Woad Children (Challenger's Call Book 3)

by Nathan Thompson

  “Elder Monarch,” I asked out loud. “Where are the children of the mother who invaded this place?”

  “What?” Breena asked, tilting her head and she fluttered over to me. “What are you planning, Wes?”

  “All of the Keepers have been slain except for the unhatched brood incubating near the treasure chamber, located behind the largest red curtain within this cavern,” the great tree replied.

  “Treasure chamber?” Val asked out loud. “Why does a tree have a treasure chamber?” Then she realized she had spoken aloud, and ducked her head apologetically.

  “The treasure chamber was created before my transplant to Avalon,” the Monarch advised. “The material inside was given by the kings of the Woadlands as tribute and gratitude for aid offered by Avalon in the past. The material consists of currency, precious metals and minerals, rare crafting material, several crafted items, and finally an artifact created to be part of the regalia for the Lord of Avalon, to permanently bond the Woadlands to the new Lord of the mist-clad world.”

  “Just to clarify,” I said intently. “The Lord of Avalon was once recognized as the supreme ruler of all of Avalon’s sister worlds, not just Avalon itself?”

  “Affirmative. Such authority should still be the case.”

  That didn’t make sense because there wasn’t even a Lord of Avalon when the Keepers and other monsters invaded. But I was getting sidetracked. I moved to the largest curtain and pulled it backwards.

  To my surprise, the room behind the curtain was larger than the room housing the woad-pool. Piles of gold and silver coins glittered on the floor. Wooden logs and ingots of various metals I didn’t recognize lay in another corner in the giant room. Rows of armor and weapon stands, webbed as if to keep others from disturbing them, lined the walls. In the center of the room, however, was a wooden altar rising directly from the floor. On top of the altar, resting on a white linen cloth, was an axe, with its handle made of a kind of wood that resembled the inside of the Woadfather Monarch and a blade made of the same metal my silvery short sword was crafted from. The weapon gleamed in the dark, with lines and glyphs similar to what I had seen in the Woadfather trees scrawled all over the entirety of the weapon.

  The blade of the weapon reminded me of the kind of single-bladed sparth axes the Irish used in the late Dark Ages, except that the handle was a bit shorter and the blade was much larger. Dad would have insisted that the weapon was unbalanced, but as I saw the weapon float just above the altar I decided that wasn’t going to be the case.

  The last item in the room was a group of round, pearl-looking orbs wrapped in layers and layers of red silk. There were no more than a dozen, and when I realized how carefully packed they were I knew they had to be Prodonti’s unhatched children.

  “Alright,” I said out loud. “I found what I was looking for. Elder Monarch, is there any way to save you? In any fashion or form?”

  Outside, another massive limb fell from the covered sky. I heard it crumble through the air and into the branches of the waiting Woadfathers.

  “Negative,” the tree replied. “I battled the Usurper in direct combat. My wounds have long been fatal. And there is insufficient power to pass on into a new life.”

  “How would you do so if you had power?” I persisted, not willing to give up. “What would you need?”

  All is not lost, the words echoed in my mind. And greater things are yet to come.

  “If I could produce a seed, my knowledge and memories would be passed down,” the Monarch intoned. “But all of my seeds were damaged in my battle with the Usurper. Only one remains, and not in sufficient state to survive on its own.”

  A green folded leaf floated upward in the pool of woad sap, and it opened up like a lily pad, revealing a large, pink-petaled flower bulb in the center. The flower opened up as well, and at the center of the blossom was a small, almond-shaped seed.

  “This is my only remaining seed. It would be viable, but it lacks sufficient nutrients and mana to begin life. Therefore, I must pass on. I suggest the Lord of Avalon request another of my kind from the world of the Woadlands.”

  “There are no more of your kind,” Breena said softly. “You are all that is left.”

  For a moment the Monarch went silent. The Gaelguard all looked at each other with wide eyes at Breena’s news.

  “Then the time has come for my race to pass on,” the Monarch finally said. “I regret that I must fail the Lord of Avalon. I regret more deeply, that the future of the Woadlands has dimmed.”

