Flett left Peatwood alone for nearly an hour, to absorb the awful truth, to try and wrap his head around the awful fact of his parents' death. The young woodtroll lay facedown on the branch, trembling, and Flett knew there was nothing he could say to ease his pain. In the meantime, however, there was business to attend to if they were to have any hope of surviving their trek through the endless Deepwoods.
Thank Earth and Sky, he thought, that one of the few things he knew about the Deepwoods was how to find food if you were in an ironwood pine. He had learned it in a story his father had once told him, about ancient sky pirates during the First Age of Flight. He found himself hoping desperately that the story had its roots in reality.
He strode over to the trunk, placed his foot on one of the massive slabs of rigid bark, and began to climb, taking care to avoid the gobs of resin oozing from cracks here and there. He didn't have to climb far before he reached a branch that protruded from above the tree canopy.
After poking around amid the needles, he managed to find the first of the two things he had hoped to see…a sprawling cluster of round balls of fungus, emitting a sweet scent. He pulled off his jacket, stuffed his sleeves through the neck hole, and tied off a thick knot that effectively sealed off the opening. Then, he plucked all of the fungus balls off the branch and stuffed them into the makeshift bag.
When he was at last satisfied, he got to his feet and headed for a cluster of massive pinecones. Cracking them open one by one, he extracted armloads of kernels and meticulously peeled them, dropping each one into his jacket along with the fungus.
"What have you got there?" said Peatwood, face wet and eyes bloodshot, as Flett returned with the bulging jacket.
"The mushrooms will hydrate us," Flett explained as he extracted one. He squeezed it, gathering the liquid that burst forth from the little fungus ball in his cupped hands, and slurped at it greedily. "They're filled with skynectar. And these," he added, pulling out a pine-kernel and popping it into his mouth, "contain all the nutrition we need."
Peatwood cautiously took a mushroom and squeezed it, just as Flett had done. He wasn't quite as careful, and half of the skynectar spilled onto the branch, but he managed to take a few sips and smiled appreciatively. He then took a pine-kernel and began to chew it.
"How long will this last us?" he mumbled thickly.
"Theoretically, a very long time," said Flett. "Maybe even a month, if we ration it well. Though we also ought to supplement it with any edible fruits or roots we can find. I don't suppose you could…"
"No promises," said Peatwood. "I can recognize a few edible plants. But only maybe the half-dozen or so varieties that grew on the edges of Southern Outer City."
"Worst case, we can probably find another ironwood pine and stock up again later on," said Flett. "In the meantime, we should get some rest. Tomorrow we'll climb down and set off."
Flett could tell that the prospect frightened Peatwood. Even now, in an interconnected and globalized Edgeworld, woodtrolls were a timid people who feared straying from the path. The idea of setting off into the wild regions of the Eastern Woods was not an inviting prospect to Peatwood. Nor, come to that, was it particularly inviting to Flett.
After a few hours of sleep, Flett and Peatwood rose and began the process of climbing down the ironwood pine. The process itself was not difficult…in fact, Flett found it easier than having to climb down the bunks each morning in the Great Glade Military headquarters. The slabs of bark were neatly spaced and created large footholds and handholds, and the only obstacles were the hammelhorn-sized beads of resin clinging to the trunk. The bigger problem was the sheer length of the descent. The tree was as tall as any tower in Great Glade, and one single error could send them plunging to the ground hundreds of strides below. Flett was also preoccupied with the forbidding prospect of hiking through the Deepwoods once they actually touched the ground…for all its beauty, he knew that danger lay in wait around every corner. Worse still, he had lost his belt. At some point during the chase, it must have been torn away from him. As a result, he had lost his glistergun…he had no way to defend himself and Peatwood.
At long, long last, they reached the soft, loamy soil of the forest floor, and, after Flett had determined their direction by the angle of the shadows, they began to march eastward. Shafts of early-morning sunlight streamed through gaps in the branches, casting light on dewy glades and spectacular flowers. The forest was filled with the sounds of coughing fromps and hooting quarms, and twittering flocks of skullpeckers and snickets swooped in and out of the high canopy. On that first day, they didn't come across anything threatening, save for a giant barb-tongued thundergecko that was basking sleepily and paid them no head. They walked east all day, and after a supper of pine-kernels and skynectar, they took up residence in a redoak, the spiraling pattern of its branches allowing them to lie down comfortably. In spite of the shrieking and growling of the night creatures that pierced the night relentlessly, Flett found it far easier to sleep out here than he did in the government building.
