Free Mystic by Jason Denzel Page A

home. He crept toward it, and quickly recognized it as the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer slamming onto metal. He wondered who would be smithing in the middle of the forest.
    Stepping carefully, he brushed past the long vinelike branches of a willow tree and spied a small camp beside a thin creek. The camp consisted of two tents, a wagon, and three hobbled horses, each grazing hungrily. Sim couldn’t see anybody, but could hear the blacksmith working on the far side of the wagon near the creek. No banner waved above the tents.
    A chill swept over Sim. He shivered. His instinct screamed that it was time to go. Turning to leave, he stepped forward and nearly skewered himself on the tip of a spear aimed at his chest.
    â€œDon’t move, scrit,” said a greasy voice.

 

    FIVE
    KELT APAR
    Pomella’s feet hurt. After a day of walking with Vlenar through the Mystwood, she was ready to burn her shoes. The laghart spoke very little, except to tell her to keep moving when she tried to stop and rest her aching feet.
    He led her through the dense forest, always remaining beneath the thick canopy of trees. Despite the more difficult terrain, Pomella was glad they avoided the road. The only sounds she heard during the full day of walking were the chirping and fluttering of birds mixed with the fall of needles and leaves. She noted with annoyance that flies and biterbugs apparently bred large in this part of the island. Overall, she enjoyed the solitude, but found herself often humming just to break the monotony.
    She missed her Book of Songs . Looking back, she wished she’d been more insistent to Sim that they go back to find it. If they had, maybe they wouldn’t have fallen into that blathering pit. Shortly after setting out with Vlenar, she’d mustered the courage to ask him if they could go back to find her book. The ranger’s hard, slitted gaze had been enough to tell her to forget it. Her heart ached knowing that the book was probably lost and ruined.
    During that first day of travel, she worried that they would encounter more of the silver wolves. But she didn’t see or hear any sign of the terrifying creatures or any other ghostlike animals. She refrained from mentioning them to Vlenar. He’d probably not take her seriously. That, and he terrified her in his own way. Although he stood on hind legs, he walked hunched over, so that his spine was almost parallel to the ground. She tried not to stare too much.
    At night, around their campfire, she watched his tail swish back and forth across the ground, idly tracing patterns in the dirt.
    They bypassed the town of Sentry on the second day of travel, skirting around it by taking a westerly route that put them within sight of Loch Bracken, the largest body of water in the forest. They followed no path that Pomella could see. Vlenar pushed forward with confidence, leading her south and west. Glancing upward, she had difficulty gauging the sun’s position. The tall, moss-coated oaks spread their limbs high above her, intermixing their branches as if holding hands.
    Pomella adjusted the pack slung across her back. When she’d first carried it out of Oakspring, she’d thought it had been light. Now, it felt like carrying boulders.
    As they set camp for the second night, Pomella caught sight of a great snowcapped mountain peak, rising in the distance above the treetops.
    â€œMagDoon,” the ranger said, handing her a flat loaf of bread for her supper.
    Pomella smiled as a thrill of excitement raced through her. Everyone on Moth knew of the great mountain, and the legends associated with it. She’d never so much as glimpsed it before, despite living less than a week’s travel away. Saint Brigid herself was said to have walked those slopes.
    Late on the morning of the third day, just as Pomella worked up the courage to ask Vlenar when they could eat again, he stopped. “We are hhhere,” he said.
    Pomella’s