SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2)

by K. B. Sprague

  The wraiths on Kabor did not linger long with their catch. To them, a bird in the hand was not worth two in the bush. In short order, they were whipping through the bushes again.

  I wanted to dash out of the grove and find Kabor, but common sense reminded me there was at least one more wraith in the woods. And it was still dark.

  Flames roared and the fire crackled violently, taking deeper root in the blackening remains. Fyorn threw in more wood to keep it steady – larger pieces of dried maple. A loud hiss rose from the fire. No doubt, it would consume the remains through and through.

  “There are more wraiths in the woods,” I said.

  “There was only one,” he assured me, “and you sent him running home with his tail between his legs, and less an eye.”

  I did not question how he knew. He always knew. Fyorn had more to say. “Kabor has been found,” he said. “He’s safe and in good han – limbs.”

  The woodsman’s face was drawn and he looked sick at heart. I think he knew more and feared the worst for it. He took a few steps towards the edge of the grove, raised his head to the branches above and whispered Elderkin words into the night. The rustling of leaves grew louder as he spoke, and the trees – the Hurlorns – parted in front of him. He stood perfectly still for a time afterwards, eyes closed and palms raised. He took a deep breath and held it.

  A wave of relief poured across the woodsman’s face as he expelled the air from his lungs. He turned to speak.

  “The Stout will be brought to us,” he announced, “and he is not seriously harmed.”

  I breathed my own sigh of relief.

  Fyorn continued, “He is being tended to first though. It will take some time. Best to carry on until he is brought to us.”

  By whom? I wondered.

  For a long minute, I just leaned against the monument and stared at the building fire. The dry heat bade me to stay put, get comfortable, and take a load off. My body ached and sweat stung the many scratches and scrapes that I had suffered while running through the woods. The prison guard had offered one small meal during our short incarceration. It would take many more to make up for the trials underground. At least there was the fire – bright, warm and inviting, in as much as a wraith can be, I suppose.

  The woodsman spaced out the new fuel with a makeshift poker. I could still discern the contents of the fire, and found great satisfaction in its permanency. The Glooms were avenged, and there would be no fiery demons in the night.

  My uncle came over and flopped down. With my back to the massive rock, I slid down onto the grasses next to him. The woodsman-turned-warrior removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. His sword had returned to its scabbard, left to lean casually against the monument, and his axe lay flat on top of the roughly hewn surface. Fyorn said nothing, drawing in deep breaths and gazing up through the smoke hole to the starry sky above, legs sprawled out in front of him. I suspected that he pondered his mortality, as did I. It had been a narrow escape.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Fyorn only nodded. I had never seen him so winded.

  “One less eye? Really?”

  Fyorn nodded again, in between breaths, this time with a silent “Yep” on his lips.

  In a desperate attempt to foil my pursuers, I had stopped half a moment to throw Sliver. I did not even wait to see where it landed: halt, turn, throw, turn back, keep running.

  “Lucky shot,” I said.

  “That wasn’t luck. That was deepwood.”

  “Lucky I found this place, then.”

  “No, Nud. Not much luck there either, I’m afraid,” he said. “The Hurlorns guided you here. I know because I told them to.”

  “Holly, Gariff, Bobbin—”

  Fyorn cut me off. “They’re all safe,” he said.

  More relief welled over me.

  “How—” I began to ask.

  “I read the rustling of the leaves and whispers in the wind,” he said, smiling. That was always his answer.

  His smile turned sour. The woodsman looked down and shook his head, then found my staring eyes. “Tragically, your lost guard was not so lucky.”

  We sat together silent and still, taking in the cool, night air with heavy breaths, lost in thought. Eventually, after twice refueling the fire, Fyorn broke the silence.

  “Where did you pick up the wraiths? And how was the Stout when you last seen him?” he said.

  “You don’t know?” I asked. “Kabor was being pursued… we split up.”

  “Dire times indeed are upon us when wraiths walk the woods,” replied Fyorn. My uncle put his arm on my shoulder. “We’ll make your friend better.”

