Jovan's Gaze. Aaron Ph.D. Dov
When I spoke of my dreams to Jeannine, she insisted that it was the keep itself. She feared for my soul, though I paid little attention to her worries. And though I never again spoke of the dreams, I sometimes wondered about her fears. Was I wrong? Had I been wrong, all these years? Was the keep working its will upon me?
No, that was foolish. Certainly, the magic of this place ran deep. It seeped from the walls, and the plague storms which drew on that magic created fierce fire storms. That was all, though. Nothing more, certainly. The magic here was a tool for a darkness which no longer roamed the halls and dungeons of the keep. Magic was merely a tool, after all. Magic could be good or evil, and though such distinctions seemed rather childish, especially after the damage wrought by the magic plagues, it was a good rule of thumb. Still, good or evil, magic was not altogether different than a sword. A sword could be crafted artfully, or with cruel angles. Regardless, its use was entirely up to those who held it. A cruel-looking sword in the hands of a noble king was made noble. A sword wrought nobly, yet held in the hands of a creature of evil, was fouled by the uses found for it. So it was for magic, as well. The magic here, as horrid as its uses were, was nothing more than a weapon left upon a battlefield. It was only dangerous to those who did not respect such tools. I understood that, and I was cautious. Thus, I was safe.
At some point in the night, after I had let my heavy eyelids fall, the firestorm stopped. The wailing ceased. I awoke to the silence to which I was accustomed. The door had held, despite the single burst of flame at the outset. Rising from the throne, I stretched out my sore muscles. It was then that I noticed my hand. It was no longer blistered, merely red. I examined it, unsure of what I was looking at.
"Huh," I muttered to myself.
It seemed that my wounds were not what I had first thought. It was not the first time I had been deceived. The storms here were as much about fear as anything else. They played upon the mind. Obviously, my 'burns' had been another such ploy by the angry souls here, intended to sink me into a mire of despair, and then draw me in and drown me. Not today. I could not be driven to despair or madness by the sight of a few blisters and some scorched skin. I had seen far worse during the war.
Without looking back at the throne of the once-terrible kingdom of Krona, I took up my pack, and unbolted the door. Working a crick out of my neck, I started my journey home.
***
"Spent the night, did you?"
The voice called out from across the river. Erik waved at me as he crossed through the waist-deep, slow-moving river, his hands holding his massive sword above his head for balance.
"No choice," I called back, as I washed my hands in the cool water. "A storm hit while I was inside. I had to wait it out. I am not partial to being scorched down to the soles of my boots."
It was a joke, but I instinctively looked down to my hand. It was healthy and whole, of course, but the memory of the false burn of two nights past still sent pain shooting up my arm. The hallucination, for what else could it have been, was still very vivid in my mind. It had bothered me as I journeyed across the barren fields around the keep, and then through the empty fields beyond it, leading me to this small river.
Erik shook his head, his thinning mane of gray-tinted red hair waving back and forth over his face like a curtain in a breeze. He brushed it aside. "That's nonsense. You didn't have to be there to begin with."
"How would you know?" I asked.
"The package was intended for Meekwood," he retorted. "That is three walking days east of the keep."
"Your point, Erik?" I asked with a smirk.
"My point, dear boy," he replied as he reached my bank of the river, somewhat winded from the effort, "is that you wasted away that time on your little excursion."
I shrugged, shaking the water from my hands. "That is really my concern. It was a one-way delivery." I dried my hands on my pants. "I delivered it quickly. That's why they pay me."
"And how were we to know?" Erik huffed, his large, muscular form thumping down on the ground as he took some rest. "The wolves might have taken you, and Meekwood would have been without the medicine it asked for."
"I can outsmart wolves," I replied, pretending to concentrate on brushing the dust from my clothing.
"Those wolves are not just wolves, and you know it."
I nodded. "I was there when it happened."
"So you should know better," Erik said with annoyance.
Somewhere under my indifference, I agreed with Erik's point. The forests which separated Meekwood from the barrens around the keep were thick with the howls of angry beasts. The forests had always been home to wolves, massive predator packs, moving with impunity. Since the war, though, the wolves had changed. Whatever magic the locals had wrought upon those thickets did more than was intended. The rebellious villagers, seeing Kronan troops coming to crush their revolt, had sought to twist and turn the bodies of the Dark Lord's troops. They expected these troops to turn away from their intended invasion and flee, but they had not done so. The whips and claws of the Kronan officers were a far greater motivator than the magic set upon the trees. So the Kronan troops, a thousand of them in all, marched onward through the forest. At some point during their march, the wolves came upon them. Now the wolf packs and the Kronan horde were one in the same. Twisted Kronan wolves with terrible eyes, many still wearing some of the armor from their man-halves.
The stories from the Meekwood villagers were always the same. The Kronan soldiers, driven mad by the twisting magic, lived an existence scoured of memory. They wandered aimlessly, unsure of who they were or what their purpose was. That was, until the scent of life came to them. Then the changes came, and the flesh and teeth became fur and fangs. The howls echoed among the trees, and the Kronan army became a wolf pack. Such wolves as these did not relent until their prey was felled and consumed. I had seen it happen, and I knew enough to avoid that forest, or at least to cross at its narrowest point. Thankfully, the Kronan wolves did not venture beyond the trees. Food was plentiful enough under their leaf-canopy.
Erik lay back on the bank, stretching. I heard his back crack, and he let out a sigh of relief. At fifty-two, Erik was hardly fit enough to be traveling like this. Moving between the few safe areas of our world was a job for the young. Erik's only advantage was that in his youth and well into his older years he had been a warrior of unparalleled strength. The muscles remained, softened though they were. Still, he was slower, heavier, and tired far more easily than the fierce man I had known as a young soldier.
"This is not really about how long it took to get to Meekwood and back," I started.
"No," he sat up. "No, it's not. It is about your obsession with that damned place."
I waved him off with a smile and a shake of the head. "It is not an obsession."
"What do you call it?" he demanded, his tone taking on a slight edge. "You take any opportunity to go there."
"So?" I asked. "So what if I do? I am not bringing anything out of there, and anyway, the place is dead. What harm is there in going?"
"You keep saying that," he grumbled. "You say it is dead, and yet you keep going back. What is so interesting in a dead place that you keep going back to it?"
I sat down beside the old warrior. I gazed at the blue sky, so much calmer here than the approaches to the keep. "I am curious, just that. I spent enough time in our own throne room, hearing tales about that awful place. I just had to see it."
"Fine, once." He nodded, as though declaring some truth. "Once I can understand. I will even admit to being more than a little curious, myself. In my younger days, I might have gone myself, once. Once should have been enough for you, if it is really as dead as you say."
I scowled at Erik. "I am not really sure what your problem is, Erik" I shook my head, annoyed. I had