Venom and Song

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “Materials,” Grimwarden corrected. “Layadine, the valuable extract of the Nightwish flower, is lethal to Warspiders.”

  “Spiders of any kind, really,” said Alwynn.

  “The stuff you used back in school to kill that one spider!” Tommy pointed to Goldarrow.

  “The same,” she replied.

  “The elders made the decision to use the powder during the siege,” continued Grimwarden.

  “So we won! Good choice!” Johnny pumped his fist. “Sweet!”

  “Except that they extinguished nearly our entire supply.” Grimwarden let the ramifications settle over them.

  Tommy raised his hand, still not comfortable with his place as royalty. Grimwarden shook his head and Tommy spoke up. “Why is that so bad? Can’t we just make more?”

  Alwynn answered this question. “Tommy, the process of extracting and making it suitable for use is a highly dangerous process, one that requires great skill, and one other invaluable commodity.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Time.”

  “Oh. Like how much?”

  “Three hundred years, on average.”

  “Three hun—!”

  “Time that we do not have,” Grimwarden interrupted.

  “So”—Jimmy sat up a little in his chair—“are we ready? I mean, aren’t we close to being done with the Vexbane training?”

  “Close?” Grimwarden eyed him. “Perhaps. Finished? No. But I fear we may never have that luxury. As I see it, our only choice is to get you all as far away from here as possible, and complete what little training I can manage in a different location. The council is right: we do need to raze Vesper Crag, and you are essential to that process. No one would argue that. But there is still much you need to learn.” Grimwarden looked to Elle for her support. Surely, she felt the same. “But this brings up a greater matter. Vesper Crag itself.”

  Alwynn spoke next. “The elders, while bent on securing you as an invaluable asset to war, have no formal battle plan. We are councilmen— politicians at best—not warriors. And while Travin has surely won us a great victory with his planning, he is no Grimwarden. Our battle strategy lies here in this room, among all of you.”

  “Us?” mouthed Jimmy, trying to hide his astonishment. “Attack Vesper Crag?” And I canna’ control my gift yet, Jimmy worried. They knew how to swing a sword, knew how to slay an opponent in two moves. But plan an entire invasion?

  “We must produce a battle plan,” Grimwarden said, placing his hands on the table and leaning forward. He looked at each of them, taking his time. “And I need each of you to contribute. While you have little experience on the battlefield, you are the royal Seven Elven Lords, and you know more than you think you do. Each of you carries answers to clues that must be answered—keys to unlocking doors to the battle. The time is coming when we will unleash the full power of Berinfell upon Vesper Crag. But not here. Not now. We must focus our attention on keeping you safe,” he motioned to the lords.

  “One thing I do know,” he went on, “I will not surrender the Seven to a council of elders bent on taking Vesper Crag at any cost. Win we shall, but not before Ellos grants us divine wisdom to proceed. And not before we have exercised discretion.” He looked to Claris and Mumthers. “You are to return to Nightwish; Mumthers, Claris will be your escort.” Mumthers dipped her head respectfully. “Alwynn, Elle, and I will stay here to intercept the council and buy as much time as we can for the rest of you.”

  “And us?” asked Tommy.

  Grimwarden placed his weathered hand upon a huge tome that lay on the table before him.

  Alwynn brightened immediately. “Is that—?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “The Berinfell Prophecies.”

  Alwynn nearly leapt from his seat. “The Old Ones, are they here?”

  “Nay,” said Grimwarden. “But they were once. Remember the raptor I spoke of? It nested and stood guard over this book in a long-forgotten tower deep in the recesses of this castle. Tommy and Kat stumbled upon it, and I daresay, not by accident.”

  “I wonder,” said Alwynn, trembling, “if I might read it.”

  “Of course,” said Grimwarden. “In time. For now we seek Ellos’s guidance from its pages.” He turned to face the lords once more. “Goldarrow and I have scoured the prophecies. Best we can tell is that the Keystone is hidden away in a fortress to the far north. Precisely where, we cannot be sure. It is best that you head in that direction. The seven of you will follow the Tricin River, then go northeast along the Spine until you come to our rendezvous point, a dell with overgrown ruins right at the end of the Spine. You’ll leave tomorrow, taking the tunnel off the garden courtyard.”

