by Kim Wedlock
His eyes narrowed in thought. No. He didn't believe that for a moment. If they were prey, there would have been no need to open the ground and trap them for three hours. Nor, with magic that powerful, would there be need to march them. They could have been carried by vines or passed from tree to tree. Or carried over their own shoulders.
Softly, he hushed Aria's nerves. No, there was more going on here. Something that required a relatable form, he was sure - not that they had succeeded. It was impossible to identify with something that had such unnatural strength, grace and inscrutable eyes. In fact, the longer he stared, the more he leaned towards the conclusion that, no matter how one looked at it, they were not human at all.
Their hair was dark, thick and shimmered green, among which twigs and climbers grew, and was woven midway into long, loose braids that swung down their backs and sprouted tiny, haphazard little leaves. Their eyes were perfectly almond-shaped, while their lips, straight and equally void of emotion, were berry-red. The only facial feature to distinguish the males from the females was the subtle difference in the shape of the jaw. Their skin was mottled and as brown as tree bark, but smooth, at least where the forest itself hadn't seized it; upon the shoulders of one, fronds and toadstools had taken root, and yet they were clean and meticulously tended, while another's was overrun by a carpet of sagina that cascaded over one shoulder like a fine and equally cultivated mantle.
But while other wild creatures had adopted the camouflage of their surroundings, these vakehn, he realised, were actually clothed. Intentionally-crafted garments of lichen woven into moss and spidersilk caught the light and broke up their shape, while at the same time concealing their modesty. It was a strangely civilised application for forest-dwelling creatures, but even ditchlings could appreciate a torn shirt. Unless this, too, was for the benefit of himself and his companions.
His eyes dropped towards Aria, who had grown ever more quiet but no longer clutched his trouser leg so fiercely, and found a quiet interest beside the trepidation in her eyes. He wondered if, perhaps, she'd seen what he had. But if that were so, a glance towards the others showed that they were alone. Ahead, Anthis and Garon walked rigid and guarded, heads turning just enough to cast surveillance towards the vakehn behind them without drawing attention, while at the rear, Petra seemed ready to jump to the group's defence in a heartbeat despite her broken arm, and remained protectively close to Eyila who herself had finally settled and seemed at last to be mending. That, at least, was a relief.
An angled face half-concealed behind curling green tresses suddenly filled his sight, and a blunt shove to his shoulder ordered him to keep moving. He bit back a snarl and did as he was told.
In minutes the forest had grown darker and denser. Ominous shadows retreated from the leaf litter only far enough to let them through before slipping back in to cut off the path behind them, like prison guards making way for the arriving condemned. The humid air had cooled, but what had been a relieving breeze became a breath of portents, chilling their skin and standing their hair on end. Hearts pounded harder, mouths dried, and fervent eyes searched the darkness.
One of the vakehn left the procession and hurried on ahead, moving with barely a sound over the fallen twigs and leaves, and disappeared almost immediately among the trees. Their prisoners stiffened. Wherever they were going, they were almost there. The air seemed to grow even colder.
But as Rathen struggled to handlessly negotiate over a long and elevated tangle of roots, Anthis's sudden, startled gasp sent his foot slipping heavily through a loop. Aria quickly helped him out of it, firing the vakah behind them a very open sneer for her chuckle, then rushed forwards to defend Anthis from whatever had unnerved him.
But the pair stumbled to an abrupt stop beside him before the historian's escort impatiently dragged him away.
The sight was not beautiful. The unshakable menace forbade it. But there was a majesty to the glade, one so potent that it shook their hold on reality for a moment, yielding instead towards the arcane. But if there was magic at work here, it was not that of Khryu'vahz.
Beyond the knotted roots stood a picture of pristine and ancient woodland, a pocket of Turunda's antiquated history preserved even as the centuries crawled by. Thick, gnarled oaks, the most time-worn they'd ever seen, hundreds of years old if not a thousand, stood about the grove like time-lost sentries, their branches laden with long, yellow catkins and broad leaves so vast and numerous that they closed out the light despite the great space between the trunks, casting a silent melancholy over the inhabiting vigour.
