Tomas drifted through a forest. It was like the woods he had played in as a child had been twisted by some force. Mushrooms grew alongside the trees, and in the forest, boughs large insects chittered in place of the expected woodland creatures. A pair of beetles called out as he passed underneath, their gleaming white carapace a stark contrast against the dark tree cover. He was looking for… something. He couldn’t remember what. Something big had happened; it gnawed at the back of his mind. Wait, Tomas thought, when did I even get here? A headache began to take shape as he tried to remember. This was not the Weald he had gone to for Baron Laoros. He knew it was the one from his childhood because, in the distance, he saw the Pyre Stone.

  Oblong and charred to a deep coal black, the Pyre Stone sat in the center of a small clearing. Most days, it looked like your average rock, if darker than normal for the area, but without fail, once a year, the boulder would be struck by lightning. The townsfolk would deny it if asked in public, but there were strong superstitions associated with the Pyre Stone. Once, they had gotten to the eve of the new year without the rock being struck. The sky was clear that morning, but by dusk, dark clouds were on the horizon. Throughout the night, lightning repeatedly struck the stone. Each burst of thunder seemed as if to make up for its tardiness that year. Behind closed doors, people say the stone was the home of dark forest spirits who were quick to anger and led to bad luck. More than once, a child had been shocked when attempting to climb the stone. Tomas remembered when he had been dared to run up and touch it. Spurred on by the cheers of his peers, he had run and smacked the tree quickly with his palm. As soon as his skin touched the gritty surface, a jolt coursed through him, not strong enough to hurt, but it was enough to make his blonde hair stand on end.

  The Pyre Stone didn’t look much different after all these years. Although stones weren’t known for drastic change, Tomas supposed. He approached the stone until an arm’s length away, studying the black surface. He tentatively stuck out his hand and inched it toward the surface until finally making contact. He jerked back immediately, expecting to reel from a shock, but realized there had been none. He reached out his hand again and let it linger this time. The rock was warm to the touch and coarse. When Tomas withdrew his hand, black soot stained his palm. How odd, he thought. The stone hadn’t done that when he was a child. He slowly circled the Pyre Stone, seeing if anything else was different. Tomas was about to return to the path when he noticed something. Barely visible behind the wild grass lining the forest floor along the edge of the stone was a small gash. The mark appeared to be left by a chisel or another similarly sharp tool. Tomas knelt down and brushed vegetation aside to get a better look at it. It was the first time he had ever seen any sort of mark on the stone. At the center of the cut, a pale gold material peeked out–Amidyn–the most valuable material in the world. Apparently, in the capital of Tyrie, they used it to craft magical mechanisms and wondrous machines. The closest Tomas had ever seen was the Baron’s clock; it had appeared to run by purely mechanical means, the hundreds of gears and cogs spinning behind its glass facade, not anything magical.

  Tomas was distracted from his rumination by a crunching in the distance. Breaking through the soft forest ambience was the snapping of twigs and the crushing of leaves in a rhythmic pattern. Footsteps. He stayed crouched near the Pyre Stone and turned his eyes toward the sound, looking for its source. Past giant redcaps and twisting branches, he was barely able to make out the shape of a figure in the distance. Who else manages to end up in this strange place? Tomas wondered. They were barely more than a silhouette, a shadow seen between mushroom stems, walking toward the horizon. Tomas sat and intently watched the figure. They were getting further and further away; soon, they would be out of sight. Tomas steeled his nerves and made a decision. He stood up from the ground, keeping to a half crouch so that he wouldn’t be immediately visible to the figure or anyone else in this Gods forsaken forest, and began to follow the figure. Almost immediately, Tomas reached a thicket of branches and roots woven together. It reminded him of the lattice on top of the fancy pies the ladies in the kitchen would make for the Baron. Tomas didn’t have a hatchet or anything to hack through the obstacle with, so he resorted to using his hands to widen an opening on the ground and then pull himself through the tight opening on his stomach. For a moment, he thought he was going to get stuck, but he managed to push through. On the other side was more forest, but with somewhat manageable obstacles. The figure in the distance seemed to be maintaining a consistent pace, undeterred by the forest floor. It was going to be difficult to close the gap.