  “You mean the one where we did the first exercise?” asked Jimmy.

  “With the jar! When we first arrived, yes!” added Kat.

  “Aye, that’s the one. It will get you far from Whitehall without ever being seen. It opens up at a curl of the river. From there you know what to do.”

  “I wish we had a flock of those scarlet raptors,” said Johnny. “Seems like the best form of transportation, if you ask me.” He wasn’t the only one who didn’t relish three days on foot.

  Grimwarden glanced at Alwynn. “Ah, if only we had just four such flying mounts. Unless the raptor Tommy and Kat rode has returned, we have only the one the high cleric rode in on.”

  “Ah, I meant to mention that to you,” said Alwynn. “The willful featherbrain flew off the moment I got off it.”

  “Seems Ellos has decided for us. Use your feet. Use the tunnel. I will find you in three days’ time. Take shelter and wait for us in the deep wood.”

  “And then?” asked Tommy.

  “And then, Lord Felheart, we seek the Keystone.”

  “Lower your bridge and open your gate!” Manaelkin cried out. “By order of the High Council of Berinfell! We have urgent business with Guardmaster Grimwarden!”

  “I greet thee, Manaelkin,” Grimwarden said, his head suddenly appearing between a crenellation in the wall above the drawbridge. “But one moment with the gate. It is some doing for just the three of us.” Grimwarden disappeared from view.

  Manaelkin mumbled to Danhelm, “What does he mean, ‘just the three of us’?”

  “I do not know,” Danhelm replied. “Perhaps the others are off on training missions.”

  “Hmmm,” Manaelkin muttered. “Perhaps.”

  Inside, Grimwarden turned to Goldarrow and said, “I want you to remain up in the gatehouse.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” she asked. “You’ll need my help, if not with the gate, certainly with the bridge.”

  “We can manage,” he said, motioning to Alwynn. “I don’t expect any trouble beyond my arrest. But just in case, should things go badly, you watch from up here, descend the rear stairwell to the tunnels, and follow the lords. Understood?”

  Reluctantly, Goldarrow nodded. “But I’m none too happy about it, mind you.”

  “Noted. But we cannot afford the risk of no one to help the lords.” And that was the end of it.

  Grimwarden descended to the gate. He and Alwynn raised the portcullis and opened the gate locks holding the bridge in place.

  “GRIMWARDEN!” Manaelkin screamed from outside. “Open the gate this instant!”

  “We are!” he bellowed back. “Had you ever lifted a finger at a gate in Berinfell, you might know this is no—ahg!—easy—urgh!—task! Grimwarden grasped one of the turnpegs of the massive iron wheel on which the drawbridge’s release chains were wound. “Alwynn, a bit of help!”

  Together, they moved the wheel enough to dislodge the thick stopping peg and allow the chain to roll outward. “Slowly!” Grimwarden yelled, straining against the weight. “Slowly!”

  Alwynn could not help any longer without losing consciousness. He let go. Grimwarden couldn’t hold it by himself. The drawbridge fell the remaining six feet and slammed into the ground below, sending up a cloud of debris. As the dust cleared, Grimwarden and A
lwynn stood in the entryway, side by side.

  “Alwynn,” Manaelkin seethed. “I should have guessed.”

  “Guessed?” inquired Alwynn. “You’ve known where I stand for a long, long time.”

  “Yes,” Manaelkin replied. “I suppose I have. You stand against Elvenkind, against our final victory.”

  “I am not the one defying the high council’s original vote and bringing an army to make certain his own will is done.”

  Manaelkin drew out his blade and started across the board, but when Grimwarden drew out his own blade, the council chief thought better of it and held fast. “We’re here for the Seven Lords,” Manaelkin said plainly.

  “Oh, so you didn’t come for tea and cakes?” Grimwarden mocked.

  “Give me the lords!”

  “They are not yours to take, Manaelkin!” Alwynn spat back.

  The chief council was furious, intolerant of what he deemed insubordination. He looked behind him. “Flet soldiers! Bring me the Seven Lords! And let no one stand in your way!”

