by D. W. Vogel
With those words, she turned and tottered back to the hollow in the roots of the Tree. The rest of the Branchborn melted away into the high reaches.
Treffen was left standing alone in the valley with the Tree’s wisdom pounding into his brain.
He backed away from the Tree and stumbled into the night.
Chapter 6: Ranger’s Mission
When Master Birch met Treffen at the edge of the valley, Treffen was still repeating the ancient Branchborn’s words.
“The Silver Bear? The Twisted Tree?” The old elf scratched at the back of his neck. “These words mean nothing to me.”
Treffen shrugged.
“The Grafted Gem . . .” Master Birch paused. “That can only be one person. Our daughter Emerald may be in danger.”
Princess Emerald was no elf, and the “daughter” was honorary. Her own father was Jasper III, king of all Crystalia. Like Treffen, the girl had never been at home behind stone walls. However, unlike Treffen’s family, her father had embraced her wild nature, encouraging her explorations when she was very young. The elves had taken to the green-haired child, training her in the ways of the forest. She had learned beside Treffen, nearly matching him in woodlore. The only Ranger skill she couldn’t master was the bow, and she solved that by carrying a dwarf-made rifle. She took to the ways of the Rangers like one born to it, a vine grafted onto another that became one single plant.
“We had a message from the king,” Master Birch continued. “He’s asked us to keep a lookout for her. Emerald has been all over Crystalia searching for her missing sister these past two years. She was here a few weeks ago, consulting with the Druids. She took off into the Wood, and no one has heard a word from her since then. The king is beside himself.”
“Emerald can take care of herself.” Treffen grinned. “Sooner or later she’ll find her sister and drag her back to the Castle by the ear.”
“The Druids said she was quite agitated. They wouldn’t share the wisdom they gave her, but they did say it upset her. I fear that dark times lie ahead.”
Master Birch bid Treffen goodnight and disappeared toward the house he shared with his mate and children.
Treffen didn’t have a house. Most young elves began crafting their homes long before looking for a mate so that children would be born under a solid, living roof. But Treffen was years from such concerns, so he set to work preparing a bed of the cedar boughs he was named for.
The Deeproot Tree’s prophecy rattled in his head. The Grafted Gem. Emerald missing. He hadn’t seen her since Princess Amethyst disappeared, and he longed to tell his old friend all about the Tree’s words. She’ll be fine. She always is. But despite Master Birch’s training, Treffen had nearly been lunch for a King Sprout. The evil in Crystalia was growing, and his stomach felt sour imagining all the dangers his old friend might encounter in her search. What had the Druids told her that sent her running into the Wood?
He sighed, reveling in the Tree’s nearness. Her power thrummed through the ground and into his prone body. He remembered the feeling of holding hands with the Still, how for a brief moment, he had been one with the Tree. Few elves ever received an audience with the Deeproot. Whatever She wants me to do in Stonebridge, it must be important.
A strong breeze rustled the leaves around him, whispering an echo of the Goddess’s song of life. The elven stories said that once her song chimed freely through the kingdom, but darkness choked her voice until only the quietest mind could hear the trace, carried on the night breeze.
Tomorrow at dawn he would leave for Stonebridge, a full Ranger on his first official mission.
I’ll find whatever the Tree has sent me for. I’ll find Emerald, and word of my success will reach even the stone halls of my father. Treffen drifted off to sleep with a smile on his pale lips.
Chapter 7: The Road to Stonebridge
Treffen woke before dawn and slipped over to the storehouse to fill his travel packs. A shadow darkened the doorway, and he looked up to see the Knight. His armor was dented and worn, but polished to the slight gleam that remained in the hardened steel. His helmet visor was closed, shadowing his face inside. On the front of his breastplate was the scuffed emblem of a walking bear, and that motif was repeated on his gauntlets and metal shins.
The Silver Bear holds the key.
The words rattled in Treffen’s head, along with the rest of the message. Three will descend. One will not emerge.
Is it him? Is this clanking oaf part of the Tree’s message? Surely not. Treffen sighed. “I’m supposed to guide you to Stonebridge. Try to keep up.”
The Knight moved aside, and Treffen scooted past him into the early morning light. Master Birch nodded a farewell, and Gawain creaked along behind him. As they moved into the forest, Treffen glanced back toward the Deeproot Tree. A breeze rustled the high branches of the towering trees around him, and the whisper came to his ears sounding almost like a snicker.
* * *
The first night they camped under the stars. Sir Gawain removed his helmet, and Treffen got a good look at the man’s face. He was young, but adult. Compared to elves, humans lived and died so quickly. Treffen thought the man might not be much older than he was. He looked tired, with the beginnings of frown lines already etched into his forehead. His hands raked through sweaty dark hair, mashed down by his helmet. He sat awkwardly on the hard ground and pulled a small meal of dried meat from his pack.
Treffen pulled out his own meal, and they ate in silence. When they were finished, Gawain lay back on the ground, using his pack as a pillow. He set his helmet on his chest and closed his eyes.
Treffen couldn’t stand it any longer. “Are you really going to sleep in your armor?”
Gawain’s eyes snapped open. “Of course.” He closed his eyes.
