The nightmare faded as something warm and moist lapped against Tomas’s hand. He attempted to pull it away, but found his arm smacked against a wall. He opened his eyes and saw only dirt above him. The first ceiling seemed to droop toward him, slowly closing in on him, suffocating him. Sáhnsara save me! He was buried alive! Except there was enough light to see the ceiling above him, so that couldn’t be true. He closed his eyes and slowly took a deep breath to calm himself. When he opened his eyes again, there was a black puppy looking back at him.
“Roan?” Tomas asked the pup.
Roan responded by licking his face and letting out a soft bark.
Tomas rolled toward Roan and saw that this wasn’t a grave, but instead a cavity in the earth. The ceiling sloped upward to his right, and he was able to shimmy his way to the more spacious area. It still wasn’t made for someone of his height, but he could at least sit down here without hitting his head. He sat with his legs crossed, taking in his surroundings. There were bits of grass formed into a bed and a burrow, letting in light from the outside. On the dirt floor were dozens of overlapping tracks of various sizes, peeking out from underneath a dusting of dark grey hair, easily identified as belonging to some variety of canine. Tomas had a hunch he knew where he was. When he waved toward Roan, she bounded over, excited to play. He wrestled the pup and grabbed her paw, which seemed bigger than it was that night before when he took Roan home. Was that last night? I can’t remember. Tomas looked at Roan’s paw in comparison to the tracks on the floor, and his suspicions were correct. He was in a Scourgehound den. The last thing he remembered was falling down the ravine, and it all went black. Just after Ben had been shot. Despair fell over him as he thought of Ben and the terrible nightmare he’d woken up from.
Tomas’s stomach let out a loud growl, snapping him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t eaten the morning before the encounter with the bandits due to the Baron’s men forcing him to the Weald, and he wasn’t sure how long he had been out since. He needed to find food. The entrance to the den was big enough for a grown Scourgehound, so Tomas was able to get through by crawling on his hands and knees. He emerged on the other side in an ocean of color.
Patches of green grass stalks taller than Tomas dotted the forest floor. Thick red tree trunks stretched up into the sky, yellow vines and blue lichen leading to the green canopies at the top. The tree cover was thick, only a few gaps let light in, and showed Tomas that it was day. Compared to these plants, what he had seen on the brief trip into the Weald looked minuscule. The green expanse before him was daunting, with no distinguishing landmarks in sight. He heard scuffing behind him and turned, seeing that Roan had followed him out of the den. She began to run about, nipping at his heels.
Tomas began to investigate the forest around the den. Careful not to stray too far and get lost, he looked for anything that might be of interest. There weren’t any distinct tracts visible, or even drag marks from being brought to the den; it seemed the vegetation did a good job of hiding that. Hopefully, it would prevent the bandits or anyone from following him. This lack of tracks wasn’t all positive, though, as it meant there wasn’t any evidence indicating whether any people or animals were in the area. While exploring, Tomas didn’t cross paths with any water sources, a bad sign for his parched throat, but he did find a possible food source. Fruits were growing on a vine hanging from a tree. They were long and purple, with green stripes. Tomas hadn’t seen anything like it before, and had no idea if it was safe to eat. He took one, but didn’t taste it even as his empty stomach called out. Before resorting to eating possible poison, he would try hunting for food, something more likely to be safe.
Tomas took off the rope he had used as a belt and began tying it into a loop. It was a rabbit snare; Tomas had learned it from a grandfatherly man in the keep to get them through rougher times. His fingers slipped as he tried to finish the knot. And then it happened a second time, and a third time. These damn gloves. They were itchy, kept his fingers from doing any delicate work, and were a general nuisance. Tomas pulled them off and was about to toss them, but instead thought better, tucking them into his pocket. He turned to continue his tying when he saw something on the back of his hand. It was a loop, possibly a weird scratch if not for the fact that it was metallic. Tomas wiped the back of his hand, but the drawing didn’t move. It was on his other hand, too; it looked just like a chain link.
He felt like screaming. He rolled up from his spot on the forest floor and began laughing to himself. He ran away from the den, and then back towards it, and then around, and every which way.
“By Delion, it finally happened!” He shouted
Tomas was finally Marked. While he continued to yell and run in circles, Roan joined him, barking and running with him; she even let out a little howl. After his voice was hoarse and his breathing heavy, his rumbling stomach interrupted his celebration. Tomas realized that he likely scared his food away. He would have to stay away from this part of the Weald, hoping his snare caught something in his absence. Only growing worse after his excited running and yelling, Tomas was very thirsty. Since he needed to leave anyway, he decided to use that to search for water. He could determine what power his Mark imbued in him once he had food and water.
Trying his best to keep the den directly behind him, Tomas picked a direction and started walking. He took care to mark his path as he went, using the knife he kept in his boot. It was rather dull, but it worked well enough. At every other tree that passed to his right, Tomas used his knife to cut an X shape into the bark. This way, he wouldn’t get turned around as marks to the right meant leaving, and marks to the left meant returning. While bigger trunks required him to saw at the bark in order to actually leave a mark, he always chose to do that instead of cutting into a sapling or young tree.
Roan had followed him, seemingly content to stay in his vicinity, although the hound had an easier time traversing the forest floor, running through the underbrush and squeezing through gaps too small for a person. Tomas couldn’t blame her for being so energetic. While he watched the dog run, he felt an urge to let loose in the same way. When Roan turned toward him and barked, before running a short way, it was tempting to chase after her. To just run and be free. Roan barked again, looking at him expectantly.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“I can’t, Roan. Please. I need water, not to chase you,” Tomas said, his voice cracking.
