Tarc the Large

Musty smelling mosses cushioned Tarc's tread through the ancient forest that had not known the passing of man since the time of WaterDown Tribunal. Strange was the half-light that somehow illuminated the way, yet no sunbeams ever penetrated this dense forest. Stranger still was the lack of sound. There was no wind, no water dripping from leaf to leaf, no sounds of bird life. The odor of, perhaps, magical brimstone was becoming more and more pungent. Tarc checked his leather bag of amulets. All five were slightly glowing, yet the one most round and of purple color was indeed the brightest. How these bits of what looked like glass and mineral, and soft, round clay were to protect his life was unimaginable to him. However this magic worked, he could only guess. Tarc remembered what Torangee had told him in his whispered way: "The stones know when to work. Just let your instinct be your guide." Torangee had insisted he take them on this quest, and so they now hung at his side, dragon skinned pouch and all.

Off to the left, and by the intensity of the sound, at least half a furlong distant, Tarc heard, or rather sensed, something similar to leather armor scraping against wet bark. Besides the odd sound was the hint of some foul odor as well. He turned toward the sound, increasing his pace. After a short time, he stopped. Quietly he removed the length of blade from its skin and fell noiselessly to the forest carpet of moss and lichen. He did not have long to wait. Two horribly smelling, featherless bird-like creatures standing almost man height, jogged past his motionless body, so close, Tarc almost gagged on their putrid smell.

It was obvious, by their noisy and direct route of travel, that the creatures did not understand the dangers of the forest they were traveling through. It was as though they were not of this dimension. How could that be? Tarc felt his quest was becoming the most curious he'd ever experienced. Soon they were out of range, yet their odor lingered still, hanging on the dense, motionless forest air. He slowly sheathed his blade and noticed his bag of amulets felt warm against his leg. Tarc pulled the top slightly open; surely the purple colored one was very bright indeed. He cupped it in his hand, and it warmed the palm, as would the body of a newborn pup.

As he knelt on one rough knee, Tarc set the purple amulet on a patch of wet ground before him. Immediately, the wetness became a lighted fog that continued to glow as it wafted up to his shoulders. Torangee had been cryptic as to exactly how this 'sighting' fog worked. This was Tarc's first time using this amulet, and so far it was as Torangee had said. Next, Tarc dipped his shaggy head full into the fog being created by the amulet on the wet lichen. His wide opened eyes itched and burned, yet only briefly. There before him, although he wondered how, the entire forest for at least two full arrow flights was shown to him as bright as the brightest sun in a meadow of snapdragons. Something else. Now he noticed, as he focused his view past the closest trees, the trees themselves became transparent. In this manner of continuing to constantly refocus the depth and direction of his gaze, he could see everything within the exposed area.

The creatures were not in sight, but there, there, by the fallen log, not half an arrow's flight to his sword arm's side, something lay quiet, yet not quite quiet enough. Tarc had seen the movement. By now the fog had dissipated and the log as well as the form was again enveloped by the almost darkness. Tarc tried moving the purple amulet to another spot of dampness, to no avail. He would have to pay more attention the next time Torangee tried to teach him something new.

So now it was back to warrior's ways and that which a life of stalking supper had taught. He drew Hert from its ankle sheath and began angling for the downwind side of his quarry and the fallen log. Tarc moved three steps forward, each footfall placed gently between twig and leaf to barest ground. A crouch, a sweep with eyes from left to right and back again at ever-changing levels, and forward, three more steps. Tarc stroked the damp lichen with two fingers and brushed the wetness across his nostrils. He tilted his head with nose to wind and drew three short, soundless breaths and gave a single long and low exhale. There was no odd scent that seemed out of place among the forest scents hereabout.

Something told Tarc to look over his shield shoulder. As he did so, the large catlike creature was almost on him, as if suspended motionless in flight. Tarc tried to drop and roll forward to change the positions in this duel. He was only partially successful, as was soon apparent from the burning rake of claws down his shield shoulder and back. He turned under the creature enough for Hert to find fur and flesh.