The Eye Of Ludum

"We shouldn't be here," Elna whispered.

Jochen turned his head towards her but didn't stop moving forward, though Elna's face troubled him. For an elf, her complexion looked unusually pale in the torchlight. He knew better than to ignore her words, in any case. Elna's foresight had saved his skin at least half a dozen times.

He gave Elna’s hand a gentle squeeze. Sapphire eyes gazed into his own, filled with apprehension.

"Don't worry," he whispered back, "we're going to be fine."

In truth, Jochen couldn't shake the feeling they'd been betrayed. But by who? He'd personally selected every member of this little party. All had proved themselves stalwart companions many times over in the years he'd known them.

So why did he feel like a target was painted on his back?

It's this forest, he told himself, shivering. The trees surrounding them seemed eager, watching in silent anticipation. Their trunks bent slightly toward the party as though observing rats scurry about in a maze from above. Long, skeletal branches spread outward like grasping talons, eager to capture unwary prey. The moonlight played tricks with the shadows, giving him impressions of movements at the edges of his vision.

Elna's right; I should call this off right now. Jochen's heartbeat fluttered in his chest, but he couldn't — not until they'd found the Eye, if indeed it was here.

And if it isn't? If this is some kind of trap? No, stop it! No one here would ever betray me!

Raising his torch, Jochen called to the two men scouting the forest before them. "Glanealle, Finnius, see anything?"

Glanealle grunted in response. Not surprising for the stout man, who typically spoke less than twenty words on any day. He was the only one who seemed wholly unaffected by the gloom.

Finnius called back, "Nuthin' but more dirt n' leaves, Jochen. That, an' more trees o' course. Can't see much in front o' us though, this damnable darkness is hard ta penetrate."

Jochen nodded, swinging the torchlight to his left. Sylvar, his longtime friend and Elna's half-brother, held a shortbow in his slim hands, an arrow half-nocked. Sharp eyes kept vigil against whatever might lay in wait out in the dark. "What about you, Sylvar?"

Sylvar shook his head. "No, but something smells wrong." Eyes narrowed, he studied a tree they passed as if it might pounce at any moment. "I've never scented wood like this before. They're more than old trees." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Like memories of an ancient storm. It's like the air is still charged, waiting for the next group of clouds."

"What you're smelling is the remains of old and powerful magic," Elna said. "Your human blood weakens your senses, brother, but if even you can smell it, then it is indeed potent."

Sylvar bore the comment without remark, used to Elna's constant reminders of his ancestry. Her jabs weren't really meant for him anyway; they were meant for their mutual father. "Do you know this magic, sister?"

Elna lifted her chin. "We walk the land of the Dryad now, brother." Returning her gaze to Jochen, she repeated, "We shouldn't be here."

#

Three days ago, Jochen had all but given up on finding the Eye of Ludum. They could have been on their way home by now.

If not for Sylvar's story, they would be. But Jochen wasn't about to start suspecting his best friend. Besides, hadn't Finnius told Sylvar to speak with that guard? Yes, and it'd been Elna's idea to travel to Vestleton. 

Jochen closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. This kind of thinking was going to get them nowhere.

Vestleton had been the party's last stop among over a hundred since they'd begun their fruitless search nearly a year ago. "Someone in this world has to have heard something, anything, about a powerful artifact like that," Jochen had said over a mouthful of bread, sitting at an inn table. “These kinds of things leave traces, you know? Impressions. There should be stories about them—legends told by bards containing nuggets of the truth."

"An artifact capable of summoning fire from thin air?" Elna snorted, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Jochen. We knew this was a long shot from the start. Even your king thought the Eye unlikely to be real; you said so yourself."

Jochen nodded and took a long sip of wine. Thank the gods he'd brought his own stock, good Aborian red. If he'd been forced to drink the piss this inn tried to pass off as ale, he'd likely have quit drinking. "True, but you don't know the king. If he'd heard enough to send us on this hunt, he'd expect us to return with more than empty words."

"Human kings," Elna sniffed, wrinkling her nose, "are utter fools."

