by Sam Bowring
No longer did she identify with that old self in the slightest. Now Fahren was nothing to her but a slave master.
Fourteen? That had only been six years or so before her death. She felt so much older than she was.
Try the clearing first, sent Fahren. It’s my best guess for where they might have taken him.
Directing power to her heels, she turned and fled. Last time she had been in the wood she had dared not use magic, for fear of being sensed by the enemy. Now she poured it forth with abandon, hoping to be sensed. She also realised that, somewhere along the line, she had failed to maintain the illusion that kept colour in her cheeks, light in her eyes, the wound in her side from showing.
No consequence, she thought, bitter that she had even bothered with it in the first place. Let all see me as I am.
Behind her, Fahren cried out in pain.
Who would release her if he died?
•
Come on, thought Corlas, watching the thrumming Stone. Where are you, boy?
Something was not right with the wood – outside the hut, sunbeams and shadows roved through the clearing in equal measure, and he had no doubt he and the Sprites were under some kind of attack. His power, only partly recovered, seemed to be returning in a mere trickle. He had sensed streams of Old Magic nearby, diverted by Vyasinth, but now even those were beginning to thin. When what he had stored up was gone, it would be gone, and there was no telling when he could replenish again.
He rolled his massive shoulders. ‘Well,’ he rumbled, reaching above the fireplace to heft his axe from the wall, ‘old habits . . . never did think of myself as much of a mage type anyhow.’
And so Corlas found himself standing in his hut, guarding his boy with an axe, for a second time.
‘The world will have its fancies, I suppose,’ he muttered.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Who is it?’
A voice that seemed dryly amused with itself answered. ‘Representatives of the Open Halls.’
He went to the open window, and grunted in surprise. Elessa Lanclara stood there, her skin a pallid shade of grey, her eyes dry and unblinking, her white dress stained with blood. Vyasinth had told him she’d come back from the dead, but he had not expected to come face to face with her. Behind her in the clearing lay the bodies of Sprites – dead, stunned, or sleeping? It was hard to tell.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I tell a fib. It’s only me, this time.’
‘And what was it I said?’ he asked, his bushy brows clumping in thought. ‘Ah, yes – warm yourself.’
A hand jumped from his axe to shoot forth a vortex, but she disappeared. A moment later the door blasted inwards off its hinges and she strode into the hut.
‘When are you going to learn,’ she said, ‘that the future of your son affects the whole world, not just your little home in the forest?’
‘The world,’ said Corlas, ‘can kiss my axe.’
He flung it at her, charging it with magic as it left his fingertips. It caught slightly in her hastily erected ward, ricocheting off course, and cut a chunk from her shoulder, exposing bone beneath.
Elessa gave a sickly smile, and warily Corlas raised a ward of his own – but it was not strong, he thought desperately, feeling his pool of power drying up. Elessa held up the hand attached to her damaged shoulder, gave the fingers an experimental waggle – and Corlas slammed against the wall, falling unconscious to the floor.
She went to the bed and scooped up the Stone.
•
Charla considered the strange women she had caught. Having lived her whole life in the wood, she had little experience of races other than her own. She had seen some just now, of course, upon entering the battle to fetch the Stone – but that had been swift and hectic, too much to take in at once.
The smaller of the two, the dark one with wings, had to be a Mire Pixie. As for the other, as Charla drew closer, she saw that the woman had pointy ears and multicoloured eyes. She was not a Varenkai, as Charla had first thought, but a Sprite as well. Did that make her a friend, or foe?
‘I do not recognise you from the wood,’ said Charla. ‘And I know all who dwell within.’
‘I am not from your wood,’ replied the woman, still straining against the vines that bound her.
Charla frowned. ‘But this is the only place where Sprites can live.’
‘I’m only part Sprite.’
‘Let us go!’ demanded the little one, and claws flicked from her fingertips. She managed to slice through some of the vines, but Charla gave a wave and they wound around her more firmly. Charla paused, feeling odd – the small amount of magic used to maintain the living bonds was taking more effort than it usually did. She tried not to let her misgivings show.
‘Let you go?’ she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Nay, I think not. You are of the folk who sought to deny us our champion, he who will return the Sprites to prominence, and restore Old Magic to the world!’
The tall woman grimaced. ‘That’s why you’ve taken him? You are a third contender for Bel’s auspices?’
‘Third?’ said Charla haughtily. ‘We are the first. It is your people who interfered, your people who –’
‘Never mind any of that,’ snapped the woman. ‘I really could not care less about it right now.’
‘Then why have you invaded our wood?’
‘Because before they were put back in the Stone, Bel and Losara were our men.’
Charla was taken aback. Corlas, of course, had spoken at length about Bel’s life, and so she had heard of the half-caste Sprite with whom he shared it.
‘You’re Jaya?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And I’m Lalenda,’ said the pixie. ‘The Shadowdreamer’s woman.’
‘And you are here . . .’
‘Because we want to know what’s happened to our men,’ said Jaya. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Charla bit her lip – this was a bit more complicated than she had expected. She knew what it was like to be bonded to another Sprite, of course, and could not imagine being without Corlas. Also, there was the other, stranger thing.