But the evening sun did slip through, gracing the earth with small puddles of light within which patches of wild garlic and yellow pimpernel grew and sprawled with enthusiasm, and butterflies flitted through the golden channels and up into the boughs. Among one particularly dense mat, a pair of weasels leapt and bounced, piping a little song in their war dance, while nestled between two others a freshwater spring gurgled to the surface and rolled away in a fine, lazy stream, trickling over smooth, white rocks in a subdued and miniature waterfall.
Cushions of moss claimed every scattered cluster of rocks, some of which were shaped and levelled as perfectly as stools, while at the foot of those that weren't stood the dark openings of burrows. Lichen crawled up the tree trunks, fungus sprouted from the bark, and claimed in abundance the single vast, fallen limb which itself served as a home to some creature or other, and which the weasels were now using as a jumping frame.
Rathen's eyes widened beneath his rising brow. By that single view, in that single moment, it was as though the world he knew beyond the sylvan borders had simply ceased to exist - a distant memory, or something yet to occur.
The pristine enchantment was rudely broken when a sharp tug on his wrist dragged him forwards.
They were pulled into a line in the middle of the dark grove while their jailers took up positions behind them, and all eyes turned onto the grandest of the oaks. The weasels were now scurrying across the rough old bark with ease, and a bird, dusty blue and about the size of an owl, poked its head out of a knot and squawked a warning. The weasels seemed unconcerned.
They, on the other hand, grew increasingly nervous. The vakehn were waiting for something. Or someone.
They jumped at movement to the left, but the forest guardians didn't react. It was one of their own, the one that had run off ahead, and her return didn't appear to mean anything. But at movement from the right, they each straightened, raised their chins, and the threat they emanated for the benefit of subduing the group tripled.
They held their breath as a figure stepped out of the shadows. On some divine cue, a breeze tousled the forest crown, shifting the thin beams of sunlight.
The woman had each and every one of them enraptured the moment the light brushed her.
On legs perfect enough to rival any effigy of Vastal, she strode slowly and confidently towards them over the uneven ground, negotiating every obstacle with flawless grace as her hips swayed with every deliberate step. Her waist was small and lean, perfectly curved and contoured by muscles that betrayed her strength, and, though as grey as fog, her skin glowed with health and potency, complementing the far darker shade of her hair which itself was long, loose, thick and voluminous. She could have hidden among the trees in plain sight whatever hour of the day, if she hadn't been born directly of it.
But her face, too, was a thing of wonder. Framed by her luxuriant mane, her lips were round and plump, so alluring that whispers of promise and affection could almost be heard by the sight of them alone, and pronounced cheekbones and a narrow, refined nose bestowed an air of regality, as too did the flaring crown of twigs perched towards the back of her head. She was the picture of resplendence. And she knew it. All but her breasts were bared and free to be admired.
But her eyes. Her eyes struck terror in their hearts. Elegant and angular, burning red, licked with orange flame, they harboured instability. There was an intense rage, and a keening love; empathy, and disdain. Pass
ion. Volatility.
She walked slowly along their line. Even the trees seemed to bow in submission. Four hammering heartbeats to each step, she stared at each of them with those terrifying eyes, evaluating them, if not peering directly into their souls. No one breathed. Each felt she lingered on themselves the longest. Her gaze could have rivalled Kienza's.
But she said nothing. She gave them no acknowledgement beyond that invasive, mysterious glower, and came to a stop at the end of the line beside one of the vakehn after what had felt like minutes. He leaned in towards her and spoke in a hushed voice; Petra was the nearest and strained to hear, but she caught nothing. The woman didn't respond at all.
At the far end, Anthis dropped his voice just as low. "She doesn't look like a vakah."
"Because she isn't."
