by Jesse Teller
“I have brought a token of goodwill for our mutual respect,” Black Cowl said. He kicked the taskmaster at his feet, and Jeffon squealed out a smattering of strained words. One of the golems turned to the other and smashed his larger compatriot with deformed stone mitts. The victim cracked and its chest shattered. From its hollow body dripped hundreds of jewels and gems.
“Payment for your time and your respect.”
The massive muddy head of the monster whirled to face the shattered golem, and Rayph turned to run.
Rayph’s mind reeled as he thrashed through the swamp, and he finally dropped to his knees and hugged tight to a tree stump. Cratius of Stone and Wyld the Blood—no son of them could exist. No spawning of that magnitude could have happened without Rayph catching on. It was possible it happened before Rayph was born. It might have been before his twelve thousand years of life, but where had this beast been hiding? Rayph forced himself to his feet and ran again. He had to get home, had to have time to think. He needed to talk to Glimmer.
Retaliation
The bull slapped the ass of the horse. The cart lurched to a start. He cast an eye over his shoulder at Aaron and laughed.
“Hey, Minotaur,” Aaron said. “Hey! Come here for a moment. I want to whisper in your ear.”
The bull dropped his head, took a steadying breath. “I am not a minotaur. I am raksa. I am of the bull. I am—”
“You eat corn?” Aaron asked.
The bull sneered at him. “What did you say?”
Aaron held up his hands as the cart left the marketplace and headed out into the blasted city streets. The entire city was in shambles, but Aaron could not concentrate on that. He needed to stay here, needed this conversation.
“Do you eat corn?” Aaron turned to a soldier walking beside the raksa and shook his head. “Can’t hear. Must be the fur in his ears,” Aaron said. “Corn, Minotaur, do you eat it?”
The beast stabbed a thick finger at him. “I am not a minotaur.”
“Can we get back to the corn?”
“Yes, I eat corn.”
Aaron clapped his hands together and howled. “Of course you do. You love that shit. I saw a minotaur shove an entire ear of corn in his mouth at once and chew it like it was sweet cakes.”
The bull curled his legs under him and leapt. He landed on the cart before Aaron and snorted. The cart cracked under the weight of the massive beast but it held. The monster glared at Aaron, then swung and, with a backhand that felt like a stone shot from a ballista, slapped Aaron across the face. Instant dark, and he was back in the cell, back with her.
He woke up on a ship. He was under the deck, waves lashing the vessel. Aaron shoved himself up from his clay and looked around. The room was dark and humid. It was small, just enough room for his crate, a chair in the corner, and a few trunks. The bull sat in the chair, his hands folded on his chest as he snorted and gasped in his sleep. There was almost no light. Aaron did not know if they were at sea in the dark or day, but he could hear the ship’s crew, and it sounded big.
Beside the bull sat a club, long and thick, with iron bands wrapped around it. Aaron swept his eyes across the beast’s body, finding his goal. The raksa had a dagger stuffed in his boot. Aaron fought with the clay, shaking his head. He had to find another way.
“Hey, minotaur!” Aaron gripped the top of the dry clay, but right under the surface, it was still wet. He punched through the dry and gripped a hunk of the wet. He threw it at the bull, who woke up shouting.
“Good morning, Sunrise. You sleep well?” Aaron said.
The bull snarled as Aaron laughed.
“One question, Minotaur, then I’ll let you get back to your rest, buying slaves such hard work and all. Why are you afraid of me?”
The bull stood as the door opened, and three soldiers stepped in. When Aaron scanned their gear, he decided they were not soldiers but dressed the part. Probably mercenaries hired to make the bull even more terrifying than he already was.
“I am not a minotaur,” the beast said. “I am a raksa.”
“So you keep saying, but what is the difference?”
“A minotaur is a mindless monster of rage and destruction.”
“And you write poetry?”
The bull squeezed his gigantic fists. Aaron’s heart stopped.
“No, I don’t write poetry. I am a thinking man.”
“Bull.”