  Tomas sped up his pace, following the assumed path of the mysterious figure. In one particularly flat stretch of forest, he managed to gain distance and halve the gap between himself and the figure. Upon getting a closer look, Tomas was able to determine that the figure was a man with a large frame, but the details were still fuzzy. His progress soon reached a roadblock. Further along, he came across a brook that crossed his path. The same giant mushrooms and trees that filled the forest dotted the shoreline, this time covered in a distinctly bright lime green moss. One mushroom stem leaned haphazardly against another, seemingly worn down by the elements. The brook itself was wild, not big enough to be a river but fast enough to be more than a stream. The water whipped at the shore and rocks, sending splashes of white foam upward. It was not the kind of place one could simply swim across. Shit. There was no indication of how the figure had crossed the violent waters. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been any footsteps either, even though Tomas was fairly sure he was taking the same path. Well, he would just have to think of something. He stood at the shore, studying the brook. There were a few rocks poking above the water, but their moss-covered surfaces glistened from the constant splashing. It would be a suicide to try and keep my footing on that. Tomas turned his attention to the surrounding flora, particularly the leaning mushroom stem. It was as wide as a barrel and seemed long enough to reach the opposite bank. The only thing he needed now was a way to tip it over.

  The underbrush was covered in fallen branches and logs, giving Tomas ample choices. He needed something long to stick under the stem and use as a lever. It would need to be sturdy, though, as the giant mushroom did not look particularly light. An added bonus of needing a long lever is the few precious extra seconds to get out of the way if the giant thing decided to fall towards him instead of away. After a long search, he found something that might work. About 20 yards from the brook bank, caught in some yellow hanging vines, was a long branch the thickness of a man’s forearm. It was still somewhat small for Tomas’s purpose, but it would have to do. One end of the branch lay on hanging vines, while the other was buried in the dirt. When he tried to pull it out of the earth, it didn’t want to budge. Tomas planted his feet in a wide stance and gripped the branch again, pulling with all of his might. His feet slid on the damp ground, and then with a squelch and pop, the branch came free. With the resistance now gone, Tomas accidentally heaved the branch straight upward over his head and landed flat on his ass. The branch flew upward and became entangled in vines, sticking in the treetops. Tomas sighed and wiped the dirt from his trousers. The branch was much too high to reach from the ground. Tomas was relatively tall, but even while jumping upward, the branch lay five feet out of his reach. He instead had to climb up a gnarled old tree nearby to reach it. He crossed over to where the branch was caught in vines and tried to untangle it. The vines were as thick as a man’s wrist and so twisted around themselves as to form a knot which refused to loosen. He tried in vain to tear it with his hands before remembering the short knife tucked into his belt. Drawing his knife in one hand, he began to cut through the vine. The knife wasn’t particularly sharp, so Tomas sat there, sawing at the vine as green fluid leaked from its flesh. When the vine was finally severed, he tossed it away, leaving the branch to fall to the ground with a loud thump.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  He scrambled back down the tree and picked up the branch. It was heavy, but in a reassuring way. It hopefully meant the branch was strong enough to use as leverage on the giant mushroom stem. Being too heavy and unwieldy to carry outright, Tomas drug the branch behind him toward the bank of the brook. There was the stem, leaning against the hefty spruce tree beside it. He wedged the branch into the gap between the broken stem and its stump. Bracing himself, he began to push on the branch. With a scraping sound, the stem began to shift. It had moved a few inches when the branch began to bow. Tomas continued to push. The scraping grew louder as the stem began to slide off the stump underneath. With a jolt, the stem caught on the stump. Tomas strained against the branch, which began to bend harshly under the force, trying to gain more leverage. As he pushed, the stem wouldn’t budge, and the branch bowed further. With a snap, the branch broke in two. Tomas kept hold of the half in his hand, but the other half went flying deep into the woods. His hands stung from the force of the branch breaking. Throwing what was left of the branch onto the ground, Tomas stomped toward the tree.

  “Gods Damn it!” he yelled.

