The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  "North, then," Elmer said in muted astonishment, for the magic held within this old spruce of an Arborist was indeed greater than he had ever known it to be.

  Engelmann closed his eyes and in a whispered breath of a prayer he spoke the ancient prophecy over this northward marking. "Though the tree may fail you, and though fear may assail you, I will place My light in the hearts of those who hope." He opened his eyes and looked at his brother. With a true sense of finality he said, "May it be so."

  The moment the words left his lips, the illuminated arrow faded to an almost imperceptible marking upon the black granite backdrop of the great hall. The two of them stared at it in silence for a moment, marking the experience deeply into the foreground of their memories, lest the onslaught that was to come tried to make them forget it.

  "See to it that provisions enough might be had for the journey ahead, my friend, and tell no one - neither Priest King nor councilmen. The survival of Haven might very well be tangled up in these last deeds of our strength."

  Elmer nodded his head in understanding, and Engelmann smiled a reassuring smile. "Very well, then," the old Arborist said as he turned and strode deliberately back towards the iron stairs.

  "Wait!" Elmer shouted out. "Are you leaving now? To get thrown into the prison holds, I mean?"

  "Soon enough, but first I need to see the lady Margarid and tell her of what I told you," Engelmann said without so much as looking back to see his younger brother.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE TOWER WOKE WITH THE creaking, grinding sound of the ancient hinges as they screeched in protest to this unexpected rescue. Cal held the tarnished blade of a diminished warrior, though to all there in that prison hold, Gwarwyn sparkled anew with the light of a hidden and powerful strength.

  "Did you see that, Deryn?" Cal whispered excitedly. "The branches of its hilt, they sprouted more violet leaves!"

  "They what?" Wielund asked disbelievingly. "Again? But-" His words caught short in his mouth as he, too, saw the new blooms there upon the hilt of the relic.

  "So it has, Bright Fame." Deryn's words were reverent, laced with pride. "So it has, indeed."

  Astyræ's eyes glittered in a wash of torchlight as the light of the sword faded before them, flecks of amber afloat on a violet sea. She was less afraid here, so near to the flame that the young smithy held. "Thank you. Though I am not certain that I have earned my freedom, I am grateful for your kindness," Astyræ said to them all.

  "My lady Astyræ," Deryn said as he bowed his head in a gesture of respectful friendship. "You are now free, and freedom will always afford you the choice to prove yourself worthy of the liberty."

  She considered his words with a sincere smile, her red lips upturned in a warmth of wonder. "You speak with wisdom, good Sprite, and I would expect nothing less. I always believed that your kind still existed, though I never dared enough to hope that I would be honored with the presence of another offspring of the violet trees."

  "Another?" Deryn said, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

  Astyræ lowered her gaze as a sudden and unexpected wash of sadness befell her beautiful face. "Perhaps things would have turned out differently for all of us, if ... if we would have dared enough to hope for the Sprites to come again," she lamented aloud.

  "Now then," Cal said kindly as he came to her, "don't you begin to punish yourself for such things. All of Aiénor has forgotten that Sprites ever existed at all. They are nothing but fairy tales to my people; that is, when we have the heart to even tell them."

  "My people never forgot," she said, meeting his gaze. Astyræ's mouth went dry with fear as a cold gust of wind blew through the ancient prison tower, howling ominously through the tension of the moment. She opened her mouth to speak again, and then stopped before the words could form on her lips.

  "Go on, then," Cal urged.

  Deryn's gaze was locked upon the violet-eyed woman, for something deep within his little Sprite chest prickled with a kinship to a deeper magic, and he did not wholly trust the silence of her story.

  "Are you saying that you have known another Sprite? That you and your people have met one?" Cal asked.

  "That is impossible, my friend," Deryn said matter-of-factly. "The Jacarandas were destroyed long before this young woman took her first breath … and the only Sprites who survived the rape of the trees of beauty live in Islwyn alone."

  She looked sadly into the glowing, azure eyes of the tiny Sprite guardian. "He is right."

