Дэвид Уоллес - Island of Fog and Death

The ancient forest was uneasy. The birds, the rodents, the insects, all of them sensed that something unnatural was happening. The light was odd. The smell of the air was weird. The forest seemed to crackle with sinister energy. The focus of the phenomenon was a small clearing where an ash tree had toppled to tear a gash in the leafy canopy, and where lush ferns were taking advantage of dappled sunlight reaching the forest floor. Tiny spheres of energy hovered, sparked, repelled and attracted each other in a random dance.

Some hours passed.

The randomness of the dance steadily diminished. Tiny energy packets, attracting each other, were forming larger parcels, and these in turn were overcoming repulsive forces to grow, dance more slowly, and merge into something greater. The pungent smell of ozone filled the clearing, and reactions with nitrogen and carbon compounds caused flickering chemiluminescence and consumed nitrogen and oxygen gases out of the atmosphere, disturbing the balance and blackening leaves.

A low rumble became audible to those forest creatures that had not fled. The ground trembled and soil loosened. There was a sudden sharp rise in pitch, culminating in an unnatural scream, and the luminescent blobs of energy abruptly coalesced into a huge glowing sphere, which blew outwards with a loud crack. The soil had all but liquefied around the roots of younger trees, and the force of the explosion sent them tumbling away.

Silence and darkness fell.

A single beech tree still stood, surrounded by a clearing that was now considerably larger. A squirrel clung, trembling, to a limb of that tree, looking down at the forest floor. Although the mysterious energy had vanished, something had been left behind. Something the squirrel sensed was unnatural, and which left it shaking in fright. Surrounding trees were too far to leap. The squirrel’s beech had long been stripped of food sources. Its claws gripped the bark of a tree branch and the squirrel quivered with the effort of trying to remain as still as possible, hoping not to be noticed.

It took nearly three days for the squirrel’s hunger to drive fear of the unknown from its brain, and it cautiously descended the trunk. It held a vague memory of something dangerous down here, a memory that had been driven back by its need to eat. Close to the ground, it looked round warily for signs of danger, darting a little way up and then back down the tree, tilting its head to and fro. Seeing nothing alarming, the squirrel darted across the leaf mould towards a tree at the edge of the clearing.

As it reached the bottom of the trunk, something long and black suddenly lashed out with such force that the squirrel burst apart in a splash of gore,

Tendrils wrapped themselves around pieces of squirrel, and drew them slowly into a patch of ferns and sharp, sharp teeth.

A group of men made their way carefully and slowly across the foggy floor of the ancient forest of the Deceangli. They were taking exaggerated steps, lifting their feet well off the ground, and placing them down with great care to avoid cracking twigs and rustling leaves. In this they were very successful, because the forest was totally silent. The men were clearly warriors, all carrying swords and axes, and some carrying bows. They were dressed in a variety of garments, of wool or leather, but all of a dull brown that it made it difficult to pick them out against the backdrop of the forest. They were fanned out in a dozen pairs, forming a wide arc roughly a Roman mile across. And they were hunting something.

A low whistle cut through the silence, and the whole troop stopped and waited. Their chief whistled again, a warble at a higher pitch, and his men made their way back towards him.

“Your whistling through that bush on your face is going to draw something to us, Chief,” someone grumbled.

“Quit your whining, Bix, it’s more likely that shiny head of yours will gleam in the sunlight and give away our position,” the chief responded. There were quiet chuckles all round. It was not just that Bix and Barba were constantly poking fun at each other’s hair. Or lack of it, in Bix’s case. It was also that – despite this being the height of summer – the ancient forest was cold, gloomy and foggy. Sunlight? What sunlight?

Barba had gathered the men into a broad clearing where the fallen trunks of ash and alder trees lay scattered near a solitary birch. He stood quietly for a few moments, studying a blackened patch in the centre of the clearing, wondering at the cause. He stirred it with a toe. It was not fire.

“I hate this place,” Bix grumbled. “Ain’t natural. It shouldn’t be this cold, and that fog just don’t smell right. And where are the animals and birds? Haven’t seen one since we left the Auxiliaries’ fortlet!”

“That baby-faced Batavian decurion was wise to ask for help,” said Barba. “We’ve seen no sign of missing peasants, no birds, no animals, no nothing. Shit, Bix, I can’t even see or hear any insects. I tell you, I’m inclined to follow the Batavians’ lead, and also ask for help.” He sighed. “We can tell ourselves we’re doing the hunting in this forest, but let’s face it, the opposite is the case. The place has been stripped bare of every living thing except trees. We’re the only prey left.”

“I wasn’t going to mention feeling we’re being watched. You feel it too?”

“Yes.”

Without lifting his eyes from the blackened ground, Barba observed, “Cei and Naldo aren’t back.”

“Here they are now,” Bix said, inclining his head towards the far side of the clearing.

“That’s Cei,” replied Barba. “Incapable of moving quietly.” He looked up, and softly asked, “So, Cei, where’s Naldo?”

Cei looked back, confused, and said, “Right behind – shit! Where is he?” He cupped his hands round his mouth and called out, “Naldo! Come on, you slug! Where are you?”

The men winced at the noise, and Podri hissed, “Quiet, fool.”

“No need for stealth now,” said Barba. “I’d say that thing knows exactly where we are, and has done since we left the Batavians behind.” He rose to his feet. “Right. Enough is enough. We’re low on food and there’s bugger all to hunt, so it’s time to go.”

“But Naldo—?” Cei started.

“We’ll see if we can pick up some trace.” Barba pointed to one of his men. “Cato, you and Garros double-time it to the rear and help Bod and Scarface break camp. Trust me, I don’t intend to be far behind you. The rest of you – skirmish order, ten pace spacing, sharp things out and we’ll backtrack Cei.”

Barba drew a Roman spatha with his right hand, while a double-headed axe filled his left. His men produced a variety of swords, some simple spathae and some Celtic long-swords with animal shaped bone handles. They spread into line and started forward.

As they left the clearing, the combination of fog and trees reduced visibility. Barba called out, “Close up! Keep your neighbours in view!”

“But don’t get so close you stick each other,” Bix added, which drew nervous laughter from the troops.

After a few dozen paces, it was Bix the Bald who again spoke up. “Chief! Over here! Blood!”

“Give me a perimeter,” said Barba, moving over to join Bix as the rest of the troops formed into a circle with weapons facing out. “Artio! Watch your front, man! Never mind what I’m doing, just watch your front!”