  At every step, he met a roadblock. It was starting to get to him. Tomas looked at the stem, halfway tipped from its perch on the stump. In his anger, he ran up to it. He punched it as hard as he could. Pain blossomed in his hand and wrist. The stem didn’t budge. He wiped the blood dripping from his knuckles on his shirt; the pain helped him think a little clearer, although his head was beginning to hurt. He decided the stem was still his best chance at getting across the brook. Cradling his injured hand, he began to push against the stem with his shoulder. It was incredibly heavy. His shoulder popped as the stem finally started to move. Pain shot up Tomas’ other arm, and he fell to the ground. The stem began to sway. It rocked on the stump, starting to tip toward him, before it fell in the direction of the brook. The stem slammed into the water with a deafening crash. The rapids pushed it downstream before it caught on two particularly large rocks buried in the water. The stem hadn’t been as long as Tomas hoped. It didn’t completely reach the opposite bank. From this distance, there looked to be a gap of 10 to 15 feet between the end of the stem and solid ground. Deimos, I hope it looks further than it is. Tomas was out of options; he would have to attempt jumping the gap.

  Walking up to the fallen stem, he tentatively placed a foot onto it. He eased his weight forward. It didn’t budge. He fully stepped up onto it and took a step forward. Almost immediately, he began to lose his balance. Tomas scrambled back from the stem. His heart was racing as his feet touched solid ground again. There was no way he was making it across without something to keep his balance. He thought back to when he was young, around the same time they would dare each other to touch the Pyre Stone. Another children's game was seeing who could walk the furthest while balancing on fence tops. Tomas had never been the best at it; that had been Delilah, but he remembered her trick was holding a long stick in her hands to keep her balance. He looked back and saw what was left of the branch lying on the ground. Perfect. He picked up the branch and went back to the brook.

  Taking a deep breath and holding the branch out in front of him, he stepped up onto the stem and began to cross the water. Balancing came much easier this go around. Spray from the rapids soaking everything from the calves down, he began to make progress. By the halfway point, his arms were beginning to tire, and his feet were freezing in their wet socks. As he got closer to the gap at the end, it looked like his previous assessment was right. There was 15 feet between the end of the stem and the opposing bank. Tomas steeled his nerves. He would need a running start to pull off this jump, which meant he needed to start speeding up now. Beginning by slowly picking up speed, Tomas then broke into a full run right before the end of the stem. He let out a quick prayer and jumped as hard as he could. He flew through the air, lacking grace but making up for it in distance. Crossing the gap, he landed in a heap on the shore.

  His shoulder and hand ached, as did his head. But there was no time to rest now; he still needed to catch up to the figure. The forest on this side of the brook was clearer, allowing him to catch up further. He cautiously approached, unable to make out who it was. Walking toward the mysterious figure, there were now many fewer of the giant mushrooms. He was almost beginning to feel like he was back home in a normal forest, but then a silver beetle the size of a rat skittered across his path. After that, the forest fell quiet. There were no longer chittering bugs or visible fauna. The silence was unnerving. Tomas had gotten within 20 yards of the figure when there was a rustle in the underbrush to the left. He stopped to identify the source of the noise, but as soon as he did, the forest went silent. When he continued walking, the sound began anew, this time accompanied by movement visible in the foliage. Tomas steeled his nerves. This is definitely a bad idea, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he deviated toward where he had seen movement. Whatever it was, it seemed intent on keeping its distance. The thing kept pace, even when Tomas started to sprint through the boughs recklessly; he couldn’t seem to close the gap. For a moment, he thought he could see a furry shape, but immediately after, it disappeared. No matter how hard he strained his eyes, Tomas couldn’t catch sight of it again. After a few minutes following the source of the noise, Tomas gave up and turned his sights back to the shadowed figure.

  They had a large build, that was certain. A dull pain throbbed in the back of his head; it seemed to be spreading. What’s causing this? It didn’t matter now, though, because he was finally able to make out the features of the figure in the woods. It was Ben.

  “Ben!” Tomas yelled, “Where are we?”

  Ben stopped moving and slowly turned to face Tomas. A crossbow bolt was buried in his heart. Blood dripped from the wound, staining the ground beneath him. He opened his mouth as if to speak. No words escaped his maw. Instead he screeched, an awful sonorous wailing, inhuman, the sound of twisting winds and swirling thunder clouds. Tomas’s head began to throb. His thoughts came slowly, as did the memories.

  “The bandits, the Baron, being double-crossed, but how are we here? How are you here?” Tomas asked.

  With his mind spinning, he fell to his knees. Ben still stood there, mouth moving in a silent conversation. Tomas curled up in the fetal position on the ground and began to cry, for the first time since the night his mom died.