“Yes, I mean, no. I mean this: if you do not shut up, you are going to wish you had,” the raksa said.
“That’s all you’re going to give me? Wish I had?” Aaron shook his head. “If that’s all you can think up, then that must be some bad poetry.”
The bull stomped forward and curled his fist.
“See. Scared of me.”
The bull stopped and snorted.
“You are scared of me. Have you heard of me? You must have heard of me.”
“I am scared of no human,” the raksa snapped.
“But still, you come close when I can’t defend myself, and you beat me while I’m helpless.”
“I could beat you to death if we were free or not,” the bull said. “And I have heard of you. You killed one of my friends, and my mistress is going to devour your heart for it.”
“Don’t doubt it. I’ve killed a lot of people,” Aaron said. “Some of them even deserved it. You, however, are the worst sort of those.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a bully and a coward. What I should do is pick up that club of yours and beat you to death with it. But you should probably keep it out of my reach. Better that way.” Aaron looked at the beast, and he could see it. He was just about free.
“Do we have chains?” the bull asked.
“We do, master,” a man said.
“I’m gonna take you from that crate and give you five hits. When you fail to harm me with your five hits, I’m going to beat you for a while like the child you are and wrap you in chains.”
“Not a child, I’m actually eighteen. Don’t look like much, but I eat well, and I think I can stretch out a few more inches before I’m done. I’m gonna grow up nice and big. I’ll be pretty impressive.”
The raksa stomped forward and, with one solid kick to the crate, shattered the boards and dented the clay. He kicked and kicked while great gouts of clay flew wild, and within a few moments, Aaron was free.
Aaron kept his eyes from the bull’s boot. He looked at his legs and flexed his hands. He could feel the strength returning, but he was still weak. He could not hit very well. He could not beat this beast unarmed.
Aaron shrugged. “How big a boy are you?” He stepped before the bull, smelling the thick musk of beast, and he looked up at the monster. “Eight feet?” Aaron said. “Nine, maybe?”
“Might be,” the bull said.
Good. He was cocky.
“You can go back to your captivity if you want. I will snap you up in those chains and we can forget this weak display,” the raksa said.
“How thick is that neck of yours?”
The bull bent low, and Aaron saw the corded muscle and the thick hair of the neck. He knew then what he was going to do. Aaron smiled.
“Big guys like you need to be taken down a foot or two.” Aaron kicked out at the bull’s knee, meeting solid bone and muscle. The knee did not bend, did not move. Fear balled up within Aaron’s gut. He smiled as he began to panic, and he laughed. “Gonna hurt,” he said, dropping to a knee and punching the bull in the crotch. The meat there squished, but the bull only laughed.
“Little men like you have no idea what it is to fight a raksa of power. You have three left, little man. Chose them well,” the bull said with a mighty laugh.
Aaron stepped forward and elbowed the monster in his chest as hard as he could. A sharp agony raced up his arm and through his spine. It had been like hitting a wall. No movement, not even a breath. The men around him laughed.
“You are not half of what your legend speaks of,” the bull said. “Tiny little hum
an man. Big talker with no strength and no power. No ability to hurt even a bull standing still. If I gave you a weapon, you would still not be able to harm me.” The raksa reached into his boot and pulled out his dagger. “Here, take it and stab me. I will give you two slashes.”
Aaron slapped the dagger behind him in the other direction from the soldiers. The dagger clattered away, and Aaron lowered his head. He looked at the bull and stepped back. He backed all the way across the room, then ran with everything he had. Leading with his shoulder, he hit the bull in the chest.
The bull laughed.
“You are pitiful. You are not what I was told you would be. You are a disappointment,” the raksa said. The men laughed. Aaron stepped all the way back into the corner and lowered his head. He looked up before he started to run, and he smiled.
He rushed across the room and leapt. He grasped both horns in his hands as he kicked his legs up. His feet hit the wall, and he ran around the bull. He kicked off the corner, completing his circuit. The bull’s head whipped with Aaron’s body momentum, and the entire room heard the heavy, loud wet crack as the bull’s neck snapped. Aaron hit his feet, stepped back, and smiled.