  "Then ..." Cal stumbled over his words, not understanding what she was not saying. "I ... I mean, how does ... how would you have-"

  "I would rather not say!" she bristled, cutting him off before he could form the question. "I barely know you, and though I am truly grateful for your aid, I am not sure I am ready to bare my ill-fated soul just yet!"

  "Oh, of course!" Cal said earnestly. "I am sorry, my lady."

  His polite words disarmed her, and she let out an exhausted sigh before she spoke again. "It is just ... another story for another time, groomsman," she said apologetically.

  Cal nodded to her, but his eyes caught hers again and exposed his disappointment.

  "Not all mysteries need be revealed at introduction," Deryn said, soothing the woundedness of the moment. "For friendships are but a lifetime of discovery, if we grant them the permission to be so."

  "Thank you, dear Sprite," Astyræ said. She looked back to Cal, seeking his understanding.

  "Of course," Cal said with a warm smile. He gestured towards the stairs. "Come on then, let us be done with this dreadful tower."

  "But wait!" Wielund chimed in. "We can't just leave here with nothing to report, can we? What of the scouting mission?"

  Astyræ's multi-colored eyes narrowed in curiosity at Wielund's comment. "Scouting mission?" she asked him playfully. "Just what are the three of you hoping to discover here in the dark wilderness of the Wreath? Huh? And for that matter, where do you come from? There cannot be anyone left wandering—let alone scouting—on this side of Aiénor who has not felt the wrath of Nogcwren and her army of Nocturnals."

  Wielund looked to Cal, unsure of what he should share with this woman who had been taken captive for reasons that were still unknown to them.

  "We ... we came searching for a new light from across the Dark Sea," Cal said cautiously.

  Her eyes widened with understanding as to why they had been so fascinated with the etchings on the prison walls. "You seek the same magic as the tree men?" she asked excitedly, her gaze shifting between each of them.

  "No! Well, our ... our governor just sent us to … uh, to scout this wilderness," Wielund stammered, a bit caught off guard by her question. "Look, all I know is about metal! I forge axes to fell timber and swords to defend our city. I don't know about missing kings or sorceresses, and I certainly don't know about magic-" he paused mid-sentence, his eyes catching the blue-winged Sprite who appeared at that moment to be the very embodiment of magic itself.

  "Yes, my lady," Cal said confidently, ignoring Wielund's ramblings. "The same magic indeed."

  Wielund turned his head in confusion at the groomsman's words. "Cal? Wait—what are you saying? Are you saying the colony is searching for Illium?"

  "No, I am most certainly not saying that," Cal said with an amused smile. "Seig and Tahd—and even the Priest King himself—are not looking for Illium any more than they are looking for the true fulfillment of the prophecy of old. No, they seek nothing more than timber enough to light the world in the only way that they know how."

  "Then … then what do you mean, groomsman?" Wielund said still bewildered. "You speak of magic, you search for Illium, and you befriend fairies!"

  "Fairies!" Deryn protested angrily. "Do not presume to confuse me or my people for some dainty little pixies!" He drew his tiny blue blade and held its deadly point at the throat of the smithy.

  Wielund, unaware of his offense, looked nervously to Cal and Astyræ for some form of help.

  Cal laughed, sha
king his head at the absurdity of the moment before coming to his friend's rescue. "Deryn, he did not mean any harm. I will have very few friends left in this world if you keep drawing your blade on them."

  "There are grander things at work in the world, smithy, than timber and governors. There are older and more dangerous things than mere blades and bows," Deryn scolded as he sheathed his tiny sword. "My people have suffered and bled for the betterment of your kind, and we do not deserve to be lumped into the likes of the make-believe."

  "Forgive me then, master Sprite," Wielund said apologetically as he rubbed the sore, red spot on his neck. "All of this is just a bit much for me to take in. When I was asked to sail with the colony, I thought I would be bending blades and forging shoes for the horses, not scouting the wilderness or freeing prisoners or meeting fair- I mean … I mean … Sprites."

