by Meg Cowley
“We’re not dead yet,” muttered Aedon.
A twig cracked behind them, and they wheeled toward the source of the noise. Nothing.
“Other things prowl this forest that we do not want to meet,” said Aedon, the sick feeling in his stomach swooping once more. “Climb the trees. Now.” There were also things in the canopy he did not wish to disturb, but he had to reason they would be better than a bargheist.
At the soft thump of paws upon a carpet of needles behind them, Aedon scurried up the tree after Brand and Erika, but not quickly enough.
Giant jaws clamped upon his cloak and tugged backwards, hard.
With a cry, he cascaded down the tree, scrabbling for a hold, barely managing to wedge his hands and feet into gnarled cracks with a wince.
Brand turned and cursed, his face paling. He scrambled back down the trunk to grasp one of Aedon’s arms and pull as hard as he could. Aedon could feel nothing but pulling–the jaws yanking the cloak until it dug painfully into his neck, Brand’s vice-like grip tearing his arm from its very socket.
Trusting to Brand’s strength for a moment, Aedon let go of the tree with his other hand and wrenched the clasp of his cloak free. Instant relief. It fluttered down, a poor prize for the beast below them, and Brand hauled Aedon up the tree, out of reach.
Gasping and shaking, Aedon clung onto the thick branch, as if it were the most welcome place he had ever crouched, and dared to look below.
A feral maw gaped and snapped at him, fetid breath rolling over him in a gagging wave, and slaver flying from its gnashing teeth. Scarlet eyes, almost black in the dull light, glared with pure hate up at the companions in the tree as the giant, black, shaggy creature leapt up at the trunk in an unrelenting frenzy, gouging it with its razor-sharp, finger-length claws.
The tree shuddered, shook, and groaned beneath them at the assault, and they had to cling on tighter to avoid the dhiran shaking them free. Sooner or later, it would realise what, or who, sat on its slumbering branches. Then it would only be too eager to feed them to the bargheist.
We must find a way out, Aedon thought desperately.
This would be no grand gesture of escape like the last time he had fled these woods, jumping from a cliff into the arms of his Aerian friend...
A cliff...
“I have an idea,” he hissed to Brand and Erika, bracing himself when the branch shook beneath them vigorously. Brand and Erika grimaced, too, and clung on tighter, leaning toward him to listen as he explained.
After a few minutes, he looked between them both. “Do you think you can do it?” It was not a question of trust. They had trusted each other with their lives more than once. But Erika was still weak, and Brand had been told most sternly not to fly whilst he rebuilt the strength of his wing muscles. But what other choice did they have?
Their grim expressions mirrored his as they nodded. The three shared a silent look of despair, yet unbeaten hope, then they parted.
As Brand slowly pulled himself to the top, Erika shimmied down the tree until she was within striking distance of the dark creature. Aedon clambered farther up, his heart swelling with pride and respect. Few males he knew could face up to such a foe with as much bravery, even with a weapon in their hand. Aedon had never been gladder or prouder to count upon her.
She shouted and swore at the bargheist, goading it on, and it took her bait, focusing on her as she gathered pinecones from the branches and pelted the creature with them one by one.
Its yelps and snarls followed Aedon as he crept through the trees, using the branches as walkways. This part of the forest slumbered, not like the last time he had visited when the trees were in a frenzy, living the Queen’s rage as She hunted him. He did not wish to wake them.
Aedon’s heart hammered in his chest as he peeked below the canopy and saw the light–dull, but present–of the misty day visible through the trees. He took a deep, steadying breath, but it did little to calm him.
This was foolish–nay, suicidal–yet there seemed to be no other way, unless they tried to wait out the bargheist and see which starved first. Solanaceae’s smug, cruel face gleamed in his mind’s eye, and Aedon gritted his teeth.
Over my dead body will She get the better of me, he vowed and swung down from the tree canopy.
“Oi!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, then he turned and fled. He did not need to look to know it had taken the bait, hearing the snarl of the bargheist and the thrum of its paws flying across the ground behind him.
