The Forgotten King

by D. W. Vogel

Then what? You go home to the mountains and tell Father he was right all along and you’ll never be a Ranger? Return to the dusty hallways of books and science, of droning lectures and endless scrolls, where the most exciting thing that could ever happen was someone proving a theorem that nobody else understood anyway?

  No way. Even if they threw him out of the Glimmerdusk Rangers, he’d never go back.

  Gotta admit, though, Mom’s little science project sure was useful today.

  “I’ll take them back to the Glade and let the Elders sort out what to do.”

  The man tried to stand, but fell back to his knees, and the Knight creaked down to kneel next to him. He paused for a moment before speaking.

  “I’ve been summoned to Stonebridge. I was on my way, but you will not manage these two alone. I will help you.”

  “Stonebridge?” Treffen rubbed at his legs where the Sprout’s vines had grabbed him. “From where?”

  The Knight looked down for a moment. “From Crystalia Castle.”

  Treffen raised an eyebrow. “You’re nowhere near Stonebridge. I think you took a wrong turn.”

  A sigh escaped the silver helmet. “Perhaps. I may have become . . . turned around.”

  “Lost, you mean.” Treffen sighed. “Humans always get lost in the Fae Wood.”

  The Knight stood up. “The delay will make me late. Later. But you require aid, and a Questing Knight never refuses to aid unfortunates.” He reached down to help the injured man from the ground.

  Fantastic. Two injured humans and one weirdo armored Knight. Everyone at the Glade will be so pleased to see us. But he had to admit, the help would be welcome. The woman seemed able to walk, but the man would need a lot of support for the long journey.

  “Fine. You help him up and start off that way.” Treffen pointed in the direction of the Deeproot Tree. “I’ve got one more thing to do here before I can leave.”

  He stepped back into the clearing where the dead Sprout was already starting to stink. Even in death, the dark plant’s taint was palpable. It seeped into Treffen’s nostrils and into the pores of his skin. The wrongness of it sickened his heart. He reached for another pouch on his belt.

  Unlike the yellow crystal toxin he’d used on the Sprout, this pouch was full of a sweet-smelling, orange-gold powder. He inhaled the scent of it, and his stomach quieted.

  All over the evil-touched clearing, he sprinkled the powder. Made from the shed leaves of the Deeproot Tree Herself, the cleansing dust glittered as it fell to the slimy ground in handfuls. It would take time for the Tree’s healing power to reclaim this patch of earth, but the powder would speed the process along.

  Several kodama appeared around the edge of the area, drawn by the sweet scent of Deeproot powder. These spirits of the forest took the forms of animated plant life. There were small ferns that crept along on spidery roots and huge shrubs whose bushy arms reached out to the other kodama, embracing them in a green, leafy hug. The largest were Treant tree-spirits, smiling their woody grins. Indeed, the evil-touched Sprout he’d just killed had once been a gentle kodama, protector of the woods, until the Downs’ evil took root in its heart. Now the gentle plants hopped along behind him, and where they touched the Deeproot powder, it sparkled on the ground. Fresh green shoots sprang up in the kodama’s footsteps as their inherent magic combined with the Deeproot Tree’s essence to cleanse the taint of evil from this place.

  “Thank you, gentle ones.” Treffen bowed to the kodama, who made happy squishing sounds and waved their leaves at him. He tossed the last of the powder onto the tainted ground and turned to rejoin the strange trio of humans heading for his home deep in the Wood.

  Chapter 3: Fall of the Ram

  Twisted shadows danced along damp stone walls beneath the ruins of Lordship Downs. The underground chamber was shaped like a five-pointed star, and unearthly blue light glowed at the far corners of three of the points. Each one held a carved, translucent crystal in a different animal shape on a small stone pedestal, and the flickering blue light pulsed from the statues. In the unlit corners, the statues were shattered into dark shards. An open arch led to a stairway climbing upward from between two of the star’s points.