Jochen laughed. "Sometimes they are. Unfortunately, they are also powerful, so we must bow and scrape to their whims, whether we think them foolish or not."

Elna opened her mouth - no doubt to add some biting comment - when the door opened. Sylvar walked in. Blue eyes - mirrors of his sister's - peered out from under bushy eyebrows. "I thought I'd find you two lovebirds here," he said.

"Where are Glanealle and Finnius?" Jochen gestured to the seat beside him.

Sylvar sat and helped himself to the bread. "Downstairs at the bar, betting on who can bag that raven-haired serving girl. My money's on Glanealle."

"Glanealle hardly knows more than a dozen words," Elna smirked. "She'd have to be deaf and blind to go for a man like him."

"You'd be surprised to find out how charming that man can be, sister." Sylvar shrugged. "Not that it matters; a lot of women like the strong and silent type."

“Good man to have in a fight as well,” Jochen commented. “He’s tough, got skin that just about turns away steel.”

Elna's lips curled. "I don't like him."

"You've never given him a chance, dear heart," Jochen said, though not with any heat. They'd been through this song and dance a dozen times already.

"I don't want to. There's something wrong with a man who communicates in grunts and gesticulations. Not to mention, he smells like molasses most of the time."

Sylvar poured a cup of wine and leaned back, unconcerned with his sister's opinion. "Anyway, I might have some good news for you, Jochen."

"You've finally given up gambling? That is good news, Sylvar."

"And give up the coin I keep winning from you?" Sylvar chuckled. He leaned forward, capturing Jochen's eyes. "I heard an interesting story. About a ferocious giant who died in a forest nearby." He paused, tapping a slim finger against his chin. "A giant who lost its eye."

Jochen’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Is that so? Tell me about it."

"I was outside practicing sword forms when Finnius says he wants to introduce me to a guard he just met. An interesting fellow with a long family history in this town. We spoke for a while, and then I asked him if he knew any old stories involving this area. Well, it turned out he does.

The way he tells it, around four to five generations ago, a giant came down from the mountain to live in the forest. His brethren had banished him for disrespecting the clan chief. Took more than his fair share of meat or some such thing. Before he left, the giant stole a golden flask from the chief that was said always to be filled with the sweetest water, or wine if the giant holding the flask wished for it."

"Now, that would be a trinket worth having," Jochen said. Elna laughed and shushed him.

"Yes," Sylvar agreed, taking a sip from his cup. "So, a few years go by, and the giant lived peacefully in the forest. Sometimes, he would get drunk and sing so loud the trees would shake. But this didn't happen often, so the people of that time left him alone.

Then, one day, his old clan won a fierce battle with a dragon in the mountain. The chief wanted to celebrate this great victory and remembered his golden flask. Furious that his treasure had been stolen, he sent warriors down the mountain to find the banished giant and retrieve the trinket.

But the giant loved the flask, and when the warriors tried to take it from him, his screams of rage caused all but the bravest of them to flee in terror. One of the stronger ones snuck behind and tore out the giant's eye before stripping the flask from his hand. Before they could leave with their prize, though, the giant called out to the heavens for vengeance. In response, the gods sent down rivers of fire that scorched the ground, killing every living thing nearby.

The guard claimed his ancestor later went into the woods to ascertain what had happened, but nothing was left except ash. That, and the giant's gorged eye, covered in amber tree sap. The man tried to take it for a souvenir, but the heat exuding from it was too great, so he left it there, where it remains to this day."

Jochen sat back in his chair and glanced across the table. Elna caught his eye and shrugged. "That's some story, Sylvar," he said, "And it's supposed to be in a forest nearby?"

Sylvar nodded. "That's what the man said. West of here. According to him, if we left in the morning, we'd make it a couple hours after midday."

"Does this forest have a name?"

"Yeah. The Blackwood, but he said it used to be called the Iphycian Grove."

Elna suddenly hissed, and they both looked up at her in surprise. Her brows were furrowed as she gripped Sylva's wrist. "You're sure the guard spoke this name, brother?"

"Yes," Sylvar replied, frowning. "Why, do you know it?"