Over the next couple of weeks, most of their journey was uneventful, although they did narrowly escape mortal danger a few times. On one occasion, three days after they had escaped Great Glade, Peatwood had yanked Flett backward just as he had been about to enter a silent, empty clearing full of swaying gladegrass. A moment later, Flett staggered backwards himself, to avoid the groping tendril of a tarry vine, the flesh-eating bloodoak tree with which it was partnered audibly gnashing its teeth in disappointment from within a dark grove beyond. Two days after that incident, Flett had returned the favor by stopping Peatwood from seizing a ripe-looking woodsap that gleamed alluringly in the late-afternoon sun, pointing out that there were no fruiting trees in the glade and that the woodsap must therefore really be the lure of a giant landfish. Flett's suspicion was promptly confirmed as a curious woodhog came sniffing at the treat, only to be confronted by the hideous five-eyed, web-footed creature, which emerged from the ground in a spray of dirt before tossing the squealing animal up into the air and catching it in its gaping jaws. And four days later, the two of them had made to sit on a gnarled old log before simultaneously realizing their mistake and pelting out of the glade as fast as their legs would carry them, ears ringing with the hisses of the hungry logworm they had very nearly fed themselves to.
Luckily, Peatwood did indeed manage to find a few edible plants along their travels. At one point, he had stumbled upon a cluster of wild earthapples, and though only a few of them were ripe enough for the plucking, the two of them were able to treat themselves to an unusually filling lunch. On another occasion, he had found shoots of nightkale growing at the base of a goldbeech. Their supplies of skynectar were still ample, as they only dipped into their mushroom reserves when they couldn't find a stream or river. They knew they would have to conserve it for later in their journey.
For even now, the trees surrounding them were starting to take on a sickly, stunted appearance. The ailing specimens were interspersed with an increasing number of trees which were completely dead. Animals in this region were sparse and starved-looking. They were beginning to enter the region of the forest stricken with the Blight…the Deadwoods.
Suddenly, they rounded the trunk of a diseased brackenpine to be confronted with a razorflit, glowing red eyes bulging, its two sleek pairs of wings whirring, and its slender curved claws extended. But after the initial shock, Flett realized that it was a pitiful specimen, less than a stride long and skeletal in appearance. As they fled, the razorflit gave a piercing shriek, but seemed to lack the energy to take to the air and chase its prey. Not too long after, they found a daggerslash lying in wait between two sallowdrops that drooped pitifully in spite of the clear, rushing stream nourishing them. Discolored and flaking from malnutrition, the beast's camouflage was ruined. A stunted rotsucker spat at them from the brittle branch of a dead blackwood, its discharge of bile a sickly white instead of the normal acid green.
"It's dying," said Peatwood unnecessarily, as they walked past the deflated corpse of a hoverworm. "The whole forest is dying."
"But as terrible as it is for the Edge," said Flett, ignoring the wheezes of a skullpelt that hunched amidst a withered lullabee grove, no longer able to lure its prey, "it's good for us, right? I mean, if all these predators can't attack us…"
"The Deadwoods is just as dangerous," said Peatwood darkly. "Of course, you wouldn't have been told this by the Empire's media monopoly, but many formerly rare Deepwoods predators that thrived in dead forest have migrated into the region…gnarlwraiths and bramble-worms and prong-buzzards. They can go for ages and ages without food, waiting patiently for tasty treats like ourselves."
Flett did not respond to this ominous and unpleasant piece of news for many seconds. Finally, he said "We'll keep on the move. Stay in the shadows. Just like in the Deepwoods."