  In the open center of the room stood the Shadow King. He had a name once. He’d been human. He would have been king of all Crystalia if a fickle princess had only accepted his proposal of marriage. But the girl had changed her mind, starting a war for control of the kingdom. He was defeated and banished, imprisoned in this underground chamber for nearly a thousand years by the magic of the five-pointed star. While his loyal forces strove to keep his rebellion alive, the reigning king had stricken his name from every book and forbidden it from every tongue. Now, eight hundred years later, no one remembered what he had been called. He was the Forgotten King. The Betrayer. The King-in-Shadow.

  He stood now over his latest step toward freedom: a man bound on the floor.

  “The noble House of Ram finally falls.” The king’s words dripped with sarcasm.

  The curse that bound him here had twisted his form until it reflected his powerful spirit, with great twisting horns, noble feathers, and the face of a goat. The soldiers who were loyal to him had shared his fate, changing into eye-bending, animal-human chimeras.

  The man on the floor twitched in his bonds, eyes rolling back in his head. “No, no, no, no, no . . .” he muttered, but the word had been robbed of meaning in its repetition.

  “You feel it, Ram.” The king walked in a slow circle around the man. “You protest, but I see the truth of it. You hear the call of your rightful king.” He shook his head, long, hairy wattles of flesh waving under his chin. “You fear that I won’t accept you, but fear not, Ram. I forgive you. All these dusty years, your family has betrayed my trust”—the king paused and sighed—” but I am a king of mercy. You shall serve me faithfully and take up your rightful place in my fold.”

  Two Billmen guards, with human bodies and the beaks of waterfowl, forced the bound Knight to sit up. The man wore scuffed armor, dented and worn. His helmet lay off to one side, and the guards pulled off the Knight’s gauntlets. The King-in-Shadow accepted the gauntlets and motioned for his guards to step away.

  The third house falls. Two more . . .

  He produced a knife from the folds of his robe. The king possessed powerful magic, but this was a job for cold steel.

  “Be of good cheer, Ram. The long years of resistance are over.”

  And the day of my release grows one step closer.

  The King-in-Shadow drew his blade down the Knight’s wrist. He held the worn gauntlet under the dripping blood, eyes alight as the crimson fluid washed over the ram’s head embossed on the scuffed metal. A low hum filled the room, growing in intensity until the Knight on the floor screamed to shut out the noise. Every chimera in the chamber gritted its teeth or beak against the mind-shattering vibration.

  The king thrust the gauntlet aloft as the Knight burst free of his bindings, writhing in agony and ripping the armor from his body.

  The king’s voice cut through the cacophony. “Welcome home, Ram.” He laughed and laughed as the chamber’s magic poured into the man on the stone floor.

  In another moment, it was over. The Knight-that-was shambled over to his lord and took his place behind him.

  And in the third corner of the star-shaped room, the crystal shattered, and the blue light winked out.

  Chapter 4: Home in the Glade

  The Deeproot Tree towered over the lush, green valley. Elves bustled all around, tending their growing plants, carrying hand-woven baskets of fruit gathered from the forest, or working on their houses. Any human who ventured into the Glade might be forgiven for not recognizing the elven homes, so intricately woven into the Wood. An elf might spend a hundred years teasing the trees into the proper shape, guiding the branches into walls and a roof. The living houses surrounded a meadow, and the Deeproot Tree grew in the center.

  Treffen smiled as he emerged
from the forest with the Knight and the two wilting humans. From the first time he laid eyes on this glorious valley, he’d known it was home. How his ancestors had ever left this place for their high mountain fortresses of carved stone, he would never understand. But no one understood Lunar Elves. Not even Treffen, who was one.

  Not anymore. The Deeproot Elves had welcomed him like a long-lost son, which in a way he was. Just a young boy when he fled his parents’ cold sterility, he had been drawn here like a compass arrow drawn north. The Deeproots called him a throwback, and he took to the forest like one born of the branch.

  An elf startled Treffen from his memories. “Mind and heart, I am one with the Tree.” Master Birch of the Glimmerdusk Rangers touched a hand to his temple, then to his chest in the traditional elven greeting.

  Treffen smiled at his teacher and gave the response. “And She is one with me.”

  “You’re early, young one.” Master Birch’s voice was stern, but concerned. “You can’t have finished your circuit yet. And you have not returned alone.” The old man was taller than Treffen, with a green cast to his skin that Treffen envied. His own skin was pale white, like all Lunars.