  The flet soldiers were called to attention and began to march, passing to either side of Manaelkin and crossing the drawn bridge. But as they neared the far side, their march slowed to a halt.

  It was Grimwarden.

  These were the men he had trained. Raised from boys into men. And despite the most hellacious triads of the chief councilman, they would not be disloyal to him. Not now. Not ever.

  “Yes,” Grimwarden said, waving his hand. “Do come inside. You, too, Manaelkin, so we can discuss this as is fitting.” Grimwarden turned his back and started to walk back under the gatehouse. Alwynn remained a moment, wondering what Manaelkin would do.

  “What are you doing?!” Manaelkin screamed. “Attack him!” He started forward now, shoving his way between his soldiers and brandishing his dagger. “BRING ME THE SEVEN!”

  “Grimwarden, defend yourself!” Alwynn cried. “He has a blade!”

  Grimwarden started to turn, but not in time. Manaelkin dove.

  A bright blue light exploded in the center of the drawbridge, shattering the thick board into oblivion, as well as all those who stood in the middle of it. Manaelkin’s splinter-riddled body slammed into Grimwarden and saved him from the most direct force of the blast. Alwynn was similarly spared by the corpses of more than one slain flet soldier.

  Grimwarden slowly heaved Manaelkin’s lifeless body to the side and blinked, his ears ringing from the blast. Only one weapon has that much power. Arc rifles. But how? He propped himself up on an elbow, head spinning. Dazed. Scores of dead flet soldiers, some still burning, lined both sides of the ditch between the castle and the far bank. Outside of the castle wall remained hundreds more flet soldiers, each reeling from the blast they had witnessed. And beyond them came a sight that made even Grimwarden shudder.

  Appearing among the trees like ghostly apparitions came a wide front of Warspiders and their Gwar riders. Pop! Pop! More arc stones were fired as the enemy poured through the trees.

  “Olin! Get up!” It was Goldarrow’s voice, but heard as if through a tunnel.

  Grimwarden looked up. She was running down the front steps of the gatehouse. He tried to call out to her. Elle . . . but he wasn’t sure if his mouth actually spoke the word.

  By his side now, she said, “Olin, you’re bleeding!”

  Grimwarden stood on unsteady legs. He quickly assessed the attack. Flet soldiers were valiantly trying to form up lines. Archers had taken to the trees, but they had no leadership.

  Kah-booooom!

  More explosions shook the grounds outside Whitehall.

  Grimwarden summoned all his strength. “Get to the Seven!” he spat. “The tunnel!”

  “I’m not leaving you, Grimwarden,” she choked back tears.

  “NOW!” he roared at her. She grimaced, closing her eyes. “I’ll come with Alwynn if we can. But our lives”—he coughed—“are irrelevant now. I will stand with our soldiers here! But you must go with the Seven, see their journey through. Too many—”

  “But, Olin, I—”

  “GET AWAY FROM HERE!” He shoved her back.

  22

  Going It Alone

  THEY HAD been running all morning, having finally emerged from the underground tunnels into the light of day. Even in top condition as they were, the pace was grueling.

  Kat bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for air. “I have to stop.”

  “Can’t,” Jett said. “Not yet. Keep going.”

  But she shook her head. “It’s too much.”

  “Me, too,” Kiri Lee joined in. “Can’t we rest for just a minute?”

  “For all we know, the elders have half of Berinfell’s army on our heels,” Johnny suggested. “Grimwarden said not to stop. Only at night.”

  “He also said it was a three-day journey by foot,” Kat reminded him. “We can’t keep this pace forever. Come on. Just a few minutes.” She looked to Tommy for support.

  He puffed out his cheeks. “Fine,” Tommy said, glancing at Jett. “But just enough to catch our breath.”

  “Ah! Thank you,” Kiri Lee said, putting a hand on Tommy’s back. Kat glared.

  The seven of them wandered down to the edge of the river they’d been following. Grimwarden called it the Tricin, running due north. They knelt and splashed the cool water in their faces, taking in deep drinks out of their cupped hands. Refreshed, they walked back and found places to sit among the shade of the woods, some atop small boulders, others leaning against tree trunks.

  “How d’yu think it’s going back at Whitehall?” Jimmy asked to no one in particular.