  “He’ll tough it out,” I said, hoping it was true.

  Thinking back to what happened on the trail, I blurted out: “And the bog queens… the bog queens are on the Mire trail.”

  “I’ve known about the bog queens for a very long time,” he said. “There are even worse things in the bog nowadays. They never bothered anyone before now. Something has changed.”

  The words were less than comforting. I was reminded of the shadow in the water. Someone in Webfoot must have known as well – why else would we have a new guard post on the Mire Trail?

  Fyorn stood up to go, looking, again, very much like the Uncle Fyorn I knew. He turned to face me.

  “You did good,” he said. “Bravery and good sense in a pinch are hard to come by. You have it in you to make your mark on the world, on the strength of those pillars alone.”

  I flushed at the praise. Paplov would have been proud to hear that. Fyorn suddenly froze, lifting his hand to me in a hush signal. I stayed still. His head cocked, followed by a sideways glance while he listened intently.

  “Kabor?” I whispered, and then stood up.

  Fyorn shook his head. “Holly,” he muttered, nearly to himself.

  I perked my own ears, but heard only the wind and the rustling of leaves. They did not speak to me the way they spoke to Fyorn.

  “She must have followed me here,” he said. There was a commotion in the surrounding woods… a struggle.

  Sure enough, the trees parted and sweet Holly strode into the grove as though she owned the place. She wore a worried look on her face, and carried her exceptional cloak in one hand. Her hair shone and sweat streamed down her cheeks. She looked radiant in the smoky moonlight, as radiant as the first night I saw her at the Flipside Inn.

  “They wouldn’t let me in here until I took off the cloak,” she said, pointing to the trees. She tugged on the shoulder of her shirt. “They kept hooking it.” She brushed leaves and crud off her shirt and pants.

  “Perverts,” she said. “I’m just glad they stopped there.”

  Fyorn rolled his eyes.

  Holly sent me an easy smile and rushed over. Her embrace was long and sweet and heavenly. She smelled of lavender. Afterwards, she stepped back to face me, grasping my hands and squeezing them tight. Her eyes were the forest moss and her hair the finest silk.

  But it was Fyorn’s voice I heard instead of hers, speaking in a firm, fatherly tone, blending annoyance with concern. “You were supposed to stay at the camp and await my return,” he said, glaring at Holly.

  We broke off our greeting, all too soon in my mind. Holly returned his stare with guilty eyes.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “But you told me there was trouble and… I just had to know what was happening. I’m not useless in a fight you know, especially now. I can sneak up behind someone and—”

  “I regret ever giving you that cloak. I’ve created a monster.” Fyorn’s tone was less than serious.

  “Besides,” she continued, “I’d rather be here with someone who knows what he’s doing than be out there alone. And it’s eerie… there are all kinds of noises.”

  “No doubt, you were the loudest of them. I could hear sticks cracking under your feet a mile away.” The woodsman and I looked at one another, both shaking our heads.

  “It’s more than a
little eerie right here,” I said, gesturing to the burning corpses. By that time, the flames had consumed the bulk of the bodies and, with all the wood stacked on top, they were unrecognizable.

  Holly closed her eyes, turned her head away from the fire and held one hand up. “UGH… Don’t even tell me what that is – I don’t want to know. I heard all the clanging and grunting.” She looked around the grove. “Is Kabor…?”

  “He’s still in the woods,” I said. “We split up when the wraiths… I mean… sorry… were gaining on us, but they all went for him first.”

  Fyorn gave me a quizzical look. “I wonder why,” he said. “Their tactic is to seek out the high value target first… hmm.”

  I refrained from mentioning that he was the easier target – louder and slower.

  Holly shook her head vehemently and interrupted straight away. “Why are we all standing around here then? We have to find him.”

  She took a step toward the trees, and then stopped herself. “Wait a minute. Wraiths? Tell me you didn’t say wraiths. The Grim Reaper and all? They aren’t real… are they? Those are just stories to scare children.” Holly’s voice cracked. “I told you not to tell me.”