When listening to his plea, Roan tilted her head at him and stared with all too intelligent eyes. She then promptly turned and started walking at a moderate pace. After she realized he wasn’t following, she sat on her haunches and looked at him. She wasn’t acting with the energy of a puppy wanting to play; she seemed calm. There’s no way she understood me, right? Tomas thought. While she kept looking at him and waiting, giving him those puppy-dog eyes, he felt himself swaying. After all, what did he know about surviving in the Weald? Certainly much less than Roan, a creature born in it.
“All right, buddy, lead the way,” Tomas said.
Roan gave a “yip!” of affirmation, and they were off. She immediately deviated from the path they had been taking, but seemed sure of her destination. When Roan took this new path, Tomas had to scramble to mark their change of direction so he could trace his way back to the den. Once they walked a noticeable distance, the change in the Weald was clear. Though the foliage was already thick, as they walked, it only became more so. Before, the path was dominated by trees, but now the forest floor was becoming thicker, with briars and vines covering the ground.
Once or twice, Roan overestimated how fast Tomas could follow behind, and so she would pass out of sight. Before too long spent looking for her, she would come back into view, often staying right at the edge of his vision. This feels… familiar, Tomas thought. It gnawed at the back of his mind, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. The source flitted from his mind.
Despite the hiccups, Tomas managed to stick behind Roan and was right there with her when they reached a mossy outcropping. It was a large craggy stone which protruded from the crest of the hill they climbed. Roan excitedly closed the last 10 yards to it and rounded the rocks. Tomas followed her around the corner and saw just what he was looking for: water. From a crack in the rock sprang a slow trickle of clear water, where Roan drank. Thank Delion! Tomas hurried to climb the rock and reach the spring where he drank greedily, quenching his thirst and wetting his parched throat. Roan finished drinking and hopped down from the rock long before Tomas had drunk his fill. After he was done, Toman readied himself to leave, realizing he had no way to collect water and bring it back. Before he left the spring, he had to make sure of something. Running his hand under the water, he scrubbed at the chain link imprinted on it. The tattoo didn’t budge. He wasn’t imagining things; he truly was marked.
“Alright, Roan, let’s go back to the den,” Tomas said.
Turning to climb down, he saw the base of the spring, but didn’t spot Roan waiting. Odd. Climbing down, he searched for the dark hound, calling her name again. No answer. Even after he rounded the rock, there was nothing to be seen of Roan. Well, it seemed he would be finding his way back on his own. Tomas began to follow his marking, keeping them on his left as he walked.
As he walked, Tomas began experimenting. In every story about Marked he had heard, from stories his mother told him as a child to reports of Marked heroes of the Tyrian Military, all showed people with powers that related to their Mark. It was the same when he finally met a Marked in person, the man he had seen in the Weald had a flame Mark on his throat, and had ended up breathing fire at Tomas. When looking at his own Mark, though, Tomas didn’t think it was as obvious. What power comes from a chain? How do I use whatever power to begin with? The only power he could think of was chains pulling objects.
When he saw a pile of loose stones on the forest floor, he stopped his trek. Thinking, Tomas reached out his hand and focused on the rocks. Willing them to move, he imagined chains pulling them away from the pile. Nothing happened. So it wasn’t the power to draw things toward him.
Tomas reached out again, this time willing them to stay. He visualized them being chained down to the earth. While keeping the image of the rocks chained down in his mind, he stepped forward and kicked one of the rocks. The stone tumbled from the pile; it showed no resistance. Not that one.
Next, thinking he could possibly make things lighter, he visualized chains pulling the stones upward, as a rope and pulley lifts hay into a loft. When he bent down and picked up a stone, its weight was no different from what he expected.
It seemed that, whatever the power was, it didn’t let him affect objects without touching them. That, or he needed something more than thinking very hard to activate the power. Turning back to the tracks he left, Tomas tossed the stone he was holding out into the forest. After the stone left his hand, he waited for a moment, watching. He hoped that maybe the stone would come back, as if hauled in on a chain, but he only heard the crack of rock hitting wood. Once no stone returned, he followed the trail he marked back to the den.
After a long stretch of forest, Tomas had nearly arrived once again at the scourgehound den. During his walk, the sun had begun to set, and the Weald darkened dramatically as it did, since the thick canopy already let in scarce light. Aware that he had no way to see once it was truly dark, Tomas picked up the pace. Sprinting from tree to tree, watching for each X-shaped notch indicating the direction to go, he reached the den with scarcely any light left to see by. Roan was still nowhere to be seen. Stomach growling, Tomas wanted to check his snare, but it was deeper in the forest, and it had become far too dark to go now. In the dim light, Tomas collected what sticks and kindling were on the forest floor. Sitting at the entrance to the den, he began trying to make a fire.
Tomas, it turns out, had no clue how to start a fire. When he lit his small heart back at Keep Laoros, it had been so easy; all he had to do was put down some kindling, wood shavings, hay, whatever was available, with a log on top and use his flint to light it. Worst-case scenario: he went to his neighbor, asked to light his candle from theirs, and brought it back to start the fire. fire. Here, he had nothing but sticks and bigger sticks. Thinking of stories he had heard, he spun a larger stick with his palms as it rested on top of the wood, but the only thing that he achieved was tiring his arms and making his hands raw. Since it seemed a lost cause, Tomas instead crawled into the den and made himself comfortable. He was mentally exhausted from everything that had happened, so it did not take him long to fall asleep on the floor. It was shockingly comfortable and cozy now that he knew where he was, and tonight was far from his first time going to bed hungry.