  “I think Grimwarden is thrashing those guys,” said Autumn, “sending the elders all the way back to Nightwish with their tails between their legs.”

  “Oh yeah!” said Jett, making a fist. “See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya!” The rest chuckled.

  “What about the army?” asked Kat. “Do you really think they would hurt Grimwarden and Goldarrow? Alwynn?”

  Tommy sat up a little taller. “I think the elders would give it a pretty good go, but in the end, I can’t ever see the army—his army— turning on Grimwarden.”

  “The dude would pummel them,” Jett said, smashing his fist into his other palm, and making a poof! sound with his mouth.

  “Still,” said Tommy, “I wish we knew what was going on back there.”

  “I could run back,” said Autumn.

  The thought hung in the air.

  Finally, Johnny leaned forward. “No way.”

  “I’m serious,” Autumn retorted. “I could be there and back before you’d even miss me. And they’d never even see me.”

  “Forget about it.”

  But Tommy stared at her with the slightest grin on his face.

  “No way, Tommy. She’s not going,” said Johnny.

  “Zip down there, scope it out. Zip back.” Tommy scratched his head. “I can’t see the harm in that.”

  Johnny was on his feet walking toward Tommy and Autumn. “I forbid it!”

  “Forbid it?” Autumn sat bolt upright.

  “Dude, easy,” said Jett, also standing to meet him.

  “Yeah, I forbid it. She’s my sister—”

  “Your fellow lord of Berinfell, ruler of Allyra,” Kat corrected.

  “Whatever.”

  “And I’m going,” Autumn concluded.

  “No!”

  “You can’t stop me, Johnny.”

  “Autumn, but what if you—?”

  “What if I what, Johnny? I die?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah. What if you die?”

  “What if we all die?” she spat back. “Haven’t you realized that we’ve been training to fight? For war? People die in wars, Johnny. But what we’ve been taught to do is use our gifts to keep others from dying. To learn what we can, when we can. To be faster, smarter, stronger, and braver than our enemy. And maybe, just maybe, this scouting trip would work to our advantage. Give us a lead on our pursuers.”

  Johnny just stoo
d there, mouth open, but no words. He glared at her but could find nothing to say. He glanced at Tommy, then Jett.

  “So I’m going.”

  “No more than ten minutes looking around, Autumn,” instructed Tommy. “No unnecessary risks. Johnny is right about one thing: we definitely can’t afford to lose you. Not now.”

  “Not ever,” said Johnny.

  Autumn smiled, and then walked up to hug him. While he might not be blood directly, he would always be her big brother. “Thanks,” she whispered. And a moment later she let go, vanishing in a swirl of leaves.

  Autumn felt the forest passing by her in slow motion, picking her course as easily as a child skipping through a park. But she knew in reality her body was traveling at unimaginable speed, seen only as a blur by any forest animals that saw her. Her feet never stumbled once, clearing rocks, running along downed trees, and bounding over shrubs. She followed the river all the way back to where it wound around the base of a slowly rising hill, the one upon which Whitehall sat. And it was then she came to an abrupt halt.

  Towering high above her was a thick plume of black smoke, rising like a damp chimney fire from a white stone woodstove . . . Whitehall!

  Autumn covered her mouth with her hand, gasping. “It can’t be,” she whispered. Something moved in the woods behind her. She spun around. A Gwar was traipsing through the underbrush. The warrior had not yet taken notice of her, so Autumn darted to her left, hiding among a stand of oaks. The Gwar continued to lumber through the wood, obviously not concerned with stealth. Autumn connected the fire above with the scouting Gwar in the same time it took her to race up the hillside and stop just beside a giant boulder not one hundred yards from the main gate.

  The drawbridge was nowhere to be seen; only a blackened, yawning hole remained in the ditch that separated the main path from the fortress’s entrance. But more surprising was the sight that filled the entrance: hundreds of Gwar soldiers, and even more Warspiders. They milled about aimlessly, dismantling the main courtyard and heaving stones from the upper ramparts above.

  “They’re bored,” Autumn said to herself. She watched them, each disconnected, unconcerned. Whatever had happened here, it was long over.