*
The land was arid and vegetation generally scarce in Iolon's domain, but as Glaeken penetrated into the eastern farmlands he became aware of an almost total lack of greenery. Bark-shedding trees lifted their dry, stunted, leafless branches skyward in silent supplication for surcrease of – what? And the further east he moved, the darker became the sky; gray clouds slid by, twisting, churning, writhing, and rolling as if suffering from an agony of their own as they passed over the region.
Long-rotted cattle carcasses dotted the fields on both sides of the road, the hides dried and matted and close-fitting in death, perfectly outlining the skeleton within. Glaeken saw no evidence that scavengers had been at the carrion, and then realized that he had not seen a single trace of beast or fowl since he’d entered the region. Even vultures shunned this place.
The motionless air became thick and heavy as he pushed on, his lungs labored at their task. As evening consolidated the gray of the sky to black, Glaeken was glad to dismount. He built a fire not too far off the road between a dead tree and a large stone. He gave Stoffral free rein to find what nourishment he could in the lifeless, desiccated grasses nearby, but the horse seemed to have lost all appetite. Glaeken, too, felt no hunger, unusual after half a day's ride, but managed to force down some dried beef and stale wine
He was strangely tired and this gave him some concern. He had never been one to believe in sorcerers and evil magic, considering them little more than tales designed to frighten children. The only magic he’d ever seen had been the work of charlatans. Yet for a man of his age and fitness to feel so lethargic after a mere six hours on horseback was decidedly unnatural. Maybe there was something to this curse after all.
He moved away from the heat of the fire and sat with his back against the rock. The oppressive silence made him uneasy. Even the nightbugs were quiet. He glanced about...no pairs of feral eyes reflected the firelight from the darkness around his little camp. That, too, was unusual. Slowly, his eyes grew heavy. Against his better judgment he allowed himself to doze.
...the sound grows in his brain by imperceptible degrees, a ghastly, keening, wailing cacophony of madness that assaults his sanity with murderous intensity...and as the volume increases there appear wild, distorted visages of evil, countless blank-eyed demons howling with mindless joy, screaming louder and louder until he is sure he must go mad...
Glaeken found himself awake and on his feet, sweat coursing along his skin in runnels. The fire had burned down to a fitful glow and all was quiet. He shook his head to clear it of the dream and glanced around for Stoffral. Gone!
Fully alert to danger now, Glaeken began shouting the horse's name. Stoffral was too loyal a beast to desert him. His third shout was answered by a faint whinny from behind the rock. Glaeken cautiously peered into the darkness and saw the dim form of his mount on the ground. He ran to its side and made a careful check. The horse had suffered no harm and Glaeken concluded that Stoffral must be a victim of the same lethargy afflicting his master.
He slapped the horse's flanks in an effort to rouse the beast back to its feet but to no avail. Stoffral's strength seemed completely drained. Glaeken remembered the cattle carcasses along the road and swore that his steed would not suffer a similar fate. He stalked to the fire and lifted a branch that had been only partially consumed. Fanning it in the air until he tip glowed cherry with heat, he applied the brand to Stoffral's right hindquarter. Amid the whiff of singed hair and the hiss of searing flesh, the horse screamed in pain and rose on wobbly legs.
Glaeken could not help but cast a fearful glance over his shoulder as he steadied his mount; horses were rare and highly valued creatures in the land where he had been raised, and any man caught doing harm to one was likely to be attacked by an angry mob. But pain or not, scar or not, Stoffral was on his feet now and somewhat revived. That was all that mattered at the moment. And the horse seemed to know instinctively that the act had been done without malice.
Replacing the saddle on Stoffral's back, he packed it with everything but the jerked beef, the waterskin, and the half-dozen torches he had fashioned before leaving Kashela. Then he shouted and slapped the horse's flanks and chased him back down the road. Hopefully, Stoffral would await his master beyond the zone of danger.
Glaeken waited a moment, then shouldered his pack and began walking in the opposite direction. He’d have preferred to wait until morning...travel would be easier in the light. But Glaeken's doubts about the supposed curse on the eastern farmlands had been thoroughly shaken. Perhaps something truly evil was afoot in the region. For all he knew, morning might prove too late if he waited for it. So he traveled in darkness.