Legend of the Nameless One Boxset

by Angela J. Ford

  Come, child, a voice whispered.

  Anticipation mounted, and Kai opened her eyes wider as the floating specks took shape. The true mystery of the orb was about to be revealed to her. Just before the form took shape, she saw a black speck hovering in the distance. It hurled out of the light toward her face, and just as her mouth opened wide in a scream of terror, the spot turned into a fist and slammed into her forehead.

  The blow hurled Kai against the cave wall where her head thwacked into stone. She crumpled to the floor, eyes closed with a trickle of blood flowing from her head.

  15

  Capture the Fool

  Morning dawned like a gift as Tor Lir walked south, hiding in gray clouds of fog. His skin was cold and clammy from the chill of the night, and he brushed his dark hair from his forehead, finding it wet with dew.

  He’d walked for a while that night after his bone-white companion forsook him, blending back into the shades of the forest as if she’d never appeared to him. An eerie puzzle lay before him. A strong premonition told him this was why he’d left the calm of the Shimla: to discover what mysteries lay in the realm of mortals and to fix them. The danger he’d told Lelia of was real, and he pressed on, searching for food, weapons, and a friendly person to talk to. He needed more information if he was to set free the bone-white creature and understand the motives of the Master of the Forest.

  The life of the land flowed around him peacefully as if ignorant of the torn body in the meadow and the struggles of the dark forest. It was, perhaps, midday when he came upon a wonder that made him stop in his tracks.

  The white mist of the morning parted and before him rose vibrant green rolling hills. They reached to the height of mountains with rich colors glittering in the sunlight. Green bridges covered in vines melted with the enchanting blue of a sea-swept sky as he gazed upward. He swore he could see cottages perched on each hilltop and a windmill in the distance. A promise of Paradise hung in the air and the birds sang with the clarity of a pure sweetness.

  Tor Lir shuddered at the powerful joy that hung over the land. His skin tingled at the idea of entering such a place. The potency differed greatly from the ambiguous mysteries of Shimla and the horrors of yesterday. He took a step, his foot landing in a patch of murky water. Scowling, he peered down and saw his reflection looking back at him, but what disconcerted him were the other faces he saw. Admittedly, there was the scurrying of footsteps across the land, and he’d heard them yet ignored them, assuming they were grassland creatures. Mice, rabbits, and weasels were common in the land, and he saw a red fox slink by. He’d thought nothing much of them. He minded his business and they minded theirs, but this time, he’d let his guard down.

  “Get him!” a cry issued forth and a bearded male face rose, swinging a thick club.

  “Wait,” Tor Lir hissed, lifting a hand, aghast at his terrible luck.

  The club smashed into his skull and bright motes sparked before his eyes as the green land turned upside down and his limbs went numb. “Why?” The question floated in his mind and burst out of his lips as bearded faces surrounded him.

  “Bind his hands,” one ordered.

  “He’s not out. Should we hit him again?”

  “No, we aren’t violent.”

  “Give him a moment.”

  Lavender hung heavy in the air and a bullfrog croaked in the marshes as Tor Lir’s body was lifted. His neck fell back, and his eyes rolled up into his skull. He let the blackness take his vision while a low hum rose from the ground.

  16

  Trapped

  The woodland creatures gasped and the wind lady whirled into a volley of twigs and leaves as the shouts interrupted their conversation. Novor Tur-Woodberry turned to meet the creatures who had cried for help. “How may I assist?”

  Two foxes, with their pointed ears laid flat, trotted up as if they’d been running flat out for a while. One had rust-red pelt, gleaming with beauty. The other had a rather dirty white coat with burrs hanging off his pelt. His feet were brown as if he’d waded through wet mud and it dried over, messy and crusty.

  “Novor Tur-Woodberry.” The red fox bowed his head in acknowledgment, deferring to the authority of the owner of the land.

  “Where is Citrine?” the white fox interrupted, forsaking formalities. “I have a message.”