Treffen waited another silent moment. “Because if you want to be more comfortable, I can help you get it off.” A thought occurred to him, and he hastily added, “Assuming you have something on underneath it.” Goddess, he hadn’t even thought about that before. Of all the things he wanted to sleep next to, an armored man was far better than a naked man.
“I’m fine.”
What a weird guy. Treffen thought for a moment. “Why were you summoned to Stonebridge?”
“None of your business.”
Treffen sat back. Elves never kept secrets from one another. Clearly, he had a lot to learn about Knights. “So . . . did you used to have a horse?”
Gawain sighed and creaked up to a sitting position. “I took a solemn vow of pedestrianism. I do not require a horse. And I always wear my armor.”
The word “pedestrianism” sounded like Gawain had grumbled it a hundred times. Which he probably had. Everybody must ask him that. Kind of silly, though. And impractical.
“So if you’re always in armor, how do you . . .”
“I am a Questing Knight,” Gawain said. “Perhaps you don’t know what that means, young elf, but it is a title I have earned. And a Questing Knight wears his armor with pride. All the time.”
He lay back and closed his eyes, a clear sign that the conversation was over.
Well now I get it, Treffen thought, watching the man pretend to sleep. No wonder he’s such a grump. It’s a wonder he can even walk with how constipated he must be.
Chapter 8: News in the Ruins
The Forgotten King smiled down from his throne of brambles at a Billman scout kneeling before him. “Tell me of your success. Where is my quarry?”
The Billman stuttered, yellow beak flailing around his words. “We sacked the town, lord,” the chimera lisped. “We took them by surprise. Our troops are burning the town and searching for survivors.”
Why am I surrounded by idiots? When I’m free of this prison, I’m leaving the ducks down here. “Yes, yes. And have you brought me my prize?” The king’s eyes darted to the two corners of the star-shaped chamber where blue light still flickered. His power was growing. The magical shield that hel
d him here remained strong, and he couldn’t leave this accursed room, though the arched stone doorway stood wide open. But his influence was spreading. New soldiers were spawning here in the Downs and ranging farther into the Fae Wood that surrounded his prison.
“No, my lord. But we’re still looking for anything that might tell us . . . where to look.”
The Forgotten King frowned. He should have been there. How did he escape? He turned his face from the Billman, dismissing him with a gesture, and the soldier darted from the room.
A huge shape detached itself from the shadows in one of the dark corners. It resolved into a giant bearlike form, shaggy and looming. “My lord, shall I go and help detain any survivors?”
“My dear Boris, no you shall not,” The king answered. “The task is well in hand.”
Boris growled low in his throat. “I don’t trust the new guy.”
“The Ram?”
Boris growled again in answer.
“Our new brother is bound to us.” The king rose from his bramble throne. “He is as loyal as any of my Knights. Or do you doubt the magic that binds them to me?” The words held a quiet threat, not veiled by the smile on the king’s lips.
Boris shook his huge, hairy head.
“I thought not,” the king said. “Any survivors from the town will be brought here directly. The Sprouts are hungry. The Ram knows this.” He didn’t have to say what would happen to the Ram, newest of the Bramble Knights, if he didn’t bring back the human survivors of the raid. Sprouts weren’t picky about their meals. Any species, or combination of species, would do.
He considered the Billman’s report. No word on what I seek. But after all these years, I am a patient man. He still thought of himself as a man, though a mirror would tell him otherwise.
“My lord?” A tentative voice sounded from the archway.
Boris growled for the speaker to enter. It was a Nether Elf captain, and he bowed before the king, remaining on his knees and not raising his head when he spoke. All angles and jutting features, Nether Elves had none of the beauty of their above-ground kinsmen.
“My lord, I bring a troubling report. My squad was ambushed on the road from Stonebridge. Ten elves were shot down before we knew what hit us. Only myself and two of my soldiers were able to make it here to safety.”
The king waited.
“. . . and . . . we don’t know what happened.”
The king waited.
“. . . and . . . one of my soldiers is injured.”
The king waited.
“. . . and . . .”
The king finished the trembling elf’s sentence. “. . . And you didn’t return to find out what took out your squad, but instead came cowering back here in shame, allowing however many humans or elves or dwarves or whatever attacked you to continue marching for the Downs.”
The Nether Elf shrank even farther into the cold stone floor.
“And,” the king continued, “you’ve come here to ask me to provide you with more soldiers, so you can continue allowing others to die in your place when anything shows the slightest resistance to our continuing return to power.”
There was nowhere lower for the elf to cower.
The king’s voice softened. “You have served me well for many years, elf.”
From the base of the bramble throne, the elf looked up in hope.
“And you will continue to serve me. By serving my growing army, you will continue to serve me forever.”
Boris grabbed the elf and dragged him to his feet. Barely chest-high on the huge Bear, the elf bobbed his head in gratitude.
“Forever, my lord. I will serve you forever.”
Boris dragged the elf from the room.
Well, not forever. But you will serve. Or rather, you will be served.
The Sprouts weren’t picky about their meals.