  I was shaking my head. “Kabor’s all right. He’s on his way and taken care of.”

  Fyorn confirmed with a nod when Holly looked to him.

  “Nevermind about the wraiths.” Fyorn planted one hand firmly on Holly’s shoulder, with the other he pointed to the flames. “Your Nud here finished this one off and sent another running with one less eye to see with. We’re roasting two of the buggers now.”

  She looked to the fire in disgust.

  “There are more? Nud killed a wraith?” A look of disbelief crossed Holly’s face when Fyorn nodded.

  “You owe him a debt of gratitude. Yes… Nud slew the wraith and sent another running. If he hadn’t, something might have sniffed you out on your way here. They are all too familiar with the sweet scent of Pip blood.”

  Holly shivered at the thought. She looked me over, as if trying to see something that wasn’t there before. I didn’t correct Fyorn’s account of things, or try to be modest. Surely, knowing Holly she would eventually pry every detail out of me or my uncle anyway. For the time being, I simply basked in the glory of borrowed victory.

  Thereafter, I was known throughout Webfoot as the young Pip who had slain a ferocious beast in the wild. I didn’t mind the rumors, and the fact that Fyorn deserved most of the credit didn’t bother me either – he was one hundred and two, had fought in countless battles and was already Courser, the highest rank of the Wild Elderkin rangers in Deepweald. What’s one measly wraith to his credit? He didn’t need another win. From what I knew of Uncle Fyorn, by his very nature he valued anonymity above fame anyways.

  “What happened to Gariff and Bobbin? Couldn’t they come along too?” I said.

  “They went looking for you two lost pups in Harrow,” said Holly. “Fyorn thought you might have gotten lost and ended up there.”

  Oddly, he had been right. When I looked to Fyorn, he nodded, but something about the way his eyes sparkled told me he knew more than he let on to Holly.

  “We’ll meet up with them back at the camp tomorrow morning,” said Fyorn. “I gave them enough coin to live it up at a certain inn tonight.”

  While we waited by the fire, I recounted the details of the chase, and the last thing I saw. I explained how we had come upon the wraiths in the mine, and of the premonition that I had earlier in a dream. But I could not do so without recounting nearly everything about our adventure in the Hanging City, the Catacombs, and the Iron Tower. They both listened intently as the fire burned low, nodding and shaking their heads. Holly even sobbed when I mentioned how I thought that Kabor had been buried alive. I left out the White Whale for the time being, saying only that a solitary and very knowledgeable underground dweller helped guide my way. There were no questions. By the time I finished, Kabor and I were heroes in their minds.

  After the tale had settled and our stares had fallen into the fire, a loud crashing sound startled us. A thirty-foot tree – yes a tree – just strode into the clearing. Fyorn leapt up as it approached. The tree’s long strides whipped curled roots over the ground and stirred up leafy debris. Unlike the normal sorts of Hurlorns that grew in these parts, this one had a kind of face – all knots and burl wood, twisted in on itself to form eyebrows, a nose and lips around a hollow. Black knotty eyes shone like polished ebony from inset eye sockets.

  Fyorn greeted the tree with a nod of his head. “Janhurl,” he said.

  “Fyor-yor-yor-yorn,” the tree replied, like a flute in the wind.

  The tree bore Kabor, wrapped in a cocoon of leaves and a nest of woven branches. The Stout was pallid and shivering as though feverish, but alive and well otherwise. She laid him down as close as she dared go to the fire. Holly ran to Kabor’s side and, down on one knee, placed her cloak over the Stout’s trembling body.

  The rest of the conversation was strictly in Elderkin, which I did not understand at the time. The Hurlorn’s voice rang out mellifluously as a rich, resonant buzzing of notes. Some of them might have been syllables of the immortal tongue. It wasn’t proper speech by any stretch of the imagination, but Fyorn understood. He looked up and nodded in acknowledgement at whatever was being said, taking a few steps back though to give her roots some space while she winded on, and on, and on. Holly and I kept our distance, eyeing the talking tree-creature in utter disbelief.