  Novor Tur-Woodberry considered a moment, although the foxes did not seem menacing. Now and then, some dark creature would appear and find themselves powerless. The unspoken treaty of the land allowed no one to be harmed. “Try the cottage near the Standing Stones,” Novor Tur-Woodberry told the foxes.

  “I tried last night,” the white fox rejoined. “It was empty.”

  The red fox stepped forward. “Have you seen her recently?”

  “No.” Novor Tur-Woodberry reflected on the fact that Citrine did not come to dinner the evening before. He’d sent a few of his Singing Men to request her attendance that evening. His thoughts turned suspicious: What if she had something to do with the impending darkness? He’d had questions before, but now he had many more. Perhaps she knew exactly who she was.

  “I have an urgent message. If you see her, will you pass it along?” The white fox went on, its voice hard.

  “Aye, go ahead.” Novor Tur-Woodberry crossed his arms.

  “Tell her. . .” The white fox paused, head down as he recited the message: “Zaul is trapped. The barrier is down. The Master of the Forest is coming.”

  “Humm. Trapped. Anything else?” Novor Tur-Woodberry scratched his beard. The title Master of the Forest rang like an ominous bell.

  “That is all.” The white fox dropped his head, sniffing the ground. “I must return to the forest. I have an exchange to make. Deliver the message. Don’t forget.”

  The white fox turned tail and trotted off while the red fox pawed the ground.

  “You have something to tell me?” Novor Tur-Woodberry prompted.

  “The grass near the forest is . . . err . . . well . . . I think you should take a look,” the red fox almost whispered. Then he, too, turned tail and ran off.

  “As you were.” Novor Tur-Woodberry waved to the expectant faces of the woodland creatures surrounding him. Taking his ax, he turned and headed toward the border.

  17

  Air of Clarity

  Mist spilled out of the boiling kettle like lavender fingers, pouring through the runes traced of ash. Citrine wrapped a cloth around the kettle and poured the water into a bowl, dropping leaves of lavender into it. Replacing the kettle over the fire, she dropped the fang into it. It fell with a hiss, dripping as it touched boiling water. Steam drifted through the air, causing the hair on her arms to curl up as she kneeled over the bowl. Bringing her face close to the heat, she breathed in while her breasts hung heavy and her nipples grazed the dusty floor.

  “Air of clarity,” she murmured, her lips almost kissing the trembling surface of the waters. “Grant me mercy. Allow me to see the memories taken. Give me eyes to see beyond. Recall the depths of the unknown.”

  She took a deep breath, slow and steady, allowing the scent of lavender to imbue her senses and let the worry drift away. Zaul. Ava. Grift. Concern regarding her beasts faded. Visions of herbs rose only to disintegrate even though she did not have the right concoction for the strongest potion. Closing her eyes, she let her senses envelope her. Fragrance filled her nostrils, and her eyes grew wet from the steam. A throbbing pulse drilled into her mind. One moment she was kneeling in her hut, the next she was back in the forest.

  She held the skull in both hands while a bone-white creature led her between burned trees and a wasted forest. A drumbeat echoed in the distance and creatures howled in a mix of merrymaking and terror. Everything around her seemed hazy and blurred, and she thought she recalled swallowing something, perhaps when her head was underwater. She saw flashes of white and a leaping orange fire sang a song as it consumed the glade. Horned creatures danced, sharp teeth, red lips, and slobber flying out of their open mouths. The stink
of rotten flesh offended her senses, yet she felt consumed and bewildered as she stumbled into the group of devilish creatures.

  The creatures came to a halt when they saw her and the drums paused mid-beat. They peered at the skull she held in her hands, the terrible thing that made her feel cold with dread. A creature lifted a stick high in the air and howled, a terrible, high-pitched shriek that made her ears ring. They backed away, pointing from her to something amid the creatures, a hollow tree. It seemed they wanted her to go into it and despite her misgivings, her disobedient feet led her toward the tree.

  The trunk led down into darkness, a passageway of a sort, and even as she stepped foot onto the entrance, she knew where it would lead. She turned around in protest, but the bone-white creatures egged her on, stepping closer and shaking their sticks at her. Eyes darkening with veiled threats. Stretching out her leg, she took another tentative step . . .