  Deryn just stared at him, hovering as he listened to the awkward apology. His azure eyes cooled in light of the smithy's ignorance.

  "Come on, you two," Cal said, breaking the tension of the offense. "Let us be done with this place, alright?"

  "I agree." Wielund's voice cracked as he replied. "I'll go first."

  Wielund began the slow and treacherous journey back down the rickety, rotting stairs. Cal looked around the room once more, reveling in the possibilities that this discovery could lead to. He could still barely believe that Illium's men—and maybe even Illium himself—had been held in this tower and had carved these very words that surrounded them.

  "Cal, is it? Is that what they call you?" Astyræ said timidly.

  "Calarmindon, Bright Fame!" Deryn interjected, bowing towards Cal in a display of honor.

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise at the formality of the Sprite. "Oh, well I am sorry, master Sprite," she replied. "Such a noble title for a young groomsman! There must then be something more to him than I am yet aware of." She glanced back to Cal again, and the playfulness of her words caused a warmth to spread across his bearded face.

  "You may call me Cal, lady Astyræ," he said with a charming grin.

  "Very well then." She returned his smile and then looked towards the littered stone floor. "Cal, I would like to show you something else."

  "Oh?" Cal said.

  "There is yet another word that I have found written upon the forgotten walls of this damned place. I think … I think I must show it to you." Astyræ walked back inside her prison cell with a sense of significance that the others did not miss. There, on the small sill of the narrow window, she smoothed her hand over something hidden, brushing away the dust of the old tower before she motioned for Cal to come and see it for himself.

  Cal and Deryn looked at each other and, without a word, agreed to follow Astyræ's lead. They came through the open door of the iron prison, and as they made their way to where she stood, Cal let his rough fingers run along this newly discovered marvel, tracing the etched lines of Illium's sigil once again.

  "What have you found, my lady?" Cal asked her.

  Astyræ pointed with her slender hand, welcoming him to see with his own eyes.

  "Shaimira?" Cal said aloud as his features lit up with wonder. "Do you know what this is? Do you know what this means?"

  She shook her head slowly, and a look of disappointment washed over her face. "I ... I was hoping that you might, Cal. Neither my father nor his father before him even knew that this marking existed, but in the week of days that I have spent in this iron prison I have pondered it almost without ceasing."

  Deryn flew in closer, landing lightly upon the crumbling masonry. As he did, the blue glow of his brilliant wings illuminated a most curious marking. There, slightly removed and just above the "i" of the mysterious word, where its eye should have been, a crude yet deliberate point had been made instead.

  "Is that what I think it is?" Cal asked his friend. He ran his finger along the sharp tip of the carved point, and as he did some of the stone began to crack and rub away, revealing something rather intriguing to all who might see it.

  Carved upon the stone, above the word, Shaimira, was an arrow.

  The three of them stood in silence for a moment as they considered this newly discovered marking. Finally the groomsman spoke. "Which way is this window pointing?"

  "North," Astyræ and Deryn said in surprised unison.

  "Do you … do you know what it means then?" Astyræ asked him again, slightly more hopeful now that he had discovered this new and hidden marking.

  "I don't know what Shaimira means, my lady. But something tells me that the tree men are pointing the way for us to find out," Cal told her.

  "Us?" she asked him, her face clouded in an unreadable curiosity.

  "I-" Cal tried to say, but the sound of the smithy stole the words from his lips.

  "Alright!" Wielund shouted from the bottom of the prison tower. "I made it down safe enough. Who is coming next?"

  She held his gaze for a moment, her mind caught up in the mystery of the discovery and the potential invitation to seek its resolution.

  "You go first, Astyræ," Cal offered. "I am sure by now that you have seen your fill of these rotting walls."

  Her attention returned to the prison tower, and then to the thick darkness that shrouded the stairs below. Fear colored her beautiful face as she spoke. "But how will I see? I have no torch, and no magic of the tree men like you." Her voice grew panicked and strained at the thought of traversing the stairs alone in the darkness. "Will ... will you come with me? Please? I can't do it alone."

