Page 3 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain
Without any thought, I breathe out, “Open,” in a choked rasp.
At that whispered word, the gate unlocks.
That voice demands,Go.
CHAPTER TWO
I’ve been on the move for half of a moons’ cycle since my escape, simply wandering the mountain forest with no direction. My thoughts are as bare as when I sat locked in that dungeon.
Picking absentmindedly from a blueberry bush, my attention is snapped to my right, towards unfamiliar rustling in the dense woods around me.
Odd, heavy footfalls that are wholly foreign to me begin to replace the soft rustle of disturbed leaves. The noise has me on alert, the thick blanket of fog coating my thoughts lifting with jarring clarity in this moment of perceived danger.
A surprised gasp flies past my lips as thick adrenaline spikes.
As I attempt to form a hasty plan of self preservation, that unnatural cadence draws closer.
Backing away slowly into the shadows of littaweeds around me, the tendrils of weeds swish against my arms. Inflaming spores instantly burrow into my skin in angry red patches. As I crouch hidden in the thicket of brush, my fear coats my throat with each inhale—a sickening scent of honey and onion that makes my stomach churn. For all the defense mechanisms the human body holds, this hormonal reaction to fear is a stark contradiction to the inherent need for survival; a spotlight to single out fearful prey. I’m certain that whatever is closing in can smell me through the weedswith their mildewy scent, like a rain-soaked cloak not laid out to dry.
How could it not? Even I can smell my fear.
My heart hammers against my ribs while I listen to the sounds around me.
Remaining motionless in my ill thought hiding place is difficult. Ignoring the itch developing on my sweat slicked skin—the relentless scratch in my lungs—is futile. I suppress a cough and hold my breath.
I count the seconds, only allowing myself a soft inhale or exhale every one, two, three, four, five…
It takes all my effort to not cough with that awful allergen scraping at the inside of my throat. I hold my breath, struggling to bring it back in silently and not in a panicked rattle. The overwhelming suffocation of the humid summer air, along with the dusty heaviness of the pollen sprinkling over me, only adds to my terror. As I attempt to sit in silence, my eyes bulge, sliding to take in my surroundings.
Of course, someone would be sent for me. I don’t know what or who, but if I had been imprisoned, surely someone would come when I escaped. How had this thought not occurred to me before?
My body screams at me to run; to breathe; to scratch. But I know that any of those things will only lead to a certain demise.
Quiet. I know I need to be quiet.
My anxiousness to move takes over, and I instinctively wipe a shaky hand against my nose. Pulling my fingers away, I find red viscous fluid staining my fingers.
My sudden movement puts the creature on alert to where I’m hiding. The beast’s stare moves to my general vicinity. It sniffs audibly, a wet sucking sound that makes the hairs on my neck stand,followed by an unearthly air piercing howl. The sound reverberates for miles. My breathing hitches as the ear-splitting noise vibrates through my head, my chest, my very bones.
Whatever is hunting has found its prey.
What is this following me?
Faint glimpses of memory suddenly come to me, bleeding into my mind to feed hungry holes. Previously hidden knowledge of these forests in the Emerald Mountain Range in the Kingdom of Brhadir.
The word ‘kynior’ comes to me. It knocks into my mind like a shockwave, accompanied by an image of a canine-like creature with mottled patchy fur, spindly legs, a sunken torso that shows individual ribs, white eyes devoid of pupil or iris, and a gaping maw with dripping fangs.
The minor details coming to me on a whim are hazy, and I certainly can’t think of what you’re supposed to do when you encounter a kynior.
The single howl turns to many. A pack.
The noise surrounds me, coming from every direction. There is no escape. The creatures are closing in on me, and full blown panic is hitting now. Where that small voice was leading me before, there is nothing but silence now.
What do I do?
Terror solidifies, and I leap to my feet and run. I barely make out the large canine form charging in my direction when I emerge from the weeds before I dash ahead as fast as I can.
My short, thin shift is easy to move in, but I have no shoes. The terrain is not soft or smooth. Lack of adequate rest, food, and water has made me weak. I stumble over rocks and fallen limbs, running for my life.