"I have heard it somewhere before. An ill-omened name, I remember that much. Something told to me long ago, in my youth." Elna shook her head. "I can't fully remember, but I don't think we should go there, Jochen."

"No one does anymore," Sylvar said. "Not in the last fifty years or so, according to the guard."

Jochen fixed his friend with a steady gaze. "Why not?"

Sylvar shrugged. "He says otherworldly beasts haunt those woods."

#

"What's a Dryad?" Jochen asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Ancient protectors of the oldest forests," Elna answered. Her eyes flicked nervously over the trees. "Perhaps elven ancestors, old before the first humans were flickers of imagination in the minds of gods." She licked her lips. "It seems they are still alive."

Jochen had heard enough. "Perhaps it would be prudent to leave, then."

A look of dread passed over Elna's face, replaced by calm acceptance. "It's too late for that, dear heart. They are already here."

Jochen straightened and drew his sword, hearing the hiss of steel as Sylvar did the same. Together, they stared around wildly. "Are you sure? I don't see anything."

"They aren't people like us, Jochen. They are the trees."

"What -" Jochen began, when Finnius screamed. Whirling about, he raised his torch in time to see his companion jerked upright by one skinny leg, a thick branch wrapped around his calf. Jochen dashed forward, intending to slice the branch in half, but was knocked off his feet by something hard and springy.

"Jochen, help me!"

Dazed, Jochen got to his feet. He'd managed to hold on to his sword, but Finnius was no longer in sight. "FINNIUS!" Jochen bellowed. His only answer was another terrified scream, but he couldn't tell which direction the scream was coming from.

A tree to his left quivered violently. Jochen ran back to Elna, who stood calmly next to her brother, a look of pained sorrow on her face. "Did you see which way Finnius went, Sylvar? And where's Glanealle?"

Sylvar only shook his head, face slick with sweat as he tried to look everywhere at once. All around, the woods seemed to be coming to life. Jochen could hear the loud, creaking groan of bending tree limbs and a cacophony of dirt and rocks pelting the forest floor as something massive pulled free from the earth.

A vine shot out from the dark and wrapped itself around Sylvar's neck. Elna cried out wordlessly as it dragged her brother to the ground like a lion pulling down a gazelle. Sylvar dropped his sword, clutching at the vine as Jochen screamed in rage. Jochen ran forward and slashed deeply into the vine, but another wrapped around his sword arm while yet another pulled his sword free of his hand.

Before Jochen could respond to the new threat, he heard a great rustling sound from above. He looked up to see one of the trees bending over him, great limbs reaching lightning-quick to wrap themselves around his body. He looked around, desperate, as the branches began to squeeze and more wrapped around his legs, his chest, and his neck. He saw Elna's body sinking into a tree trunk as though it were made of nothing more than quicksand; her hand outstretched toward him in a final farewell.

Jochen tried to cry out to her, to tell her he was sorry. He should have heeded her warning. He felt his ribs crack, then pop, and the world went black in a sea of agony.

#

Once the screams had faded and the woods were filled with the music of crickets again, a figure stepped out from the gloom behind the trees. With a sigh that sounded like wind passing through leaves, it knelt next to the man’s corpse. 

Had Jochen been alive, he would have recognized the figure, though it had changed. Withered vines sprouting tiny flowers grew where thin strands of hair had once been. Its skin had turned a shade of brown and grew patches of verdant moss over its body, but the face was mostly the same.

"Sorry, old friend." Its voice was light, almost musical. Another change. "That guard was bad luck for you. We couldn't risk you taking the stone. It’s much too dangerous to be trusted in the hands of men again."

Standing, it walked over to Elna's corpse next. Her dead, pale face filled it with suffocating sorrow. An innocent daughter of the forest, but the Dryad's secrets had to be protected. It picked up the elf's broken form and laid it gently next to Jochen. Perhaps they would find comfort in each other's arms in the next life.

"I tried to warn you, long ago," it said. "You should have remembered. You knew what my name meant once. Glanealle. It means, 'Guardian of the Grove'."