Three Moons

When Itzal stirred from restless slumber, it was nearing dawn. He was aware first of the foliage of a large tree swaying gently, peacefully above him. Then he felt the wetness on his back from morning dew, the hairs on his arms standing erect and the muscles of his torso tightening against the chill of dawn. He shivered and became acutely aware of the pain in his side. He remembered this wound. An attack from behind, a knife thrust into his abdomen, a numbness that spread throughout his body. Poison. He could feel it still, the toxin like a fog over his mind that refused to let him wake. He was groggy, caught between slumber and wakefulness, unable to escape the first to enter the latter. Above him, past the branches of the tree, he could see the soft glow of the moon, only just beginning to fade away into the day. It was distant from him, more distant than he could recall it ever being. He shifted slightly to gauge his condition. His legs and shoulders were stiff and his head throbbed, but he could not identify any further injury. No matter, he thought to himself, the fatal stab wound shall suffice. He chuckled at his own dark humour. The coarse laugh gave way to a hacking cough. He may as well have been attacked by the knife again for the stabbing pain in his side. He forced his mouth shut. The persisting tickle caused tears to well up in his eyes but he resisted the need to cough again, choosing to endure the lesser suffering. Now to assess his confinement. His hands were bound tightly to his sides by cords that wrapped around his torso. That would explain the stiffness of his shoulders. His legs were equally bound, thus the stiffness in his legs. Though he could not prop himself upright to see, a few attempts to bring his knees to his waist informed him that his ankles were tied to an anchor of sorts. He was secured to the forest floor. But by whom? he wondered. The large clearing around him appeared to have been established by men. From what he could see, it was perfectly circular with not one invading sapling or shrub, bar the single tree in its centre under which he had been detained. The grass was uniform in length, as though it had been cut by human hands and keen eyes. The surrounding trees stood strong and tall like soldiers, uniformly spaced from one another. Every single one of them was a bone tree. Their white, branchless trunks contrasted starkly with the dark of dawn and the shadows of the forest behind them. The clearing was not a natural occurrence, yet the height of the bone trees suggested that they were old and deep within Geal Forest where very few humans would wander. “Itzal?” A hoarse voice sought him. He turned his head to the left and then to the right. The clearing around him was empty. He could see only grass, trees and shadows. “Itzal!” The voice called again with earnestness. Recognition hit. He was being sought by his closest friend, Prince Asier. “Your Highness!” Itzal called despite the pain that ripped through his side as he expended his breath. He looked for the prince but could not see him. “My Prince, are you hurt?” “Very,” Asier replied. “Aren’t you? I saw them stab you.” “Who?” “The Wildermen.” “The Wildermen? Those savages?” Itzal was struggling to comprehend. The Wildermen were nothing more than bush-dwelling barbarians. How had they been bested by them? Where were the guards? Where were the soldiers? He froze. Where were the guards and soldiers? “The men?” The question caught in his throat and he coughed again, triggering debilitating stabs of pain in his stomach. He groaned. "Itzal? You're hurt." "I'm fine," Itzal gasped. "The men?" “I do not know,” Asier replied. Itzal’s body heaved at the thought of his men being slain by such boars. Was it possible that the prince and he had survived their entire company? Had he so drastically underestimated the military prowess of the Wilderman? It should have been an easy campaign. One to close the season before winter set in. Conquer the Wildermen, set up an outpost and return to Basamortah. Their assault had been met with feeble resistance. The Wildermen had put up a commendable enough fight, but their weapons were crude, they wore no armour and fought without leadership or strategy. Itzal had cut them down like wheat in the field. So how am I here now? His thoughts were interrupted by voices emerging from the forest. He heard the prince inhale deeply. The two of them, presumably, lay helplessly with nothing to do but wait for their captors. Their captors did not appear. Itzal could hear them. The voices of men and women and children spoke excitedly amongst the trees. The chatter grew, rising to an inhuman volume as more voices joined from all directions, surrounding the clearing. But they still did not show their faces. It was unsettling. He felt a spectacle. His heart was pounding painfully, he could feel it throbbing in his wounds. Still, the chatter grew louder. It broke into a chant. A war chant. “Why do they not face us?” Itzal yelled, hoping Asier could hear him above the ever-rising chorus. He never heard a reply because at that moment, like the wail of a banshee, an unearthly scream erupted from the trees.