  “No,” I said out loud.

  I refused to let my tomorrow be any less glorious than my today. Not without a fight.

  “Per the law you have revealed to me, we are not to diminish.” I turned to look at my bonded familiar. “You may very well pass, but not in this fashion, where you and we become less. You are not dead yet. I will not accept your apology until we find a way forward.”

  I was being greedy. We had accomplished much today. But my enemies had proven even greedier than myself. If I wanted to keep anything all, I would have to fight death, hell, and whoever else for every priceless scrap I had.

  All is not lost, the quiet voice whispered in affirmation.

  “I can help,” Breena said firmly. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak sooner, Wes, I wasn’t sure until I saw the seed. But sprite-folk are supposed to help cultivate nature. Some say we came from the Woadfathers ourselves, to take their place as caretakers of the wood. I’ve never tried to heal something as powerful as a Woadfather,” she added uncertainly. “Much less one of their Monarchs. But I have the right magic for this, and my nature as a fairy can restore drained plants. So I can try,” she ended firmly.

  I could see the uncertainty in her eyes. So I spoke to it.

  “Okay, Breena, we’ll risk it,” I said calmly, nodding at her. “But this may help you focus: you’re not trying to bring back an entire Monarch. You’re just helping one be born.”

  Her eyes twinkled at that.

  “Thanks, Wes,” she smiled. “That does help. And wait.” Her eyes widened in realization. She peered at the seed once more. “Life energy,” she whispered. “Everything releases energy while it grows. If we had more life energy, from other things about to be born, then that would help this process even further.” She looked up at me. “The Keeper eggs, Wes. They’re full of constantly growing life.”

  I blinked as I considered that.

  “Is that safe?” I asked. “What would happen to the eggs?”

  I had a promise to keep.

  “Nothing,” the pink-haired fairy insisted. “Well, nothing bad. They’d form a connection with the Monarch’s seed, a kinship with it. It would make them healthier, even change their nature a tiny bit.”

  “That was what she wanted. Can we move them?”

  “You should be able to. As long as you’re careful,” Breena replied.

  No one was really crazy about the idea, but all signs pointed to it helping. So we carefully lifted the sheet of pearl-eggs and laid them on the open flower. They didn’t stir, and for a moment I worried about them hatching and eating the flower. But according to Breena’s healing magic they wouldn’t hatch any time soon. She lifted the seed, and then we placed the red silken bed on top of the flower. The silk felt soft, and not sticky, which meant we could carry it easily. The center of the flower seemed to pulse at the eggs resting on top of it.

  She flew down to the lily pad floating in the sap. “I’m ready. I know what to do.” She lay down and shrank to the size of the tiny seed. Then she wrapped herself around it, cuddling it like a pillow, the pearl-like eggs surrounding her like stuffed animals.

  Don’t worry, Wes, she sent back, as the pink petals closed around her. I’ll be okay. In fact, this is kind of comfy.

  I nodded at her. Woad tattoos flared as the Monarch spoke once more.

  “I will spend the remainder of my power ensuring the life of my progeny as well as the life of the sprite-folk attempting to save it. I ask that all but the
Earthborn leave the inside of my body. My grove will ensure that they will be in no danger during this time.”

  “We will go,” Alum answered with a bow toward the pool. “We will remain outside, as your honor guard while you pass on, Father Monarch. And we will lend what power we have to help.”

  His people began filtering outside, taking those who were still healing with them. My own team began leaving as well, most of them giving me an encouraging pat on the shoulder on their way out. Val walked by me, then hesitated.

  “Wes? Is it alright if I stay?” she asked quietly.

  “The Lord of Avalon’s household may remain,” the Monarch intoned. “The hatching of the seed will benefit from their presence.”

  “Household?” Val asked, looking up.

  “You’re my sister, so you count,” I answered. “Hope you’re ready for royal obligations, kiddo.” She snorted at me, and I looked back at the closed pod. “How can we help?”