  Cal's heart was a mix of confusion and compassion. This woman is a contradiction of fright and fearlessness, wonder and angst. How can both be housed behind the same violet eyes and beneath the same crimson lips?

  "I will go with you, lady Astyræ," Deryn volunteered. "For it is not my presence alone that gives sight to the torchless one, and he is not so afraid of the darkened places as you. Come. I will light the way to your freedom from this place."

  Astyræ nodded in grateful agreement. "Thank you, master Sprite," she said meekly.

  The azure light of his wings set the rotted, winding stairs of the prison tower awash in a glow of protection, both for the safety of her steps and for the unrest in her heart. Cal watched as his companion escorted this mysterious woman down the treacherous steps to the ground floor of the forgotten bastion.

  "Shaimira," he whispered into the empty iron chamber. "Is this where you are leading me? Is this what you want?" Cal waited and listened, hoping for the familiar yet terrifying screech of an Owele to break the inky silence of his thoughts, desperate for direction. But all that he heard was the stillness of his heart, and the creaks and groans of the protesting stairs.

  "Cal!" he heard Wielund shouting again. "Alright then, come on now, groomsman!"

  He looked around once more, breathed deep in the moment, and then began his descent. "I am coming!" he shouted to his friends below.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "WELL?" WIELUND ASKED THEM ONCE they had all reached the bottom of the tower. "What are we going to do now?"

  "What do you mean?" Cal asked.

  "Are we going to take her back to the stronghold? Back to Governor Seig? Or are we now supposed to go chasing after the tree men?" Wielund looked confused, not sure just what Cal expected him to be a part of.

  "Wielund!" Cal said with a good-hearted laugh. "She is not ours to take anywhere that she doesn't wish to go. Why would we free her from one prison only to chain her to one of our will?"

  "That is not what I meant," the smithy apologized. "I only meant about the darkness, and ..." his voice trailed off, as he was unsure whether he should speak his concern aloud.

  "And there is the matter of why I was in a prison hold to begin with," Astyræ finished his nervous thought for him.

  Wielund nodded his head in embarrassed agreement. "Well ... well, yes."

  "Ah ... I see. Well, you are no prisoner of ours, my lady, regardless of why you found yourself chained in irons," Cal said diplomatically, his response p
unctuated with a pointed look at Wielund.

  Astyræ smiled with a grace that reminded Cal of the barmaid of Piney Creek, and for a brief moment he felt a pang of homesickness there in his empty stomach.

  "Do not trouble yourself too much, Wielund," Astyræ said playfully. "I am only slightly dangerous."

  "Dangerous or not, are you able to find your way back home?" Cal asked her. "You said you came from a place called Dardanos. Do your people still live there?"

  "Nothing lives there any more, groomsman," she said ominously.

  "Then who was it that put you in that tower?" Cal pressed. "Who taught you of the tree men? Can you at least tell us where you are from? Where is this Dardanos?" His voice hinted of confusion and a bit of mistrust.

  "You ask so many questions, don't you groomsman?" she bristled with the prickliness of self-defense. "And I am not so sure I am ready to trust you with all of their answers just yet."

  "Fair enough, my lady," Cal said apologetically. "Fair enough."

  She looked into his eyes and calculated in a single stare the measure of his goodness. Again she trusted him, for his kindness and his courage compelled her. "I am from south of here," she said finally as she gestured towards the city of her home. The band of rescuers turned their heads, following the direction of her pointed finger, but they could not see much at all through the darkened thickness of the forest. "In the cleft of the Itzal Valley; Dardanos is ... was … my home," she told them, sadness coloring her words.

  "Are they all dead?" Wielund asked.

  "But … but I thought you said …" Cal began, but trailed off when Astyræ's gaze looked away from him sharply, her attention now focused on something in the thick of the shadows. Behind them, Cal heard Farran snort heavily, agitated by something there in the forest. The large chestnut joined in the restless protest, stamping the ground and straining at her hitching.

  "Their eyes ... " Astyræ muttered absent-mindedly

  "What in the damnable dark?" Wielund said.