“What is it?” I said.
“In Iron Tower
I knew the name “Taeglin” from Paplov’s political circles. Fyorn had mentioned him as well and both regarded him with contempt.
Kabor and I exchanged glances.
“Why would he want to do that?” I said.
“And who was he talking to?” said Kabor. “Nothing’s there ‘cept bog iron and bog bodies.”
I glared at Kabor, but held my tongue in the presence of our companion.
“I
“I don’t think they can do it,” I said, remembering my lessons on treaties and agreements. “The Non-aggression Treaty clearly states that neither Harrow nor Gan can occupy the Triland region – that covers Webfoot to Proudfoot to the Bearded Hills.” But even as I said the words, I knew they were empty. Harrow takes what Harrow wants.
Just before parting, I tried to explain a bit more about directions. Nekenezitter was not accustomed to having so much choice in the matter. He showed me his compass though, and demonstrated that he was well versed in the use of a lodestone, and that he knew which way was north. That helped; otherwise, it would have been far more difficult to explain how the sun moved.
Kabor and I hadn’t much time; daylight had faded and the wraiths would be on our trail soon, if not already. The tower light of Harrow had been lit for an hour and already burned bright in the distance. We had to make a run for Deepweald.
Chapter XI
A sacred grove
Kabor was as good as dead and the one that struck him down was gaining on me – the price paid for having lingered too long with Nekenezitter.
Gasping for breath and legs nearly spent, I bounded along the narrow forest path in a last ditch effort to evade the vicious creature. Before the sun was even fully down the wraiths had our bearing or had guessed it, informed by either spies or good sense or Lady Luck. They moved unseen and near crossed our path on the eastern edge of Harrow, where the long piers of the city finger out into Dim Lake. Kabor and I had a good head start, but the wraiths were bigger, faster, and their persistence is legendary. They pursued us into the forest with cold determination.
Only the subtle axe blazing on a young maple suggested I hadn’t lost the trail. Tall trees loomed over the up-sloping path, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Hurlorns from many years back. It was difficult to know just how close the wraiths were. The base of the hill? Ten paces? Are they on my heels? How many? Wraiths did not move like regular Men. Their motions were fluid, silent – only the whipping sounds of branches in dense bush confirmed their presence. I did not look back. Dead ahead, a thick stand of cedars blocked passage. I barreled through and hoped for the best. It could lead off a cliff, for all I knew.
The cedars parted to allow passage, and after I dove through, they sprung back into place. I found myself in a wide clearing at the crest of the hill. Standing before me was a warrior, facing from the heart of the grove – no, stationed there – stationed beside a mammoth stone monument with runes inscribed upon it. Ordered rows of maples, elms and oaks stood behind him like troops in reserve.
The warrior did not quite look like kind old Uncle Fyorn, the one that I had known for so many years, for the light of the Elderkin shone from his fierce, wild eyes. He stood tall and straight in a mail vest that shimmered in the moonlight. And he wore a silvered helm in likeness to a ferocious wolverine. A great tree insignia covered the front of his vest, with silvered branches and shining green oak leaves. I darted to one side, not knowing exactly what to make of him.
The woodsman unsheathed a large sword and his trusty hatchet. The hatchet I recognized well. The sword I had never seen. The white metal of his weaponry gave off a pale sheen in the night.
Fyorn shifted into a readied stance – bent knees, left foot ahead of the right, eyes focused on where the branches had closed behind me. He raised the bastard sword high above his head. My heart skipped a beat and I feared his rage, but for a moment. With a sharp “fvit-fwit” and a quick shake of the axe, he gestured me out of the way.
I scrambled aside as a wraith fought through the barrier of branches, hissing and clawing and pushing aside the grabbing twigs. I glanced back to see one of its hands holding the shaft of a long scythe and the other balancing a crouched pose. The thing looked to me first, but quickly turned its burning attention to the armored Elderkin.
The foul creature sniffed at the air in Fyorn’s direction. From behind its dark hood, a liquid voice poured out into the grove, cold and fluid and hateful. The words surged through my spine in a shiver and permeated my torso, my neck, and my limbs.
