died this day.

“This is my gift to you. This and my word. The weapon cannot be broken, at least not by your kind, or taken from you. Nor can you give it away. It is a loan to you. It will not make you undefeatable or extend your life. It is simply a very fine weapon you will never need replace. At your death, it will return to my side. Some of its powers you have learned.” The beautiful voice paused. “And I will repay your rescue twofold. Twice will I come to your call. When you are in great need, look to my figure there on the weapon. Meet my eyes and remember this conversation, then think your need, and I will come.”

The Kyng’s eyes bored into Sands’. “Do not use this gift lightly, mortal. I have found my fondness of mankind sorely tested. I will remove myself for a while, for a time far beyond your lifespan. I will come when you ask, and as I help you each time I will evaluate man and consider my return. You have given me hope, but I have much to ponder.”

Sands bent his head. Not in submission, not in worship. It was the dip of the head of one warrior to another, an acknowledgement of respect. “I’m not too fond of man right now either,” he admitted. Then he stretched forth his hand, passing over the gems and grasping the trident. He held the weapon high in salute to the Kyng of the Wyld and said simply, “Thank you.” Then he turned and spat upon the gems. “Damn these to the Pits! I will not share in the horrific prizes of your tormentors.”

The stag chuckled, and this time it was not sinister. “Mortal man, I thank you for your outrage on my behalf. It is not necessary. I will think no less of you should you keep these pretty baubles. You came for treasures, no?”

Sands shrugged and grinned. Then he bent to retrieve the fistful of plunder. Definitely worth the trip. He was already calculating the number of nights of drinks and whores each ‘bauble’ was worth. Not often a bit of thieving saves the world, eh? When he lifted his head, he saw only his horse, the steed he had thought long lost in his flight. The rest of the glade was empty. The Great Stag of the Woods ran free. Sands stretched and scanned his surroundings.

Now, which way to the nearest brothel? And dinner. Where can I find a warm loaf of bread and some greens? He refused to think of meat.

 

________________________________________

Jason M. Waltz believes in heroes. He is the proud recipient of two Robert E. Howard Foundation Valusian Awards and the equally proud publisher of the Sword & Sorcery Attitude anthology Neither Beg Nor Yield. After 20 years in small press publishing, Jason returned to concentrating upon his own writing and has found acceptances in Whetstone, Monster Fight at the O.K. Corral, Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy, Savage Realms Monthly, Crimson Quill Quarterly, Swords & Heroes eZine, and Swords & Sorcery Magazine. He recently guest edited the first two Sword & Sorcery anthologies from Raconteur Press, Blades & Black Magic (August 2025) and Daggers & Dark Powers (coming November 2025), and appeared in their Mercs & Mayhem anthology October 31st with the first story of his Peacekeepers. Jason also hosts the author interview videocast 24 in 42 at Rogue Blades Presents and is ‘The Main Rogue’ behind the Substack Word Dancing with The Rogue.

 

Andrea Alemanno  is a compulsive illustrator  who fills the line spacing, preferably at 300 dpi.
He’s  from Italy and loves to move into a new city searching for inspiration. In every city,  he constantly keeps drawing.  Now, 3 decades later (and a little bit more), he is  still drawing and learning something new everyday.  He loves the traditional touch into a digital tools world so uses pencil, ink and digital colors to give life to his artwork.  Sometimes he shares his knowledge with wannabe illustrators.  His work has been selected for several awards and he’s currently working for Italian and international publishers.