Don’t look back! he told himself, running toward the light as quickly as he could until his limbs strained and lungs burned. Behind him, he could practically hear the beast slavering, feel its hot, moist breath on his neck–or was that reality?
With an involuntary squeak, he pushed himself faster, breaking through the edge of the treeline. The cliff loomed, but he did not slow, vaulting off the precipice with a scream of curses as the rush of fear and exhilaration flooded his system.
He twisted in mid-air to see the creature vault after him, then the gleam of awareness in its eyes. Down they both plunged, the beast yelping. Aedon braced himself for a deathly impact on the rocks below, for he had surely failed...
Brand tackled him out of the air, as he had done what felt like so long ago, but his grunt of pain was unmistakable as his wings snapped out to bear their weight. He wheeled away, his face contorted in agony.
Moments later, they heard a crack and thud below them. Aedon looked down at the twisted form of the bargheist lying upon the jagged rocks, still writhing, until it slowed and stopped, its form still at last.
Brand moaned, his arms loosening ever so slightly. Aedon clung on, praying they had not been too overconfident. Using his wings as little as he could, Brand glided to the foot of the incline they had originally climbed. They tumbled to the ground, landing in a jumble of limbs, just as Erika burst from the trees above them. She halted at the top of the incline, her eyes widening and jaw agape.
Aedon extricated himself from Brand, who heaved and shuddered, his wings trembling under the strain the Aerian had put them under, and followed her gaze. He swore and scrambled to his feet. A wall of dhiran, their roots tearing free from the earth, dragging inexorably forward over the rocky terrain with a dull rumbling that grew as more trees joined their ranks.
They rustled with anger–Solanaceae’s anger–and Aedon knew their fate would not be wholesome if the dhiran captured them.
“The stream won’t hold them. Brand, come on!” Aedon tugged the giant Aerian’s arm, but it was as though he tried to move a boulder. He glanced at the tiny, trickling beck once more. The dhiran were only yards away from the bank.
Calloused hands slipped under Brand’s other side, and Aedon flashed a grateful glance at Erika. They hauled Brand up between them, until he finally stumbled forward of his own accord, up the embankment once more, and toward the shade of the still-sleeping pines.
Erika groaned as she looked back. “They’re following.”
Aedon watched as trees forged the stream and began the climb up the embankment after them, their limbs and leaves creaking and rustling.
“We cannot outrun them,” Aedon acknowledged with a sinking feeling. They could run into the pines, never to be seen again, for these trees, too, would awaken with Solanaceae’s powerful will.
“What do you suggest? Make a stand? We have no weapons?” Erika radiated defiance, but she was right. How could they fight trees, which would crush and rend them, with nothing but their hands?
Aedon’s eyes lit with the spark of inspiration. “What do trees hate most of all?” At Erika’s look of confusion, he smiled. “Fire! Brand, where is your fire-striker?” He dared to pat the Aerian down in his own haste to find it, all the while pleading with the heavens that they had not thought to confiscate that, too.
Brand’s shaking fingers pulled out the pouch with the steel and flint, but only a wisp of kindling fell out. Not enough to be of any use. Aedon snatched it from him.
“Y
es!” he crowed triumphantly.
“We have no kindling...,” said Erika, her voice hollow as her attention darted to the line of trees creeping closer.
“Oh yes, we do!” Aedon pushed the fire-striker back into Brand’s hand and dashed up the hill. “Come, Erika!” He gathered a handful of needles, then scowled, realising it would not be enough. As he set Erika to gathering pinecones they could use to establish a fire, he shrugged off his top and bundled it up to create a pouch that he could stuff with dry needles and organic matter.
Aedon rushed back to Brand’s side, spreading the needles in an arc between them and the advancing dhiran, which groaned and creaked as they struggled to ascend without toppling over–yet still inexorably came. Erika arrived moments later, her bunched cloak now full of pinecones, brandishing a stick covered in globules of viscous resin.