Rathen's disturbed tone drew his eye, and he felt the lump of anxiety rise higher in his throat at the sight of the blatant alarm in the mage's tight expression. Guarded, he looked back to their host. "What should we do?" But the curt, swift strike to his shoulder silenced them both.
The woman began to walk again, sightless steps backwards with no less grace than the rest. Her eyes hadn't once left them. Even now she continued to assess them as she sat upon the largest of the mossy seats in front of the grand old oak. The moment her rear touched it, the moss swelled and grew impossibly vivid, and the flowers at her feet bent their heads towards her. The weasels, too, finally settled and sprawled out upon a branch.
She sat there for a long while, watching them.
They began to itch. Impatience soon got the better of Garon. "What do you want with us?" He demanded, foolishly without the briefest waver of hesitance or caution. The vakah beside him seized his shoulder before he could storm forwards out of the line.
But the woman didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She rose calmly and strode back towards them at her own leisure. But this time, they didn't hold her attention. Suddenly the Zi'veyn was in her hand. Each of them blanched.
"This calms the magic," she said in a voice so sensual that, for a moment, none but Aria truly heard her. Her eyes drummed choicely back onto Rathen. "It quiets it, but it doesn't destroy it. An elven creation. To suspend an opponent's magic. The Zikrahlehveyn."
Haunted, Rathen swallowed hard and braced himself as she stopped barely two paces in front of him. She shifted her weight, throwing one perfect hip out to the side, one small crease in her torso. "...Yes..."
Her chin lifted and the intensity of her gaze redoubled. He couldn't look away from her eyes. "You've been using it all over Turunda, calming broken spells. It has saved countless lives. But it has not secured them." She took the vine of his left hand from the care of the vakah and pressed the relic into his palm. He continued to stare at her, searching for the deception, but her eyes were too complex, too chaotic to read. His chance fled as she turned and walked away. A gasp rippled around him at the sight of her hollow bark back, though eyes were quick to fall onto her rear, even despite the long, bovine tail that flicked before it.
"Is she reading your mind?" Anthis asked, trying unsuccessfully not to stare, but his lips pursed when that throbbing voice rose up.
"Reading his mind?" She chuckled, turning again with a smile that could splinter a heart into pieces. "Of course not. I've been told all of this. As I said, you've been using it all over Turunda." But then her smile faded, and the joyous amusement in her eyes shifted to realisation. She looked across them all again, with a gaze far more clear in its hunt. "...You have no idea who I am, do you?" It passed over Rathen. "You have an inkling..." then down onto Aria, and her smile returned. "Ah, but you know, don't you, little chipmunk?"
The child nodded, eyes wide with wonder. "You're the queen, aren't you?"
She reached out and brushed long, slender fingers affectionately across her cheek, then stepped back with a powerful presence into the view of all. "Yes," she declared proudly, "I am - though not as you understand it. I am the ruler of this forest - of all forests - and all that lives within them. I am its spirit. Its protector. I am Hlífrún, Rötternas Moder."
"Root Mother..."
Her eyes flicked onto Anthis, who pursed his lips again. "Very good. Though perhaps I shouldn't be impressed. After all, you are a well-learned one. Though it is an obscure, ancient language for your tongue all the same. Older, even, than the elves you so glorify." She smiled as his cheeks burned brighter.
"You're a huldra."
Her eyes flicked back onto Rathen and burned in the most violent insult for the most fleeting moment. Then she smiled again. "I am not a huldra. I am the huldra. But I will forgive you. You are not a democratic one, despite your accomplishments among Arkhamas and harpy - and among your own kin, though long passed they may be. But your wits and command are suited to a different calling. And, my," she moved closer and trailed a fingertip down his chest, "what a command."
Again his eyes were transfixed to hers, but he could feel his cheeks burning.
"Excuse me, Your Majesty," Aria's voice piped up, pulling her attention slowly away from her father, "I mean no disrespect - but aren't there any other huldra?"