The body hit the ground at his feet. Aaron looked down at it and laughed.
“I am Aaron the Marked. I serve the king of the Nation of Four. I fought a dragon barehanded. I led the Sleepless Legions against the forces of the Madness. I put a king on a throne—twice. I killed my father the day I branded myself,” he pointed at the mark on his neck. “I am loved by the goddess of death. I am loved by the goddess of flame. I am Aaron the Marked, the Executioner of the Nation of Four, and I will be your death.”
The men screamed in horror, running for the door. Aaron snatched one of them up by the back of his hair and, with both hands, drove his skull into the floor. The man’s head popped, and Aaron grabbed the man’s dagger, throwing it in a flash. It caught the second man in the back of the head. The man ran two more steps before he collapsed.
The last mercenary slammed the door shut and locked it. Aaron looked after him. He fought to steady his breath.
He clenched his fists together and punched the side of his head.
“Peter Redfist,” he said to himself. “I will find you.”
Queen of the Ironwoods
The forest outside Chaste held a taint Rayph could feel in his bones. His teeth hurt, his skin tight and clammy. The ground sagged under his feet, though he had been told it had not rained for days. This forest was angry, and as he watched Sisalyyon walking before him, he wondered what effect this place was having on her.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She spun and snapped at him with wrath and confusion on her face. “This is not an evil place, Ivoryfist. A cadre of demons defiled it, but the land is not foul. For years, it has been recovering. If you can’t help but be judgmental then—”
Rayph lifted his hands and shook his head. “Said nothing about the state of the forest, nor did I make any judgments. I simply asked if you are alright.”
Confusion rioted on her face.
“Are you?”
She looked about to cry, but she nodded. “I will be fine. It is bad here, Rayph. I wish I could place a hand to the one who did this.”
“The priestess said he got what he deserved. Said he was judged by Cor-lyn-ber. That is good enough for me,” Rayph said. “The forest seems angry, am I off?”
“Well, you would be angry, too, if you had been soured by demons!”
“I would.” He decided it was not the time to talk about the state of things here. He focused instead on the trees around him, and what he would say when he met the entity he was seeking audience with.
They made their way past sagging vines that seemed to carry veins instead of grain. Rayph wondered at the blood that pumped those veins, and suddenly found himself thinking maybe this place could no longer help him. If the wood here was sour, then how could it fare against a host of vampires? He needed Ironwood. But what state would he find the queen in, and what effect would sour wood have on a vampire?
The ground beneath him seemed to sigh and inhale as they neared a clearing. Rayph laid out his spell ingredients and chanted before a massive Ironwood tree that dominated the clearing. The tree leaned precariously. Its foul sap gave off an unpleasant scent that reminded Rayph of rotting cake. The scent was too sweet. Rayph thought it would make him sick. He focused on not gagging. As his spell took form, a bridge between the world of man and the world of the fey opened. Suddenly, Rayph beheld the condition of the queen dryad of the Ironwood forest, and he felt a tremble in his chest and an overwhelming sense of pity.
With sagging arms, she held up branches with pale leaves, oily and pied. Her weight had dripped to her middle. Her top branches, thin and emaciated, her bottom trunk, narrow and pale. Her bark held a perpetual sweat-like wetness, and Rayph wondered if she burned with fever.
Sisalyyon dropped her cloak as her feet gripped the ground. She dug her roots into the soil. Her legs tightened closed and her torso hardened, growing bark until she had the body of a narrow tree trunk. Her face had yet to turn when she moaned. She looked as if she would be sick, her expression curled in pain.
“Rayph, it is horrible here. We have to find a way to help,” she said with tears in her eyes.
“I already have an idea, but I can’t do it now. Can you get her attention, or do we need another plan?”
“You have my attention now, mortal. What would bring you to the Queen of the Ironwoods?” The wet voice gurgled as if her throat was gummed over.