They were almost family.
Once or twice Corlas had ventured the notion that Charla was the closest thing Bel had to a mother. Charla had stamped him down immediately – while her soul may have been composed partly of another’s, it was only partly, and she fiercely upheld that she was her own person. It was not her womb from which the baby had sprung, not her lovemaking that had put it there. Bel and Losara were the same age as her – she could scarcely imagine dandling them on her knee, or exposing her breast to feed them! That was for her own children, which she did intend to have one day. However, when she was away from Corlas, when he did not require slapping for his offensive ideas, she had thought about the situation more carefully. In a way she had to admit that she was connected to the blue-haired man – not in quite the way that Corlas had suggested, but in a way that was not entirely dissimilar either. And even if she’d had absolutely no hand in his creation, that didn’t change the fact that he was her love’s son, and these women were his son’s loves. For a Sprite, to whom kinship was an important thing indeed, that made them . . . well, something.
‘I am Charla,’ she told them. ‘Bonded to the Lord of the Wood, Corlas.’
‘You are with Corlas?’ said Jaya. ‘Well, he hasn’t done badly for himself, has he?’
‘You do not seek to snatch the blue-haired man from us?’ said Charla, ignoring her words.
‘All we want,’ said Lalenda, and shot a glance at Jaya, ‘is to discover what has become of him. Would you not be concerned if Corlas was squished into a tiny rock?’
Charla nodded thoughtfully. She raised a hand, noting again with unease how her power had lessened, and the vines fell loose from Jay
a and Lalenda and slipped back into the ground.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘I will take you to him. But try nothing sneaky, or it will be a branch through the ribs for you, understand?’
The women nodded and, hoping she had not made a mistake, Charla set out for the clearing.
•
Fahren ignored the pain in his arm. One of their assailants had flung a thorny wreath to wrap around it, which had squeezed tighter and tighter until he’d ripped it off. The attacks from the three Sprites had become easier to deal with for some reason. The wood folk seemed confused about that themselves. Now they were focusing on defence, yet even their sunset wards were not proving impenetrable.
We can finish them, came Battu’s voice.
Fahren conjured a sunwing, which flew at the Sprites, notching an arrow to its bow. Quickly vortexes came up to meet it, and it was knocked backwards, fading.
Your thinking is limited, Throne. The ancient enemy of the Sprites was always the Ebon Elves.
Cackling, Battu weaved his hands, and from out of the air stepped a figure of legend – a humanoid with dark skin, and crystals for eyes. The Ebon stalked forward, and the Sprites’ eyes filled with fright.
There was a reason Ebons were the Sprites’ enemies, said Fahren. They wielded Old Magic also. But you cannot imbue your creature with such ability.
Still, said Battu, they are scared of it.
Sure enough, the three Sprites backed away from the advancing conjuration, all channelling together. As one they expended a large vortex, which flattened the Ebon instantly. It was a waste of power when dealing with such an insubstantial foe, and as a result the Sprites’ wards faltered. Fahren seized the opportunity. A white-hot beam sprang from his outstretched hand, puncturing a wavering ward to hit a Sprite full in the chest. The Sprite did not even have time to cry out, collapsing with a smoking hole through his heart. Fahren directed the beam onto the others, cutting through their wards easily. A second fell, sliced in half, and the third shrieked in alarm and pelted off through the trees, dropping her ward in exchange for speed.
Fahren released the beam, puffing from his exertions.
‘Hold still,’ said Battu. He set a hand over Fahren’s cut arm, rejoining the skin and even knitting the flesh beneath.
‘You have a gift for healing?’ said Fahren incredulously.
‘One of my lesser-used talents,’ admitted Battu. ‘Only because I’m sworn to help, I can assure you.’
‘Well, no thanks required then.’
‘Please don’t.’
Fahren flexed his newly mended arm. ‘Why is their power waning?’
‘What does it matter?’ said Battu. ‘Stop wondering about the why, you doddering fool, and press the advantage.’
Much as it galled him, Fahren had to admit Battu was right.
‘Come then,’ he said, and they set out after the fleeing Sprite.
•
Tyrellan supposed that, just like other races, there were Sprites who could wield magic and Sprites who could not. From the plain clothing on the bodies in the clearing beyond, he guessed these were the latter – the simple folk who saw to tasks other than battle, yet who had been caught in its hold anyway.
‘Someone’s already here,’ said Fazel.
‘If you’re in the mood to be obvious,’ growled Tyrellan, ‘I could punch you in the face.’
‘What face? I trust you will enjoy your bruised fist.’
‘Can you sense anything?’
‘In the hut,’ said Fazel. ‘A light mage and another, dimmer, presence.’
Through the smashed door of the hut strode Elessa Lanclara, holding the Stone.
‘Off you go, then, and stop her,’ ordered Tyrellan.
As for himself, he would stay in the trees – he had seen these two fight before, and knew better than to get in their way. He glanced around, found a likely trunk, and began to climb.