  Janhurl bore one final message, which she passed to Fyorn before returning to the woods. It was dark news – a whisper out of the alders, rushes and reeds of Webfoot. The woodsman and the Hurlorn said goodbye to one another in the customary way of the woods, as I would later learn.

  Janhurl fluted her part, incomprehensibly.

  “By sun, wind, rain and earth,” repeated Fyorn.

  The woodsman later explained how Janhurl was one of the few fully animate Hurlorns – a spirit reborn – and that she had great concerns about the slaying of a wraith in her woods. He also said Hurlorns have a round about way of getting to the point, and that in just such a round about way, Janhurl had requested that we bury the charred remains deep on a high hill, but not the grove itself. She also asked that we promise not to speak of it to anyone, ever again. As far as I know, we all kept that promise, although I walk a fine line to have written of the event here.

  We watched as the tall Hurlorn strode across the grove on a heading west, stopping for a brief moment to look back. Janhurl’s measuring gaze found mine for a long moment. She turned back to her route and with one giant stride stepped out of the grove and out of sight. Fyorn walked over to me and stooped to eye level. His huge hands gripped my shoulders firmly. He faced me and his bright eyes met mine. His irises were vessels of amber bleeding into a calm sea of blue, his pupils sparked with flames from the bonfire.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this,” he began. “Bad news – your papa is seriously ailing; he may not make it through the night.”

  It came out of nowhere.

  The words gripped my chest.

  I think there was some mention of a long and successful life, and something about using his time well. And Fyorn handed me a rolled sheet of black leather. The scroll looked vaguely familiar; it was some kind of official document from Paplov’s desk.

  I turned and stared into the heat of the fire. The flames danced on what was left of the burning wraiths. My heartbeat quickened, my lifeblood pumped nervously. I felt the sanguine fluid suck in and spill out in its vital rhythm, the body fully aware of what the mind had willed away by denial. Flames consume all. Things will never be the same. Paplov had been sick on and off for some time. The Proudfoot trip did him in. I should have carried more of the load. I should not have given him such a hard time.

  The tightness in my chest squeezed full force. I mulled over how much Paplov had stayed in lately, curled up in his chair with a blanket and a book. I recalled how he had missed some me
etings lately too, and how he had passed important duties to other council members, and how he had tried to do the same to me. I could have done more. The signs were all there, I just never put them together. I didn’t care enough.

  Time was short between that and the next setback.

  “That’s not all,” said Fyorn. “Holly, you need to hear this too.” He waved her in closer. Kabor was in no condition to be a part of the conversation. “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but Bobbin and Gariff have not been heard from since early evening. At this point, Janhurl is optimistic, but she is being cautious nonetheless. She’ll look into it and we’ll know more in the morning. Hurlorns are on the watch tonight.”

  “They probably just took a meal and a room for the night, that’s all,” said Holly.

  “Probably,” said Fyorn.

  It never rains, but it pours, I thought. Paplov said that all the time when worries were multiplying.

  Chapter XIII

  The watch

  It wasn’t until I focused on the notion that things had to get normal again, the notion that everything still could be the way it used to be, that I finally relaxed, breathed deep, and allowed the night air to stretch the fabric of my lungs.

  Fyorn sat near the fire on a well-hacked stump, normally reserved for wood chopping. He looked the tired old man, washed out and heavy hearted. Dried sweat matted his hair and dried blood streaked his chin. The woodsman’s years showed in his face and in the way he slumped. The sharpness of his features, so striking on livelier days, gave way to a long and somber expression in the red-tinged glow of the fire. Years take their toll on people, even when the body retains its virile strength. Fyorn fixed his eyes on the crackling fire and did not even flinch when it flared up high right in front of him. Paplov had always been a close friend to him. On top of that, it had been a long and complicated day after a long and complicated week, and the day coming wasn’t shaping up to be short and simple. I felt as heavy as the Elderkin looked.