“Mut!” slashed the terrible voice. The thing began to pace slowly back and forth in a smooth, gliding motion, “You don’t fool me. I’ve smelled your false flesh before; the stench you left behind at Harrow’s Gate.”
Fyorn’s stone cold expression broke, his jaw clenched, and his eyes went wide and dark. The woodsman – Kith ranger – tilted his head slightly to one side, lips pursed, defiant.
The wraith worked his forked tongue. “Yes, I was there so long ago now,” he hissed, “I know… I know… I am the one you should hate.”
The vile creature then pointed a long, clawed finger my way. “There’s no more life in a mut like you than there is in this half-sized wretch, or his wretch of a father, or brother. But his mother… now she was fine wine. So I’ll take this wretch’s life just the same and yours too, if only to savor the sweet intoxication of it.”
Mother? Father? I don’t have a brother.
Fyorn roared as he charged at the beast with unchanneled aggression, bearing the sword down hard in a wide arc. He followed through with a quick swipe of the axe. The wraith dodged the attacks with effortless gliding motions. The dark, loose robe it donned flowed like a trailing shadow.
“Look out!” I yelled when a second wraith appeared at Fyorn’s side, stepping out of long shadows. In a flash, the woodsman turned and cut the creature down with his long blade. At the same instant, with his axe, he parried a would-be deathblow from the other’s swiping scythe.
Turning his attention to the remaining wraith, axe spinning in his off-hand, Fyorn rushed at the wraith repeatedly. But fast, two-handed blows from the scythe kept him at bay. The wraith was being cautious, taking advantage of the extended reach of his weapon to wear down the woodsman’s aggression. And the wraith never stood its ground for an instant. Neither did my uncle for that matter. Each tried to outwit and out maneuver the other in a swift and deadly dance to gain the upper hand.
I tried to warn my uncle several times when I saw a strike coming, but each time he reacted before I could even get a word out. He was in the heat of the moment, the battle rage. I was just an out-of-breath onlooker. I raced over the possibilities. Maybe I could sneak in and attack the wraith from behind, or flank the beast, or if it fell, I could bash it with Shatters before it got up. I took the club out and watched in awe the foot movements, the feigns, the precision of thrust and slash. I witnessed subtle lures not fallen for, and missed opportunities. Time seemed to slow seconds to heartbeats.
My reach was less than half that of the long-limbed, lanky creature. I was an easy target, a liability, and I knew it. My direct involvement would only bring greater risk to the woodsman. Think. What can I do? Fury welled up inside me.
It was the axe that made first contact, cutting into the shoulder of the wraith and flashing green sparks where white metal met flesh. The creature had been blind-sided as scythe and sword had clashed, which I attributed to the hood the wraith wore, obstructing its peripheral vision. But the axe did not pull freely from the flesh when Fyorn tugged it back, and the wraith did
not seem to care that it was there. Rather, he used it.
The hold-up afforded that vengeful beast with an opportunity to catch Fyorn’s leg, causing him to stumble. The woodsman maintained his balance, partly leveraging the axe still embedded in the wraith’s shoulder, even as the creature writhed to break free.
But the Elderkin had made a fatal mistake in the duel that left him vulnerable. The wraith bit at Fyorn’s outstretched arm, sinking its teeth deep into his wrist. The woodsman jerked back and screamed in pain. The wraith let go its hold, favoring a new tactic. Fyorn had retrieved his axe at the cost of a bite. The wraith lashed out at my uncle’s face with one clawed hand, while the other kept a firm hold on the scythe bracing against the woodsman’s sword and tying it up. Long black nails scratched beneath the protection of the helm. Trails of blood streaked across Fyorn’s chin and neck.
I gasped, thinking it might all be over. The touch…
Fyorn had spun with the wraith’s strike, and in that motion he freed the entangled bastard sword. Leveraging the weight of the spin, from his crouched position he stole another swing. He met his mark, but the mark had since moved. The wraith sprung back and avoided the cutting force of the blow. The follow through of that failed attack put the woodsman in a vulnerable position. To make matters worse, he stumbled. The wraith gained the advantage it had been so patiently waiting for. In a flash, the scythe rose high against the bulging moon, and the creature readied a deathblow against the sprawling Wild Elderkin.