"Not within Arasiin. This land is mine; the other masses belong to others of my kin. I would presume. Your books have told you otherwise?"
"N-no...I just didn't think there wouldn't be others..."
She smiled and bent down towards her. "But there is no other Arenaria, my dear." She rose again and her dominance returned. "Yes, Arasiin is mine. Which brings me to you. And to that." She gestured towards the relic in Rathen's hand. "But...not yet."
"Pardon us?"
"Quiet, Garon," Petra hissed.
"Yes, quiet, Garon," the huldra imitated perfectly. "I should think you would like me to heal this fair lady here. And I expect she'd like it, too." She turned to the nearest vakah and spoke in strange, fluid words, to which the young woman nodded, released her hold on Rathen's remaining wrist, and hurried away with another. "I presume you're not about to turn your magic upon me - I would be so very, very disappointed if you did."
"He won't," Aria assured, "Your Majesty."
"Such manners. She does you proud, Rathen. Oh stop looking so shocked! I have eyes and ears everywhere. Now, please," she gestured languidly towards the two returning vakehn and the familiar bags in their arms, "follow my friends, here. They'll escort you somewhere you can lay your heads for the night. And we'll do something about that food."
"Uh, food?"
"Yes, those awful rations you've been eating. Wouldn't you like something fresh?"
Rathen flinched beneath the strength of her stare.
"We appreciate the offer," Anthis said tentatively, "but we don't want to put you out--"
"Oh nonsense. Now, follow them. Please."
He, too, shrank beneath those eyes and their sudden, dangerous flare.
Despite their better judgement, they had no choice but to leave Petra behind in the huldra's care, who permitted, after a fuss, Garon to remain as security, and Rathen, Aria, Eyila and Anthis were left to follow the lead of the two vakehn. They watched the forest guardians rigidly as they shouldered the bags they'd left behind at Vastal's shrine, but the two paid them little in the way of any concern, meandering silently through the trees as though followed by nothing more than an obedient scurry of squirrels. Beyond the occasional meaningful glance, no one spoke a word. It wasn't until the vakehn drew them to a stop beneath the reach of another impressive oak that their silence was broken by an utterance of astonishment. Here, there was beauty.
This venerable tree appeared at first rather short, but its twisted trunk was simply thick, and entangled in creepers that coiled all the way up into its crown. Its boughs, too, were just as broad and heavy, so much so that it would take just one to crush a man's body should it collapse under its own weight. And within the greatest of those branches, under the light of the gathered fireflies, were hollows carved like long, open nests.
Ferns with accents of spidersilk hung like drapery from the
thinner branches, upon which the insects' flames glittered like little yellow dew drops and were reflected back from a small stream that flowed freely through the softest grass.
"Daddy..."
"Yes, sweetheart," he said even as his surprise turned slowly towards suspicion, "it's beautiful."
"They made this for us?"
He dropped his voice and sent a quick look towards the quiet vakehn. "Perhaps. But I doubt they get many visitors. Be careful."
"Actually," they each stiffened at the chime of the soft voice, one tinged with the strangest yet most familiar of accents they couldn't quite place, "they're our beds." The vakah smiled at them.
"Oh," Rathen replied carefully. "And, uh...where will you all be sleeping?"
"Open, among the trees."
The male of the two stepped forwards while she continued her unsettlingly placid smile, and he turned his own fully upon Eyila. "You may take mine, miss," he said, taking her hand softly in his and gesturing towards the second highest. "It's certainly the most comfortable."
"Oh...thank you," she smiled, blushing. "That's very kind of you."
"Yes, very kind," Anthis agreed tightly.
The vakah cocked his head at the young man, but deigned no response. Rathen closed his eyes to spare himself the tension. The two had begun to walk away when he finally opened them again, and he gave the historian's arm a brief, sharp backhand while the others watched them leave.
"I'll take the top," he announced, turning and looking up at their apparent lodgings. "Anthis, you take the middle."