Aedon matched her grin. “Excellent thinking.”
The rhythmic assault on the fire-striker sounded as Brand hunched over the pine needles, Erika daubed pinecones in resin, and Aedon ran to and fro, fetching twigs, sticks, and more needles, a sheen of sweat coating his bare, still healing chest. The air stung Saradon’s Mark carved into his flesh, but it was still a welcome relief from the itching, never-ending irritation of his shirt.
At Brand’s shout of success, Aedon raised his head to see a small fire quickly spreading across the pine needles. He returned with more material to add to it. With the combination of resin and dry matter, the top of the bluff was ablaze in seconds.
Erika and Aedon drew out the arc until it protected them from both sides. Dhiran screeched below them in fear and frustration, and the pines creaked and groaned into wakefulness above them as the fire licked through the needles on the ground and began to spread farther and faster than Aedon had intended, up the hill and toward the slumbering pinewood.
Solanaceae’s screech was louder than that of all the massing trees as the forest erupted into flames. The dhiran fled as quickly as they could, some slipping and tumbling down the hill with mighty crashes at the bottom of the slope.
Filled with his own fury that burned higher with every flame, Aedon tossed his pine needle-filled shirt upon the flames, as well as handfuls of whatever other material he could find within the shrinking arc of flame that battered them with heat and light. It was a welcome change from the dull, grey drizzle. It reminded him of Valyria’s fire, filled him with her defiance and spark of life. He would not yield to Solanaceae until She relented and let them have the victory.
Beside him, Erika tugged Brand to his feet, helping him tuck in his wings to keep them safe from the fire.
“Cease this!” the Queen thundered, Her voice almost drowned out by the thin screeching of the pine trees as they started to burn, the eager fire falling upon their resin-covered trunks, gobbling up their dry, unshed needles and bite-sized pinecones. Her only true weakness was the flame.
“Not until you yield and return my magic!” Aedon snarled, finally catching sight of Her through the wall of fire. The bright green of Her gown a contrast against the black, burnt wood and orange fire.
She mirrored his snarl, baring Her pointed teeth. Seconds later, he felt the welcome gush of his magic flowing back into him.
“Do you yield?” he asked, wavering on the edge of control. It felt like he was a vessel filled to the brim, and he revelled in the power.
It killed Her to say it. He could see it in Her clenched teeth, balled fists, rigid stance, body shaking with fury. They were at a stalemate, but would She yield to save her precious forest, her beloved dhiran?
“I yield,” She growled.
Relief welled in him, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes of the stinging smoke that choked him. He would not cough, not show weakness. He let the crashing wave of magic burst forth.
Water gushed from the stream and peppered them from the sky. Soon, the fire was swamped and lazily smoking, quelled under a wave of fresh water.
Soaked, Aedon, Brand, and Erika stood shoulder to shoulder before the irate elven Queen, whose hard gaze transfixed them each in turn, until it fell to Aedon, and hate erupted anew.
“You will pay for that,” She hissed. Her eyes dragged down to Aedon’s chest and narrowed, Her attention on the puckered wound, before they widened. He knew She had realised whose mark he bore.
She bared Her teeth, and Her magic erupted like a storm around them.
Thirty Seven
The spymaster’s reply appeared sooner than Raedon anticipated–and in person. Just as Raedon sat to supper in his office, he startled and swore as Dimitrius seemed to materialise from nowhere. Soup slopped from his bowl, staining his sleeve, and cascading vegetables and juices over the papers upon the desk.
Raedon pushed his chair back with a crash, leaping to his feet. “How did yo–”
“Oh, spare the theatrics.” Dimitrius waved a hand at him. “It’s a special skill I have, shall we say, but I haven’t come to idly chat. You called?”
Raedon gaped for a moment, before gesturing to remove the mess and clearing his throat. “Ah, yes.” He recounted what the scout had found. “Is it true?” He still had the faintest hope kindling in his belly that it was not.
“Yes.”
Like a punch to the gut, what hope he had extinguished.