  The memory faded like a ripple across the pond, disappearing into nothingness. Citrine came to with a start, her legs burning from kneeling and water dripping off her face. Ignoring the bodily pain, she took a deep breath, understanding what happened. If she had to guess, she assumed the tree led underground into a labyrinth that connected to Novor Tur-Woodberry’s land. Yet how she ended up in the middle of the land without the skull remained a mystery. She needed stronger herbs to bring back her memories, but in the meantime, she needed to speak with Novor Tur-Woodberry. An old ache began, closing her throat as she set back, cupping the bowl of now warm water in her hands. The last time she’d come clean and told the truth about herself, she’d lost everything. Love. Home. Life. Everything.

  Novor Tur-Woodberry had been nothing but kind to her, but he might banish her if he discovered she had brought chaos into his land. She was unsure of his power—waves of it touched every inch of his land—but should he choose, he could make her life miserable again. For a moment, she regretted choosing to fight the Master of the Forest. It would be better for the villagers if she sneaked away in darkness, taking her beasts and fading into oblivion.

  She poured the bowl of warm lavender water over her head, rubbing the scented liquid over her body as she washed away the grit. Standing, she wrapped a gown around herself, belting it at the waist and pulling on a light cloak. The arms were gone from the cloak, yet a wide hood hung down the back. She cast around for a knife. Finding her blade gone, or stolen by whomever had burglarized her hut, she flung open the door and strode out into the sunshine. She set her face with grim determination.

  18

  Nameless One

  Novor Tur-Woodberry planted his ax, blade down, in the grass, and leaned on the long handle, his meaty hands twitching as a frown came over his face. A carpet of death stretched before him, ending in a patch of forested area. Angry trees marked the end of Novor Tur-Woodberry’s land and the beginning of the Boundary Line Forest.

  In all his years, Novor Tur-Woodberry had never seen such a sign as the one that marred his vision. The blades of once green grass were black and frozen as if someone had turned them to ice. Stepping on one shattered it into sharp shards, and dried blood hung on broken pieces where a creature had dared to walk and instantly regretted its folly. “So . . .” Lifting one hand, Novor Tur-Woodberry stroked his bushy brown beard, softened by the gentle oils he used to keep it shiny. “It has begun.”

  “Novor Tur-Woodberry, we’ve found a suspect.” Jatoba’s harsh tone carried across the bend. Novor Tur-Woodberry turned to meet the newcomers.

  Five of his Singing Men strode toward him, two with firm grips on the bound arms of a youthful male. As Novor Tur-Woodberry’s eyes fell on him, an understanding dawned. Visions of the future flickered through his mind, ever shifting as if they were not set in stone yet.

  The male held a slight air of familiarity; he stood well over six feet tall with a slender, muscular body, unused to the trials and toils of mortals. His hair was obsidian black and hung rather long around his neck, hiding the pointed tips of his ears. His eyes were hard and flicked with an unhidden haughtiness. It was clear he disdained those who captured him. It was not an emotion Novor Tur-Woodberry could blame him for; there was no evidence against him causing the darkness in the land. Besides, as Novor Tur-Woodberry met his emerald-green eyes, he recognized who the male was.

  “A suspect?” Novor Tur-Woodberry repeated the words of Jatoba.

  “Aye, we found him wandering near the marshes, close to where we saw a dead body a few days ago.”

  Novor Tur-Woodberry glanced to the male who blinked, unsaid words lingering behind those stubborn eyes. Novor Tur-Woodberry noted the male’s lack of vengeance to defend himself. It was an uncommon trait. Mortals were quick to blame and point fingers at others, accepting none of the responsibility, even if they were part of the problem. They never offered solutions. Mortals seemed locked in an intense battle to live life however they wished, free from repercussions and responsibilities. It was one reason Novor Tur-Woodberry had been sent to guard the land and keep it free from the ever-changing whims, chaos, and mischief of the mortals. The village was a new development, which became necessary after mortals settled on his land, content to live in Paradise after the hundred-year rule of the Black Steeds and the war between the mortals and immortals.