Chapter 9: A Dark Welcome
In the late afternoon, Treffen and Gawain crossed one of the few roads that cut through the Wood, Treffen scouting ahead. Hard packed dirt allowed trading wagons to travel among the human villages and the settlements of other species that made up the diverse land of Crystalia.
A drover was herding pigs down the road, whistling to them and wielding a long pole to keep them together. They were large and strong, grunting happily as they marched down the road.
Finally. Someone to talk to. Treffen didn’t consider himself particularly chatty. Rangers often spent weeks alone in the woods, with only the plants for company. While a few of the plants were hard to shut up once they got going, most were content with a quick, “Good morning,” as Treffen passed. But this Knight was a tough nut. The silence between him and Treffen didn’t have the comfortable feel of old friends who didn’t need words to communicate. It was an awkward kind of silence, and after a few tries at polite conversation, Treffen had given up.
“Greetings, drover,” Treffen said, and the man called his pigs to a halt. They milled around the sides of the road, snorting and sniffling while the man pulled out a waterskin and took a long drink.
“Greetings, Ranger,” the man said.
That sounds so nice.
“And Sir Knight,” the man added as Gawain stepped into view. He peered around behind the Knight. “Where is your . . .”
“He doesn’t have one.”
Treffen and the drover shared a look.
“We are bound for Stonebridge,” Treffen said. “Have you heard anything about Princess Emerald in your travels?”
The man’s ears perked up at Treffen’s question. “I’ve heard a lot. Prob’ly none of it true. It’s said she don’t look like a princess at all, no fancy dresses or nothin’. Said she looks more like an elf, beggin’ your pardon, Ranger.”
“Right,” Treffen said, “but have you heard anything lately? I’m . . .” He glanced at Gawain. “We’re hoping to find her and send word to the king.”
Flies buzzed around the drover’s face, and he shooed them away. “Welp, if I hear somethin’, I’ll surely let somebody know. But for now, I’d best be off.”
He clucked to his pigs, and they started away down the road. A high-pitched, lovely female voice unlike anything Treffen would have expected echoed down the road behind them, singing a lilting aria that contrasted with the snorting and snuffling of the pigs.
“Do you hear that?” Treffen asked.
Gawain was watching the drover and his pigs, obviously listening to the music that got fainter as the herd snuffled on. “I hear it. Wouldn’t have expected a voice like that to come out of such a scruffy man.”
The music slowly died, and Treffen shook his head. “I must need a rest. The funny thing is, for a minute there, it sounded like that singing was coming from one of the pigs.”
They crossed the road and re-entered the Wood, the aria fresh in their minds.
* * *
Treffen and Gawain reached Stonebridge just before dark. They smelled it before they saw it. Fire and death. Not the cleansing fire that swept through a forest, clearing out deadfall and preparing the ground for new growth. This was dirty, chemical, and foul. Something very bad happened here. Very recently.
Unnatural silence surrounded them as they crossed the stacked stone bridge that gave the town its name. Human towns hurt Treffen’s eyes, with their squat, ugly buildings made out of dead trees. Whenever his travels brought him near, he never stayed a moment longer than necessary. But as ugly as a living human town was to Treffen’s eyes, this silent, ruined place was so much worse. Beside him, Gawain was shaking his head, eyes concealed behind his visor.
“Look. They were having a spring festival. The town square was all covered in flowers.”
Indeed, the remnants of floral garlands hung from the torched buildings that surrounded the cobblestone square. Treffen stopped in the middle and looked around. None of the buildings, which would have held businesses on the first floor and family homes on the second, had actually fallen down. He could see where th
e fire had swept through, charring wood and stone. From a few balconies, the tattered remains of the floral decorations hung lifeless, rotting in the cooling night air. Stonebridge had been attacked, just like Cross Creek.
The Knight’s voice was hard inside his helmet. “I should have been here.” He gestured to the burned-out buildings. “If I hadn’t gotten lost, I would have arrived on time. I could have fought them.”
Treffen paused. “You said you were summoned here? By whom?” Does someone want this Knight dead? Someone who could destroy a whole town?
Gawain shook his head. “None of your business.” He stooped over to pick something up off the charred ground.
“What is it?” Treffen asked.
“It’s just a dirty old penny. My mother used to have a little rhyme. ‘Grab a penny off the floor, keeps your armor tough for sure.’” He pocketed the coin.
Treffen sniffed the air. “Something smells off.”
Gawain swiveled his helmet to look at him. There was no way to read his expression behind the visor, but Treffen imagined a raised eyebrow. “It smells like a battlefield left for the vultures.”
“No, that’s just part of it.” Treffen wandered around the silent square, pausing to breathe in the fetid air. “Dead things smell, for sure. And all the stuff that got burned up. But this is something different.” He paused in the center, where a fountain stood sentinel. The large round basin contained a granite statue in the middle, an image of the Goddess with her arms outstretched. A little pump on the side would force water up through a hidden tube in the base, where it would cascade off the Goddess’s hands. This fountain would have served the little village as decoration and as a water source.
The water had been poisoned.
No human would have detected the odor, but Treffen’s elven nostrils were full of the stench. This was far worse than the smell of a body left to decay. This was the promise of death in the future, stealthy and indiscriminate.