“Tell me everything.” Raedon’s stare fixed Dimitrius to the spot.
Dimitrius nodded once, slowly. “Very well... Saradon is preparing for his coronation. He will be King of Pelenor. There is little we can do about that now. The Order of Valxiron...” Dimitrius’s mouth twisted as if he, too, found that unpleasant, “has indeed resurfaced. Stronger than I ever hoped to see them again after your campaign to eradicate them. It seemed you only forced them, quite literally, underground. Slowly, they have been building strength.
“They are well-supplied, well-armed, well-connected...and now that they have a master, they are only too willing to show themselves. Those who fear for their safety and that of their families are only too eager to please them for fear of what they will do.”
“Saradon is not their master. How can a half-elf command the likes of them, so affixed as they were on purity of blood? What has changed?”
Dimitrius regarded him steadily, as if measuring him, before he replied. “Because their true master is Valxiron...and he lives within Saradon.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?” The spymaster truly spoke in riddles now. “We don’t have time for this ridiculous–”
“I am entirely serious, Raedon.”
Raedon stopped talking, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Valxiron... Yes, that old, legendary evil truly has returned. Saradon once was the half-elf of the stories, but now he is nothing more than a vassal, a mouthpiece for a greater evil. The Order has seen his true nature, and they are only too happy to follow their one master again.”
“It cannot be,” Raedon said weakly. “Those tales are thousands of years old! And he was defeated.”
“Not eternally. I don’t want to admit it myself, but it’s true. Saradon speaks for himself, but his mind is seeded with darkness not even he realises. He has already done great and terrible things, and worse is yet to come.”
Raedon hissed. “What do you mean?”
“He already has the fealty of every House in Pelenor. With no bloodshed.”
“It cannot be.”
“It is so. His power is great enough to terrify them all into submission. Already, the Order rises in almost every town and city across the country, spreading his rhetoric, manifesting his word, enforcing his rule.”
Raedon swore. “Then we cannot call Pelenor to arms to retake Tournai.”
“No.”
“It could not be worse.”
“Well...” Dimitrius shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“What?” Raedon glared at him.
“The Indis are already within our borders. They burn the eastern plains, leaving nothing and no one alive. Those who manage to es
cape flee little better than paupers with no way to endure, for the Indis scorch the very earth, spoil the water, and destroy any natural resources that could be used. Few displaced have managed to survive.”
Raedon slammed a clenched fist upon his desk. “Will you bring me naught but bad tidings?”
“They are the only tidings I have.” Dimitrius had the good grace to look despondent, but that did not reassure Raedon.
“Anything else?” he asked helplessly, hoping that was all of the spymaster’s news. His lips pursed when he realised Dimitrius was not finished.
“Yes... I know what passed with Ilrune.”
Raedon stiffened. He had not heard that name in almost two decades, since the last searches had been called off for the missing babe. “What of it?”
“Arven is dead?” Ilrune’s father, Saradon’s own son.
“Yes.”
“And Ilrune’s daughter?”
Raedon clenched his jaw.
Dimitrius nodded. “She is alive and with Saradon now.”
Raedon’s attention snapped to Dimitrius at once. The spymaster’s face was impassive, sincere, truthful.
At Raedon’s silence, Dimitrius continued. “Her name is Harper. She is an interesting one, to be sure.” His mouth quirked up into a smile, quickly hidden. “She is not who you think. Raised in isolation a world away from here in a land of no magic, she knows little of this country and her heritage, and she rejects Saradon utterly.”
“Yet she is with him?”
“Not of her own choosing.”
It did not matter. One day, she would die, as Ilrune had, as Arven had, as Saradon would. By my own hand, if needs be. Raedon had sworn to see the House of Ravakian destroyed, and he would see it happen, no matter that it seemed more impossible than ever now.
Raedon ran a hand through his hair. “The kingdom is already lost then. The Indis aid Saradon. The people are in fear for their lives. A dark Order enforces his law. We are little better than outlaws now, crusaders in our own kingdom.”
