Installment 6: "a twisting, torturous path to travel"

A black duster hung dripping on a clothesline out in the yard, an ominous silhouette limned by a full yellow moon.

Three men sat in rocking chairs on the porch, polishing off the dregs of bourbon and Sake. Moths flittered around the lantern hanging from a porch beam.

“This sorcel-con you describe, it does seem like incongruous magics,” Dur said. “It sounds like a golem, but the features are native American. My hunch is it was created by a powerful wizard versed in the magic arts of diverse cultures.”

“Perhaps Torfuck has been spanning the globe incorporating various and sundry magics into his bag?” Dyb asked.

“Torfuck is not that studious,” Oz said, upending the whiskey bottle into his mouth to catch the last drops. “Too impatient. My guess is he has someone in consort with him.”

“Why a sorcerer of such power would ally himself to Torfuck I cannot fathom,” Dur said, “unless he—or she—has his or her own secret agenda.”

A mangy dog bound up onto the porch and nuzzled Dur. “Hiya, boy. You and your brother will have to get along without me for a few days.”

“Eh?” Dyb asked. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Perhaps,” Dur replied. “But now, I think I’ll turn in. I’m supposed to play trombone in church service in a few hours. If I’m gone when you get up, feel free to help yourself to breakfast. There are eggs and sausage in the fridge.”

“Aye, we’d best grab some z’s, Dyb, so we can set out bright and early.” Oz staggered when he stood up. He steadied himself on the porch railing.

“I knew the fifth lowball was going to get me,” he muttered.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Oz shuffled into the kitchen, lured awake by the smell of frying eggs and sausage. He made a beeline for the coffee pot and poured himself some black gold.

Dyb slapped a couple eggs and pieces of sausage on a plate and handed it to a grateful Oz.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and dropped onto a chair at the table.

When they had finished eating and done the dishes, they emerged into late-morning sunlight. A horse whinnied. Dur sat astride a white Arabian. He had a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head and was chewing on a wheat stalk.

“You boys ready?” he asked.

“You’re going with us?” Dyb exclaimed. “Awesome!”

Oz grinned. “Just like old times. What about your obligations here?”

“There is only me at the Homestead now. My cousin will take care of the dogs. Volleyball season just ended. And you will have need of me on this quest. All for one…”

“I couldn’t get into Alexander Dumas,” Dyb admitted. “But what the hell: One for all!”

Oz pulled his duster off the line and clothed himself in heavy shadow. He and Dyb got their horses out of the stall, and three rode into a sudden mist in a birch grove, leaving the Homestead behind.

“I consulted the maps of the Planes some more this morning,” Dur said as they rode through a dense forest in Between Planes. “It looks like we have a twisting, torturous path to travel. The sorcel-con you had a run-in with, it’s likely just the first foretaste of what we will face.”

“What about the route between the borders of the Kirby Panels?” Oz asked.

“They’re still in flux. Aftershocks of the Devil’s Rift War.”

“The Steranko Gates?” Dyb suggested.

“I wouldn’t advise that path either. Mephisto’s taken over that realm.”

“Hallowe’entown?” Dyb asked, the enthusiasm in his voice undisguised.

Dur shot him a quizzical look. “That would take us well out of our way.”

“Damn,” Dyb shrugged. “I just like visiting that place.”

“We may have to make some time along the outskirts of Wunderland and Uz,” Dur said, “much as you don’t care for those places, Dyb.”

“And Nurnia?” Oz asked.

“That I won’t be able to say until we see what state Umber is in.”

“Aye, lots of upheaval and political intrigue on that plane, last I heard,” Oz said.

“But first we’ll be crossing the White Tanks and the Purple Sage—your old haunts, Oz,” Dur said.
Oz began singing...

“Hear the wind moan
in the bright diamond sky
These mountains are waiting
brown, green, and dry
I’m too old for the term
but I’ll use it anyway
I’ll be a child of the wind
till the end of my days.”*

*from "Child of the Wind" by Bruce Cockburn