  “The Lord of Avalon empowers all rituals by the lending of his presence and authority to occur. Having your entire household present will benefit this act even further. I will now put my entire strength into ensuring the successful hatching of my seed. Goodbye, Earthborn. We will not speak again in this lifetime. Please take care of my seed.”

  “I will,” I answered calmly.

  I watched Breena’s lily pad sink back into the woad sap. Then, out of instinct, I pulled out Carnwennan, nicked my finger, and flung the drop of blood into the water. I felt power thrum through the air as I did so. Val pulled out her dagger and did the same.

  “Earthborn blood, royal blood,” the tree gasped one final time. “Thank… you.”

  You should have just asked me for it, I thought quietly, but I knew the Monarch couldn’t spare any more focus for conversation. So I stood, watched, and waited for my friend to come back out and be okay.

  “No… king… here.”

  Throughout the tree, the glow from the woad sap suddenly flickered.

  “Broken thing,” the voice that had taunted me in the ghostly catacombs spoke once again. As it did so, I saw black claw marks appear all over the walls inside the tree, as if they had been invisible earlier. “You reach for too much. You reach for more than you can handle. Go home, broken Earthborn. You cannot grasp such power with a hand full of wounds.”

  “Who is this?” Val asked, looking around with eyes wide.

  “The boogeyman stuck at the bottom of Avalon,” I growled. “You sure you want to do this again? Because I distinctly remember you getting smacked around the last time we worked out our differences.”

  “One victory does not undo your failures,” the voice echoed from the claw marks along the walls. “One healthy patch of skin does not make the rest of your bloody wounds healed. And one lucid moment does not undo a future of certain insanity. Your body reeks of wounds, your broken head rings with screams, and your soul weeps with past failures. You are a billion years too late to be the man Avalon needed you to be. Go home, Earthborn. Go back to your planet of people who failed to save the Expanse.”

  “Sorry,” I snarled, “I can’t hear you from whatever bottom of a well you’re stuck under. Let me go get Lassie to help out.”

  Black mist flowed out of the scars in the walls.

  “Keep snarling, little Earthborn.” The mist formed together in the center of the room over the Woad-pool. The black smog condensed into a small ball, then limb-like tendrils stretched out of it, forming a humanoid shape. “Pretend you are safe from my wrath.”

  He had a point, although he should have tried to hurt me before now if he was really able to.

  Are you still there? I thought at the small quiet voice. Because I think this is where you are supposed to step in and help.

  “Invictus will not help you, little Earthborn,” the sinister voice whispered. “He cannot. He is still not real. And you are too broken. See?”

  The smoggy figure flickered one of its limbs, and my brain began screaming.

  I remembered being ripped. And torn. And decapitated. And burned. And drowned. And eaten. All at once. I went to my knees, clutching my forehead and screaming in agony.

  “Wes!” Val shouted. “What do I do?”

  I had no idea what to tell her.

  “What?” the sinister voice asked, surprised. “It should not be this effective… ah, I see. You are Aegrim’s son.”

  “I… am… not,” I growled out, prying one of my hands off my face just long enough to get a good look at what was going on. The Usurper had walled off the exit with a mass of clawed tendrils. I heard shouting from the other side and the clanging of metal. My allies were trying to fight their way through to me. But the cracking pain in my skull told me they would be too late.

  “You are his son,” the smoke-creature affirmed quietly. “You are broken and pained, no matter what face you wear among your little subjects. Ugly, stupid boy. You cannot be king. You cannot be Pendragon. Your skies are too low, your heavens are too heavy, the gods you have offended are all too great. Kneel, thief. Kneel and suffer for your ambition.”

  More pain blazed into my mind. I felt my old disability try to reassert itself.

  Cripplehead, a voice taunted in my mind. I could not even tell who it belonged to, but it repeated all the same.

  Cripplehead…

  “I warned that you were still broken, ugly little Earthborn.”

  I growled and ripped one of my hands off of my face. I slammed the appendage into the ground, bracing against it. Slowly, ever so slowly, I started to rise. The man-thing of smoke and smog just chuckled at my efforts.