There wasn't a single healthy tree to be seen anymore. Every one of them was dead or dying. It didn't seem to be for lack of water or sunlight, of which there were plenty. Flett and Peatwood often found themselves crossing streams and brooks. Some of the ground was cracked and dry, undoubtedly because the trees could no longer diffuse water through the surrounding soil, but the trees growing at the riverbanks were faring no better than the ones surrounded by parched earth. And although the region was full of chilly mists and overcast sky, there were enough breaks in the clouds for some trees to be bathed in brightness…and these trees were dying just the same.
What, then, was ailing the Eastern Woods? Flett could not see any sign of parasitism in the tree trunks, no evidence of biological infection. It was almost as if the forest had simply given up. Flett was chilled by the fact that no obvious cause could be found. He knew that the Blight was spreading west. What if, someday, it consumed the entire Deepwoods?
If anyone could cure this illness, Flett realized, it was the Omniphrax academics. He had no idea how extensive their knowledge of the Deepwoods might be, but he did know that a society that encouraged free thinking was a society that could more easily answer questions about the world. Whatever the newly created "Phraxguardians" were, Flett knew that they would not do the Edgeworld any good.
That night, they carefully chose a tree whose branches would be sturdy enough to support them. And the next day, their travels were totally uneventful. No predators disturbed them, though they continued to take great care not to draw undue attention to themselves. Another day passed, and then another, all without encountering a single creature.
Their most pressing issue now became their dwindling supplies of food. Only a handful of pine-kernels remained, and they increasingly found themselves forced to skip meals. The skynectar was still in plentiful supply, which was a tremendous relief, as they were beginning to see fewer and fewer streams in this part of the forest.
Finally, one day, they were walking amidst a blackened stand of ironwood pines when Peatwood threw out an arm and caught Flett in the stomach. "Look," he whispered.
They were standing on the edge of a clearing which was alive with activity. Groups of goblins, trogs, trolls, and fourthlings were chained together, shuffling this way and that, entering and exiting a wooden structure which seemed to house the entrance to an underground tunnel. Here and there, flathead and hammerhead goblins were roaring curses and insults, lashing out with whips and clubs.
"A phraxmine," muttered Peatwood. "Most of them were abandoned, but phraxcrystals still play a necessary role in some forms of weaponry. Of all the rotten luck, we stumble upon one still in use."
"Can't we just, you know…blend in?" said Flett. "I doubt they'd recognize us as the fugitives from Great Glade."
Peatwood shook his head gravely, taking a step backwards and sitting in the shade of a dead tree. "Only a very select group of slaves and overseers are permitted to be here. So much as setting foot in this part of the Edge without authorization is punishable by death. The reason, of course, is that anyone who passes through here without being sanctioned is almost surely trying to reach Omniphrax. Of course, if we pass into the Twilight Woods," he added with a grim smile, "They won't follow. They won't think they'll have to."
"What?" Flett said sharply. "We're going through the Twilight Woods? Why can't we just detour through the Edgelands?"
"Without food?" Peatwood said, indicating the bag in Flett's hands. Flett peered in and saw with an unpleasant jolt that it was now empty. Not a single pine-kernel or mushroom remained. "We can't go hungry or thirsty in the Twilight Woods. The mists will see to that. Going right through and risking our sanity is our only hope of getting there alive."
Flett felt sick. It was an appalling idea. Once they entered the glowing mist beyond the phraxmines, it would cost them every effort to remember who they were and what they were doing. But it certainly did seem to be the only way. Glumly, without thinking too much about what he was doing, Flett undid the knots in his jacket and slipped it back on, protecting him from the chilly fog.
"All right," he muttered. "Let's just find a way to sneak around this mine. Then…"
Peatwood screamed.
Flett turned around, ready to admonish him for failing to keep his voice down, and felt his insides turn to ice.
The young woodtroll was lying on the ground not too far away, clutching his face. And the dead tree he had been sitting underneath was standing over him, flexing its lower branches. A knot in its side opened up to reveal a mouth lined with row upon row of jagged, splintery teeth.
"A bark ghoul!" yelled Peatwood thickly, his face shining with blood from his broken nose, staggering to his feet, as the tree-monster raised a branch for another swipe.
Flett didn't know what to do. Could they outrun the creature by dashing around the perimeter of the phraxmine? Or was their only option to sprint through the clearing and reveal themselves to Empire officials?