•
Elessa left the hut, considering the Stone. If she cast spells while she possessed it, would it suck them in, meaning she could not protect herself with magic? She tried a simple experiment, and sent forth a tiny mote of light. The mote glanced across the Stone’s surface and flew onwards unimpeded. It seemed that the Stone was, for the moment, closed.
Something pricked her senses – there was a shadow mage nearby. Glancing towards the edge of the clearing, she saw a black-robed figure emerge onto the coiled root. It pulled back its cowl, revealing the charred skull beneath.
Greetings, Elessa.
She waved a hand over her body, suffusing herself with a warm glow. Before her ward was fully raised, an invisible hand dug its nails in under the shine. She gripped it in a grip of her own, wrenching it back as if to snap its invisible wrist, and across the way Fazel recoiled. Then he stepped off the root and floated down into the clearing.
Better than last time, he sent.
I’m a changed woman.
The Stone sprang from her grip, flying towards him. Quickly she made the air above it crash downwards, slamming it to the dirt.
Interesting, he said. The Stone no longer absorbs power?
Your interest will be short-lived. I will stop you again, as I stopped you before.
I pray that you do. But we do not need these threats, do we?
A snake head curled out of his darkness towards her. She waved a hand through the air, conjuring a glowing sword. Allowing her ward to part briefly, she let the snake inside, and lopped its head off almost casually.
I wanted you to win that night, Elessa. I want an end to my damnation.
We have that in common, then.
Well, he said, breezing forward, shadows expanding all around him, let’s hope that one of us can do the other a favour.
They came face to face in the middle of the clearing, the Stone lying an equal distance between them. As the light flowing from Elessa met Fazel’s shadows, they locked into a familiar place. If she could have, she would have thrown down her defences, let him finish her there and then – but the command from Fahren compelled her, and so she pushed against him. This, then, was what it was like for him – fighting when he did not want to, for purposes that were not his own.
What odd kinship amongst us undead, she said.
Indeed.
A blue bolt sizzled into her ward, and she tried hard to deflect it – but he had put a lot of effort into it, and it hit her square in the chest. She flew backwards, her ribs concaved to squash her dormant heart. As she landed with a thump on her back, she looked down to see dead flesh melting over the white of her ribs, which started – immediately, and painfully – to knit themselves back together. It was almost good to feel something again, even if it was this.
She rose easily from the blow, back on her feet in an instant. The ground beneath her rumbled, and without actually breaking the surface, black jaws came yawning upwards. The conjured creature closed on her thigh and yanked downwards, its teeth scraping along her leg to shear the flesh from her bone like a boot. As the creature faded, her flesh flopped limply to the ground.
Come on, girl, said Fazel. You did better than this when you were alive.
Elessa surged forward, drilling him with blazing light and piercing hot beams.
There, he said, that’s more like it.
Ashes and Dust
Vyasinth paused just above the canopy, looking out over fields at the great battle in the distance. Dots floated above a swelling horde as Graka whirled and Zyvanix swarmed.
May your people destroy each other, she sent her adversaries, while your attention remains here.
Then she let the protective barriers drop. The narrowing streams feeding them fell apart, spilling their contents back into the wood. Her people needed their magic again, and defence of the wood itself no longer mattered. Those who had so
ught entry had already gained it.
Quickly she headed back to the clearing, where she was stilled by what she saw. The Stone lay in the open air, and two mages staggered around it – a burnt skeleton too thin for the robe that whipped around him, and a Varenkai with chunks torn from her. The skeleton conjured, and shadows of shadowmanders raced across the ground towards the woman. She gestured at the air, and translucent eagles dived down and carried the shadowmanders away.
Where was Corlas?
She flowed into the hut and there he lay, slumped against one wall, beginning to groan.
Corlas!
He grunted, pushed himself back from the wall, and cast his eyes around blearily. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least there’s no tree through the hut this time.’
The fight is not over! Get to your feet!
He glanced to where she swirled above him, and blinked slowly. When his eyes opened fully, they were hard. ‘Of course, my Lady. Where is my boy?’
Outside.
Corlas went to the window to stare out at the carnage.
‘How can I intervene? My power has left me.’
Our strength is greatly sapped by Arkus and Assedrynn, but there is still some remaining.
His finger twitched, and she saw him draw on the power she had returned.
‘There is some,’ he said.
He went to the door.
•
Tyrellan crammed further into the shade between the branch he crouched on and the tree’s trunk. As Elessa and Fazel fought each other in the clearing, he had to admit there was something odd about being here again. Was it a good sign that things had come full circle like this? And if so, a good sign for whom? His practical mind clashed with his faith. There was some kind of unseen force at play, of that he was sure – but was it beyond his control to influence the outcome?
Above the crackle of magic, he heard sounds approaching below, and tensed.
‘There!’ said Fahren.
‘Looks like fun,’ came Battu’s voice.
•
Corlas stepped out of his hut as a cloud moved above, for a moment casting him half in shadow and half in light. He leaned on the doorframe, head still spinning. Some of his power went to the bruise on his brow, tightening it up and ebbing away the pain. More trickled into him from his surrounds: no longer the dry stream bed he had lapped at before, yet not the torrent needed to quench his thirst either.