Anger surged, I focused my mind to a point, and my blood began to boil. Time seemed to stand still. Kabor had already suffered the wraith’s deathly touch, and now Fyorn was to be slaughtered. It was my fault for bringing this terrible demon to his forest grove.
Under normal circumstances, the sum total of what I did next would have amounted to nothing. But I saw that the two masters of combat were skirmishing near the tree line. At that pivotal moment, beyond any doubt, I experienced a sudden rush of energy. First, a wide pulse tingled up my spine. Then it fanned out, coursing through my trunk and every limb, finger and toe. It was the energy of the living forest. And as it spread, the light of the SPARX stone around my neck flickered faster and faster, in pale red pulses. I felt as though I had made the connection – with the trees, the grass, the insects, animals large and small, the monument, and even the moon and the stars that speckled the sky. In that internally tumultuous moment, I had a desperate, simple thought – a pure wish.
I sensed that many of the nearby trees were Hurlorns – Sleepers, the regular sort that grow throughout Deepweald. I knew them to do little more than pass whispers, and occasionally bend to ease the passage of rangers, and fleeing Pips for that matter. I thought of my hand tracing out circles on the pool under the Hanging City, and how later the water had danced. I remembered how helpless I felt back then, and traced the desired motion with Shatters. I imagined the trees lashing out in vengeful fury. The memory, the motion and the emotion all intertwined in a split second to become one.
I whispered into the wind: “Strike.”
It happened.
Branches whirred out and lashed at the wraith from behind, knocking him off balance. He hissed as the force hurled him directly into Fyorn, just as the scythe was bearing down. The disruption was all that the Wild Elderkin needed. The wraith attempted to adjust his swing, but missed a beat, giving Fyorn just enough lead-time to dodge the plunging scythe. The woodsman threw himself to one side and then rolled. The scythe dug into bare earth and clanged on a buried stone.
On all fours, Fyorn scrambled towards the monument and leapt over it to the other side, landing squarely on his feet. In that time, the wraith had pried the scythe out of the ground, and then launched a flying attack at the woodsman. But Fyorn was fluid and quick to counter. He toyed with his opponent around the stone slab, playing a child’s game of elusion that kept the rock between them. It seemed as though he could have danced merrily around the monument all night until sunrise, if need be.
A mischievous grin appeared on Fyorn’s face during that dance with death. I had seen the look many times before – the moment he knew the game was his.
But the wraith was not impressed or amused, and grew angry and impatient at Fyorn’s mockery. The shadow in the night threw up its arms and shrieked in frustration at the hopelessness of the chase, while Fyorn spun his axe tauntingly.
The fight turned, unexpected. In a move of cold cunning, the wraith threw back its hood and looked to me instead, unleashing a horrific hiss before lunging my way.
I gasped, and braced myself. I readied the deepwood club, defiant. My heart pounded. But Fyorn came upon the wraith so hard and fast, the timing of it bordered on precognition.
The woodsman had made his own lunge with lightning speed and immeasurable ferocity. In a flash, he had sheathed his sword and vaulted over the edge of the monument, tackling the charging wraith. As one they rolled along the forest floor until Fyorn gained the upper hand and pinned his foe to the ground. The wraith dropped the scythe in the scuffle. Desperate, the creature grabbed for the handle of the axe and wrestled for control. Raging, hissing, and cursing, the vile thing jerked violently to be free of Fyorn’s heavy-handed grip. But the woodsman would not relent. He would never give in.
The shadowy form was slick though, and in a wiry way managed to twist free and stand. It reached to regain the scythe, one hand staying the axe. But during the tussle, Fyorn had found a moment to draw his sword. And with what looked to be an awkward swing that started with the sword lying flat on the ground, he slashed into the wraith’s mid-section from the right flank. The wraith’s body bent into the blow, and its clawed grip on the woodsman’s axe went limp. The sword dropped to the ground as Fyorn regained his footing and moved into a low, balanced squat. Without hesitation, he raised his hefty axe in two hands and hacked down on the wraith’s exposed neck, severing it. It dangled, bloodless, held by a mere thread of flesh. And when the creature fell to its knees in front of me, the body remained upright. The head spun freely and the eyes rolled to and fro, mouth open wide in a silent scream. I backed away.