  “Stop it!” Val shrieked, brandishing her sword at the smog-ghost. “Leave him alone right now!”

  The Usurper chuckled again.

  “Young girl-thing. You cannot save him. When did you ever matter?”

  “Wes!” Val screamed, turning. “Wes, tell me what I can do! Please!”

  Daughter, the small quiet voice said, and through my haze of pain I saw Valerie whip her head around.

  Daughter. Use me. I rage.

  “What? I—” She shook away her confusion. “How?”

  I will show you.

  I saw Val blink again, drop her blade, and walk over to me.

  “Let the shadow create shade and rest,” she suddenly intoned, and something cool and dark began to flow from her hands. “And let the rest create new life and new opportunities. Burdens give way to rest, rest gives way to growth, growth gives way to victory and then more rest. Those who struggle, rage, and strive are neither abandoned nor doomed.”

  “What?” the Usurper hissed. “What is this? What is she doing?”

  “Let the shade create respite from heat and the light that blinds. Darkness exists not to harm, but to shelter, so that the sheltered have room to heal and grow. Let there be a hiding place for the weary, for the wounded, for the weak. Then let them emerge, the weary renewed, the wounded whole once more, and the weak made strong once again. By my command—” Val’s voice rose—“let the night bring its rest, so that we may heal and tomorrow may be greater than today!”

  There was no loud clap, like when Invictus rang through me. There was only silence, and coolness. But in that place, my pain retreated, back to the place it always went after it couldn’t holler and scream at me anymore. I took a moment to suck in a fresh and painless breath, and then I lifted my head and slowly began to rise back to my feet.

  “What?” the misty figure snapped. “How? You should still be blubbering on the floor. What did she do?”

  “She raged,” I guessed. And is it my turn? I asked the small quiet voice. This time he answered.

  It is time, the voice said. Rage with me.

  My knuckles began to smoke again.

  The heat rose right through my gloves, treating the leather on my hands as imaginary.

  “Let the lightning beget fire and light,” I intoned, the words familiar by now. “And then let the light inspire discovery for the new day…”

  “No!
” the shadowy smoke shouted. “No! Not possible! Not a second time!”

  The weapon grip was back in my right hand. I continued the chant.

  “Let the light ignite a call to action in the soul refreshed from rest in the night…”

  “You should have lost half of your lifespan the very first time you incanted the forgotten art!” the shadowy voice snapped. “A second time is never anything but suicide! All the records say so!”

  “If darkness exists to shelter and refresh, light exists to enlighten and invigorate,” I spoke calmly, ignoring the Usurper’s panic. Current crackled around my palms.

  “Ugly, stupid boy! With your ugly, stupid, tricks! You insult me! You insult everything!”

  “So let the light show new life the way forward!” I roared out. My palms burst into silver fire, and something melted off of my knuckles again, passing right through my gloves and dripping onto the floor. The red curtain behind me tore as a spinning disk of sharp metal and stout wood whistled next to me and began circling around me, still spinning as it did so.

  “Do it, pretender king!” the Usurper shouted back. “Do it so that you can drown in borrowed power and die for good!”

  “By our command,” I called out, as silver lightning channeled between my two blazing fists. My free hand opened, and the axe flew handle-first into my palm. “Let the light turn the dark into a new day, one better and brighter than the last!”

  “NO!” the smoggy form shouted desperately. “INVICTUS IS NOT REAL! HE WILL KILL YOU! HE WILL—”

  The blazing bolt coalesced around the one-handed axe, and I hurled the weapon straight into the Usurper’s smoky projection. The air behind the thundering weapon seemed to bellow behind it.

  The axe slammed into the Usurper with a loud boom. A scream that reminded me of the time I had burned Cavus sounded out among the cavern as the black fog caught fire. The thing burned apart in a flash, but before it finished I saw silvery bolts arc from it and into the claw marks on each of the walls. Those burned away as well, leaving unblemished wood in their wake.

  I collapsed to my knees, panting, spent, but otherwise fine.