Rayph’s heart nearly imploded with pity. She had once been gorgeous. Her dark ebony face had once held high cheekbones and clear skin. Her eyes had at one time been clean and black and beautiful, her body once shapely and pleasing to look at. But all that had changed with the souring of the forest. Now, the left side of her face was bulging and swollen. Her eyes seeped yellow sap. Her mouth was grown over and twisted, locking one side into a scarred snarl and leaving the other side perfect with full lips as if to mock her. Her neck wore knotted sores and leaked black tar. One side of her forehead was smooth and high and regal, the other side pocked with burrs and bubbling out as if with gout. The once ravishing beauty had been reduced to a half-formed hag, deformed and stunted. She sneered at Rayph and Sisalyyon. Rayph could not tell if the sneer was inspired by black hate or a deformity she had no control of.
“Mighty Treleelay, Queen of the Ironwoods, we come humbly to ask for a favor so great that it embarrasses us to ask such a thing. Will you hear us or order us from your presence?” Sisalyyon said.
“You are not of this soil. There are no cherry trees in my domain. You walk the world beside this trimerian. What manner of dryad are you that you would be able to move yourself thus?” she asked.
“I am half-dryad, half-woman. My mother was a cherry tree. She fell in love with a man who came to taste her fruit, and she took human form to lie with him.”
The queen looked as if to snap out something horrible, but her face softened, and she shook her head. “I once loved a man,” she said. “He was tall and mighty, and he came to me in search of a shaft for his spear. I lay with him for one night, and when I awoke, I let him take his spear from my body.” She nodded to a section of her body where a limb had been cut close to her trunk. “I was ridiculed for parting with it, but if he had asked for more, I would have given it. Our love did not end in a swollen belly and a half-breed, but many times I have wished it had. I find you fair, but beg you to pull your roots from my domain. I would wish this soil on no one.”
More yellow sap seeped out of her eyes, and Rayph decided she must be crying.
“Ask the boon that embarrasses you so, and I will see if it is a thing I can do.”
“We have found ourselves before a great battle with a foul demon and require weapons, weapons that only your kind can give. We came here to beg a sacrifice from you,” Rayph said.
“Who is this trimerian that comes so bold and asks for my
very flesh? What is this demon only my kind can fight?”
“I am Rayph Ivoryfist. I am friend to all fair races and protect the lives of the just and righteous. If you ask about me, you will find me to be friend to your kind,” Rayph said. “And we fight vampires, we need weapons that only an Ironwood tree can give us. We do not wish to be so brutal as to chop any down without your leave, so we come to you, asking permission.”
The queen hissed, and her branches shook. Her whole face took on a mask of wrath and hate. She seemed about to scream in rage. Rayph readied a spell to render her to ash and splinters, but he did not loose it. He waited until her fit of rage played itself out, and she lowered a gaze upon him.
“Vampires!” she screamed. “May their vile souls rot in the doldrums of Hell.”
Rayph was not ready for so violent an outburst, but he liked where this seemed to be going, so he said nothing and waited for more.
“The First Tree felt their despicable footfalls touch her forest, and she hated them instantly. They fed on her animals. They chopped down her sisters to make their coffin beds. They violated everything they touched, and theirs was a plague without cure. In her wisdom, she decided she would fight them with a warrior of her own design. She crafted us.
“We Ironwoods were given life and purpose. We were made stronger than the steel of the vampire. We were given a purity that would destroy their rotten bodies, and we were given a hate for them rivaled by no other nemesis known in the kingdoms of nature. No mongoose and snake ever hated one another with the passion of the Ironwood and the vampire. A grove of my kind is enough to scare away any vampire with any wisdom. Where we stand, they dare not tread.”
“We need to be able to make weapons potent enough to destroy the vampire. We know of no other way than to harvest your kind,” Rayph said. “Is there another way?”
The queen looked hard at Sisalyyon, now free from the sour soil, and back to Rayph, and she made a decision. “I will let you take from me the weapons you will need, if you will do me a favor in return.”