  Treffen’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Master Birch. I failed the circuit and returned early. But I bring wounded, and news.”

  The master summoned elves from all around, who shuffled the sick man and woman off to a healing house. The armored Knight stood behind Treffen, peering around the Glade.

  “Well met, Questing Knight,” Master Birch said, and Gawain nodded. “You’ll find safe lodging here and a full manger for your horse.” Master Birch peered into the trees behind Gawain, clearly expecting to see an armored mount.

  “He doesn’t have a horse,” Treffen said.

  “No horse? He walks around in full armor?” Master Birch’s green eyebrows rose, and he turned to the Knight. “That must be awfully heavy. And hot.”

  Sir Gawain’s nostrils flared. “I’m fine, thank you, good Master.”

  Master Birch shrugged. Two young female elves appeared next to the Knight, and he was escorted away by the giggling girls.

  As Treffen followed his master deeper into the Glade, he recounted his story.

  When the story was finished, Master Birch stopped and looked Treffen over. “You swear this tale is the truth, Junior Ranger?”

  The title said he meant business. “I swear it, Master Ranger.”

  Birch nodded. “Then the Elders must hear it from you.”

  * * *

  They met under moonlight in the open Glade. Elders from each of the Deeproot families and one of the Branchborn sat in a circle under the Tree’s rustling leaves. Other elves milled around the circle, and Treffen’s throat was so dry he wondered if he would be able to speak. No Junior had ever been invited into an Elders’ Circle in Treffen’s lifetime.

  The Branchborn wasn’t likely to speak. Born from the Tree itself, they looked different from the rest of the elven races. Tall and thin like willows, they lived to tend the Tree and had little use for anything else. The fact that one was here made Treffen’s stomach clench.

  Master Birch addressed the group. “We will hear from young Treffen Cedarbough, a Ranger returned from his circuit.”

  He forgot to say “Junior,” Treffen thought, clearing his throat.

  The story spilled from him again, beginning with the scent of evil that wafted through the forest, and ending with the cleansing of the tainted clearing. All around him the Elders nodded, frowning at his tale.

  When he finished, Master Larch spoke up. She was the eldest of the Circle, well over six hundred years. “The news is troubling,” she said, scratching her wrinkled brow. “But it seems our young Ranger has eliminated the threat.”

  Master Birch nodded. “As well he has. But the attack on Cross Creek and the location he describes for the Sprout are troubling indeed. No denizen of the Dark Realm has ever come so close to the Glade without our knowledge. I fear the power of the Downs is stirring.”

  A short, stocky Deeproot Druid snorted. “The Betrayer has been locked away for centuries. The magic that seals him holds.” He nodded toward the Deeproot Tree. “The Tree would tell us if it failed.”

  “Perhaps,” Master Birch agreed. “But you who stay sheltered in this Glade have not felt the taint. Rangers know it all too well.”

  Larch shrugged. “We don’t need to feel it. That’s why we have you. We’re safe here, and as long as you Rangers do your jobs, we’ll stay that way.”

  The elves in the Circle murmured agreement.

  With a voice like wind through leaves, the Branchborn Elf spoke. Every head swiveled to listen.

  “The Tree speaks.” The Branchborn looked straight at Treffen, stood, and left the circle.

  Treffen had no idea what to do. The other elves followed the Branchborn with their eyes, but no one stood. Finally, Master Birch spoke.

  “I suppose that’s all the invitation you’re getting, Ranger.”

  It took Treffen a moment to realize he was being addressed.

  “Junior Ranger.” He corrected his master without thinking, still staring after the mysterious elf.

  Birch smiled. “It’s true that you cut your circuit short. But no Junior Ranger I’ve ever known has singlehandedly defeated a King Sprout. Protecting the Glade is a Ranger’s duty, and I’d say you’ve proven yourself worthy of the title.”

  Treffen barely had a moment to absorb the words before Master Birch continued. “Best you follow the Branchborn. He won’t ask you twice.”