  Novor Tur-Woodberry frowned. “Release the captive. We are on my land—there is no need for bounds.”

  “Aye, Novor Tur-Woodberry.” Ash lifted a short knife and chopped the rope from the male’s hands.

  The male barely seemed to notice, his cold eyes fixed on Novor Tur-Woodberry as his arms dropped by his side. “Power surrounds this land. Is it yours?” the male asked, unaffected by the Singing Men’s accusations.

  “Oh ho,” Novor Tur-Woodberry rumbled. “I am Novor Tur-Woodberry, and you have entered my land.”

  “Your realm, you mean,” the male interrupted, his eyes moving toward the blackness of the grass. “You don’t seem surprised to see me. In fact, if I could guess, it seems you recognize me. Why is that? And what has begun?”

  Novor Tur-Woodberry felt rather than saw his Singing Men turn toward him, surprised at the line of questioning yet waiting, out of respect, for his guidance. “Ho now.” Novor Tur-Woodberry held up a hand, slowing down the male’s questions. “You have many questions, and I have many answers for you. But my Singing Men have accused you of the crime of murder. Do you have anything to say about it?”

  The male appeared thoughtful, his brows knitting together as he considered. “It's coincidence or a kind of setup. There are things in the forest”—his eyes turned toward the Boundary Line Forest—“and I’m curious to know more, but something is blocking me. Perhaps you know. What has begun?”

  “Humm.” Novor Tur-Woodberry turned his gaze back over the rigid grass. Blades stood frozen like a hand of ice waved over it, bringing an early winter. “The time of the immortals is over,” Novor Tur-Woodberry rumbled on. “The war is over, a balance is coming to the world, and it is too much for me to stay here. My time is over. It is time for me to go.”

  The Singing Men turned toward the male, nodding as if they’d known all along. They were loyal without question, ready for the next phase in their immortal reign of the land.

  “Where will you go?” The male’s tone broke the tension in the air. “As I understand it, this is your land. Isn’t that so? Who will own the land when you leave?”

  “No one.” Novor Tur-Woodberry lifted his ax from the ground and swung it over his shoulder. “But that is a discussion for dinner. Tell me, do you have a name?”

  The male’s emerald eyes became guarded, his voice dipping into a gentle tone. “No. I have no name. Although I am called Tor Lir.”

  “The Nameless One.” Novor Tur-Woodberry nodded as the pieces came together. For a moment, he felt a small nostalgia for the days of peace. He should have known, in all his wisdom, when Citrine set foot on his land, the days of peace were over. “Evening will be upon us.” He motioned toward the impending sunset. “Come along—join me at
my home for dinner. I would like to speak to you about your future.”

  The male called Tor Lir blinked. “My future.” His gaze shifted to the black bladed grass. “I assumed we would discuss your land and what is happening in the forest.”

  A sudden merriment returned to Novor Tur-Woodberry’s bright-blue eyes. “Aye, so we will, but you have a curious future. I have been waiting for you to appear in my realm for some time because I need to warn you. Someone wants to kill you.”

  19

  Lights of the Village

  The flickering lights of the village drew Citrine’s gaze. She saw them dancing high up, beyond her cottage in the shallows. She recalled the day Novor Tur-Woodberry showed her the village, offering her a temporary home until she regained her feet and moved on, as she desired. He made it clear there was no rush, yet she understood that one did not impend on his charity by staying in his home far too long. The notion of living with eleven males, no matter how gentle and jolly they were, did not sit too well with her.

  Reluctantly, she asked for a home set apart where she could have privacy. Her original thought was to practice her art with herbs and runes. She needed time to gather ingredients and cast a spell of protection over her beasts so they could join her. Thoughts skated around the possibility of hiding them in the gardens as she once had. But it was clear that would not happen anymore. At the thought of her creatures, her mind set out a thread of communication, searching, hoping they were within reach.