Fyorn took a step back as well when the headless body began to flail about. It twitched and spun wildly in what could have been a morbid dance, until stopping abruptly in place. The creature’s own hands cradled the dangling head, and held the face so the eyes could gaze directly at me.
And then the thing’s lips formed a grim, half-crazed smile. Dark eyes dug deep into my soul, and tore away a piece of it. The wraith had chosen to mock me in its final moments, as though somehow it sensed I was doomed anyways. The smile drew thin into a silent laugh. One hand reached out with long, skeletal fingers to pull me in close. It was slow moving, and I easily sidestepped the outstretched arm. Having had enough of this wicked beast, I lunged at it and swung with all my might. I bashed the head with Shatters. The tether snapped, and the hoodless skull went flying into the night. It sailed across the grove and crashed into the brush beyond. The body fell forward and landed with a thud.
A wave of relief washed over Fyorn’s face. Then he gave me an odd look, a sense of urgency upon him. “We have to burn the bodies now,” he said. “NOW!” he shouted when I did not move within half a heartbeat.
I fumbled through the pockets of the robe Nekenezitter had given me, and produced a handful of sulphur sticks. He knew, I thought. Too shaken to start the flames myself, I tossed them over to Fyorn.
“Here,” was all I could manage to say.
My uncle handled the deed, first setting the wraith’s robe on fire and then adding dry wood to the flames.
“Get the head,” Fyorn said as he fussed over the fire. He left his handiwork to gather the second wraith.
With Shatters tight in my grip, I made way to the edge of the grove and peered into the brush. Dark shapes and darker shadows met my eyes. Anything could be lurking amongst the thick foliage. I feared stepping in, but knowing the importance of my task, I called on the SPARX stone. A narrow beam focused ahead of me as i
t had under the Hanging City. I spotted the disembodied head almost immediately, only a few steps in. It wasn’t moving and seemed dead enough, so I went over, reached out and grabbed the head by its stringy hair. I raised it up high and held it out and away from my person, to the limits that my outstretched arm would permit. Stepping back into the grove, I called to Fyorn.
“Head’s up!” I said, and then bowled the head to him. It was a good enough roll, stopping only a few feet short of the woodsman’s boot. He gave me a steady look, and then side-kicked the head into the fire. Exhausted, I sheathed the stone and lumbered back to the fire to rest. The air soon became thick with billowing dark smoke and the smell of burning flesh as the fire crackled on. Flames danced merrily over their rich sustenance.
A gradual movement in the dark caught my eye – it was the trees. Rows of maples on the far side closed in, ever so slowly. Eventually, they formed concentric rings around us, beginning a safe distance out from the fire and extending to the edge of the clearing. Branches intertwined into a contorted mesh. From above, the light of the moon filtered in, illuminating the rising column of smoke that passed through an accommodating gap in the crown canopy.
The deed was done. And of the remaining wraith or wraiths in the woods – naught to worry…
Chapter XII
Janhurl
I took a step back from the burning corpses to gain my bearings. If the wraiths left Kabor alone, he could not be far. I had entered the grove only minutes after we parted ways.
“We should split up,” Kabor had puffed. The situation was hopeless. We both saw what had been done to the Glooms. Splitting up gave us the best odds. I was faster. The decision was not faulty. By sticking together, we could only pray for swift deaths. I was faster, and he knew it. “Hide,” I said as I veered one way and he the other. Goodbye. The wraiths were gaining ground on us – the three that we knew of.
Kabor’s frantic crashing through the bush cut through the night. Then came a loud “thunk” and sounds of rolling, followed by screams in the dark. I kept running. Last came the ominous silence, heavy as though the night had mass.
SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2) Page 11