  With a gulp to swallow the lump in his throat, Ranger Treffen stood and followed the Branchborn Elf away from the Elders’ Circle.

  Chapter 5: Deeproot’s Message

  The rest of the elves dropped away behind Treffen as he followed the Branchborn into the little valley at the center of the clearing. The Deeproot Tree rose high into the night sky, Her branches sheltering the entire area. Treffen felt his heart thumping harder as he approached the stately trunk. Blood swished through his veins, and the sound of it echoed in his ears. He could taste the air. Worms burrowed in the earth at his feet, and the flapping of bats’ wings high above fanned a breeze around his face.

  The closer he got to the Tree, the more overwhelming the sensations became. He forced himself to place one foot in front of the other, down into the valley.

  With quick, graceful movements, the Branchborn Elves were already preparing. They scampered up the trunk like insects, their long limbs wrapping around the branches and finding purchase on the smooth bark. The youngest climbed the fastest, disappearing into the high boughs. The older and frailer stayed lower, circling around, hand in hand. In moments, there was an unbroken line of Branchborn spiraling up the Tree, wrapping around and around.

  An ancient Branchborn approached Treffen. The most senior of all elves, she rarely emerged from among the sacred tree’s roots. Called “the Still,” she peered at him through watery eyes, her skin dark green and weathered over rickety, gnarled limbs. Long white hair flowed down her shoulders and swirled in the air. More than any elf he’d ever seen, she resembled the Tree she served. When she took Treffen’s hand, it felt rough and dry like bark. With her other hand, she ended the line of Branchborn disappearing around the Tree.

  Treffen’s eyes rolled back in his head as the Still connected him to the elves, all hand in hand around the tree.

  “By the leaves . . .” he murmured, but the sound was lost in the susurration all around him. Warm sap flowed through his veins, and his toes curled into the earth. His roots reached all through Crystalia, into every corner of the land. In some places, the land felt sick, tainted with shadow. Others burned with glorious light. His limbs reached into the sky, green branches waving in the breeze. This was the Deeproot Tree. She was the mother of every elf, as much a part of him as his own skin. In that moment, he was Her, and She was him.

  Whispers rustled around the Tree as the Branchborn melted against Her. The whis
pering flowed down the line of elves until it reached the Still. When she spoke, her voice was not the dry scratch of wood, but the gentle rustle of leaves in a warm summer wind.

  “Son of the moon, Ranger of the glimmering dusk, child of the Tree, ask your question.”

  With a start, Treffen came back into his own body. She’s talking to you. Treffen opened his eyes and could barely make out the forms of the elves as they pressed their bodies against the Tree’s sides and wrapped themselves around Her branches.

  “I . . .” he began, unsure how to address the Branchborn . . . or the Deeproot Tree . . . or whomever he was really talking to. A million questions raced through his mind, and he finally settled on the most pressing one. “What is required of me?”

  The whispers began again, elven voices sounding like wind through leaves. Treffen could make out words here and there from high above him. Daughter . . . betrayer . . . blood. Again, the Still spoke.

  “Our daughter is in peril. Our land is in peril. The Mother Tree Herself is in peril.”

  Treffen’s blood was ice. What could possibly threaten the Tree?

  The Still continued, looking straight into Treffen’s eyes. “One will leave. Three will descend. One will not emerge.”

  Elves murmured in the branches again, and Treffen strained his ears to hear as the Still interpreted the Deeproot Tree’s words, filtering all the Branchborn through her voice.

  “The Silver Bear holds the key. The Twisted Tree will show the way. The Grafted Gem will hold the door. The Son of Moon will make the sacrifice.”

  Son of Moon. Treffen knew who she meant. The only Lunar-born elf in the Glade. What sacrifice would he have to make? His stomach knotted at the cryptic words.

  The Still let go of his hand, and he felt the connection to the Tree fade. It still throbbed under his feet, but the warm flow of sap and the breeze through his branches were blood and skin once more.

  The ancient elf nodded at him. “At dawn you leave. Stonebridge holds the answers. You will guide the Questing Knight on his journey.” She smiled then, her dry, wrinkled face crinkling around the edges. “The Mother Tree goes with you, always.”