Off the Beaten Path
Episode 10 - The World Stone
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We flashed back to an earlier time when Evra and Artus changed the course of life in Waterfell.
⧔ PRESENT DAY ⧕
Tasol and Myra travelled east through the darkness on game trails that only Tasol knew. He felt certain they hadn’t been followed, neither of them hearing anything. They pressed through a copse of old oak trees as the morning’s first light glittered through the rainfall still clinging to the leaves. In the clearing ahead was a well-worn path, rutted by wagon use.
“That’s Garren’s Path,” Tasol said, coming to a stop and sharing a bit of leavened bread from his pack with Myra. It had been a long night hiking through the woods with their senses on full alert, so this was a welcome respite. “It leads to the King’s Road, the only road into the valley where Ward’s End lies.” Myra knew the roads around Bannion as well as Tasol, but for some reason he felt the need to speak it aloud. Garren’s Path led from Bannion, west to Livery, joining the King’s Road–a road that ran from Fount to the northwest through Livery and continuing southeast, knifing through the Silvermoon Mountains along the canal to Ward’s End.
“Is it wise to be on the roads?” she asked.
He knew what she was intimating–there’d be people looking for them. Tasol closed his pack, turning his attention back to her. “It’s the only way to Ward’s End. I’m not crazy about it either, but we just need to keep to ourselves and stay clear of other travelers.”
“Stay clear of others?” Myra scoffed, chewing a piece of bread. “Are you crazy? The roads are full of people, people that are way too happy to share what they know for a little water. There’s got to be another way.”
“You’re right,” Tasol said, stroking his chin, looking up into the high, snowy peaks of the Silvermoon's that rimmed the trail to the south. “There is–” he began, his voice trialing off in thought.
“There is, what?” Myra asked, her eyes following his, looking toward the mountains. “Ok,” she said, throwing her hands up in air, “so you are crazy. It’s settled.”
Tasol sighed. “It’s the only other way I know of.”
“People that go up there die,” Myra said, not taking her eyes from him.
“Just hear me out,” Tasol said, trying to settle her. “If the Snowmelters can travel through Ward’s Way, so can we.” She didn’t interrupt, so he continued, motioning to the mountains. “There’s a trail used by the goat farmers down by the cliffs–I’ve overheard them talk about it at the taverns. They say it goes all the way to Ward’s Way, and the tunnels that go under the mountains to Ward’s End.”
Myra looked from the mountains to her brother. Down the path, the tinkering, clomping sound of a horse cart echoed from around the corner, the horse pulling it coming into sight. Impetuously, Myra grabbed her brother’s arm, bounding up a small game trail on the far side of the path. They barely made it unseen, now hidden behind a growth of ceanothus bushes just as a caravan of wagons rolled past.
Once the caravan cleared out, Myra turned to Tasol. “The goat trail. Do you know exactly where it is?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You think so, or you know,” she said, her eyes fixed on him.
“I know,” he said confidently. “It’s an old trail just south of here by the cliffs on Smith Creek.” He paused, glancing back to the road.
“Let’s get moving then,” she said, nudging him, “there’s nothing left for us here.”
“We’ll have to pick our way through the forest from here,” he said, turning back, “but we’ll find it.” He knew it’d be a slow-going, and he could already feel the lack of sleep in his legs, but like always, he pressed on. Myra followed close on his heels with little sign of fatigue. They headed toward the cliffs, but were still close enough that they could glimpse the road through the trees. The ceanothus and undergrowth were getting thick, but as they pushed through, they found themselves standing on a small trail that seemed to track with the road.
“A cutpurse’s path,” Myra said with a smile.
“Keep your voice down,” Tasol said quietly, “and keep your wits. This is a dangerous path.” He paused, glancing up and down the thin, well-worn trail. “Let’s get a move on. The cliffs are only a couple of miles from here. If we’re lucky, we’ll get there without being seen.”
Myra nodded, and they settled into a harried pace, but not so quick as to be reckless. Tasol’s senses were on alert as they ghosted along the trail, ensconced in the trees. A heavy, sweet fragrance filled the air from the ceanothus brought to life by the rain. The trail curved ahead, slowly making its way to a plank of wood passing over a dry creek bed. Lifting his head from the plank, Tasol saw a man on the trail in the distance and froze.
The man matched him, also holding his position. He was a tall man with long red hair and a braided beard. A long bow slung over his back, the quiver of arrows protruding over his shoulders, and a short sword hung at his side.
“Myra,” Tasol said quietly, his hand moving for his machete.
“I see,” Myra responded, catching sight of the red-haired man before gingerly leaping from the plank onto solid ground, next to her brother. “I’ll follow your lead,” she whispered so only he could hear. She might have a wiry frame, but she was tightly bound with muscle and stood barely an inch shorter than her brother.
They knew they had the advantage in the most basic sense–two against one. Tasol stepped forward, Myra following. The man was a couple hundred yards away, and as Tasol crept forward, the red-haired man mirrored his actions. They moved with caution, slowly pressing forward, closing the gap between them. The closer they came, the more details came into view.
The man leaned forward, squinting, and then stopped, raising a hand, and calling out. “Tasol? Tasol Jasper? Is that you?”
It was a voice Tasol knew all too well, but it was impossible–Daymel was dead.
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