Forestborn

by Elayne Audrey Becker

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  A shout rends the air.

  I’m on my feet in an instant, water tumbling down my wrists and over my boots. Was it—? Another garbled shout, and this time I’m sure of the voice.

  Helos.

  I surge up the hill as fast as I can manage, stumbling once or twice on an unstable bit of footing—whether from roots, rocks, or a surge of magic, I neither know nor care. Weslyn must have jumped the stream, because his footsteps are pounding the earth just behind me. Branches scratch my skin and yank my hair, but the stings barely even register. I have only one thought, and that’s to get to my brother.

  The sounds of a struggle grow louder as we reach the campsite. Heart writhing in its cage, I hasten to make sense of the scene emerging before me.

  There’s Helos, in elk form, surrounded by blue-clad men. How many? There must be six at least, maybe seven. One by one, they’re smothering him in ropes.

  Without thinking, I scream his name.

  The men’s eyes are on me straightaway. Seconds later, two of them break apart and tear in our direction.

  Pulling his sword, Weslyn shoves me aside, half a second before his blade connects with another’s. Three more uniforms have sprung out from our left, a second wave that neither of us spotted in our panic. I barely have time to fear for him before cool air rushes through my body and my clothing rips apart. Claws out, hackles raised, I shift to lynx just in time to deflect one of the two men charging me, rolling onto my back and kicking out with my hind legs.

  His body is powerful; I can feel the strength in his muscles as I send him crashing onto his back. By the time I’ve leapt to my paws, he’s already twisting to the left, gasping, heaving, desperate to restore the breath I’ve knocked from his lungs. I don’t stop to think. I don’t consider my options. Before he has time to swing his sword back into position, I clamp my jaws around his throat and rip.

  Warm blood showers my snout and floods my mouth, over my gums and beneath my tongue. But I don’t loosen my hold. Instead, the taste sends me into a sort of frenzy, and I tug harder, tearing and maiming until the jerking beneath me ceases abruptly.

  The second man is backing away, staring in horror at the sticky liquid dribbling from my jaws down the front of my coat. I have half a mind to spare him, but the predator instincts are thundering through my senses, and he’s clearly making for his comrades again. No doubt to help subdue Helos, who’s thrashing about like a wildcat himself. Ears pinned close to my head, I close the distance between us in four strides and pounce, digging my claws into his back and finding the soft spot beneath his jawbone. He stops twitching long before his friend.

  When I raise my head once more, the scene has already shifted. A man’s sword-tip catches Weslyn just above the knee, but Weslyn doesn’t falter. He intercepts the blade with his own and slams against it several times before dislodging it from his opponent’s hands and slicing his sword through the man’s midsection. To my left, one of the men around Helos is on the ground, emitting strangled cries of agony as his shaking hands clutch blindly at the long, bloody gash severing him from neck to navel. Another man bears similar wounds on his legs and drops a moment later.

  Amazingly, I think we might actually be winning, but then out of nowhere, reinforcements appear. Again. Now there are five men around Helos once more, two of them fresh, holding fast to the ropes that bind him. I charge toward my brother as he shifts to fox and attempts to wiggle out of the cords now hanging loosely off his smaller form. He manages to rid himself of a few, but one of those ruthless men delivers a vicious blow against the back of his skull, and he falls to the ground.

  Falls, and doesn’t get up.

  I snarl in rage, paws flying toward the group.

  One of them spots my approach and shouts a warning as he raises his bow. I manage to clear the arrow speeding toward me—barely—but a sickening cry from behind sends me sliding to a halt.

  Weslyn, who I’ve only just realized was steps behind me, has dropped to his knees. His fingers are turning scarlet where they clutch at a black-fletched shaft imbedded in his sword arm, midway between the shoulder and elbow. My blood freezes in my veins. The arrow pierced him.

  A man from the newest wave of reinforcements is limping toward him from behind, the only one out of—I look beyond him, merciful fortune, there are five bodies on the ground—that he hasn’t killed. Weslyn hears him coming and releases his arm, grabbing his blade with his left hand and stumbling to his feet. Sticky blood drips down from the arrow wound as he steadies himself—then staggers to the side.

  I look toward the group carrying Helos, which has begun a hasty retreat through the trees, then back at Weslyn, who’s already falling.

  This will only take an instant. I race toward the man and duck around his feeble swordwork with ease, bringing him down swiftly now that I know how it’s done. Weslyn tries to stand again—and fails. I just whip back around, ready to return to my brother and finish off the rest of the men who dared to touch him.

  The forest before me is empty, save for the dead.

  Helos is gone.

  NINETEEN

  They took my brother.

  I have no idea how they tracked us, or how far they’ve gotten. I don’t even know if Helos is still alive.

  But he’s gone, and they’ve taken him, and it’s taking every drop of effort for me not to fall apart on the spot.

  I turn to Weslyn, who’s on the ground with the black-fletched arrow in his arm, clutching at his knee, his face contorted in pain. I can’t tell how grave his injuries are or how much blood he’s lost, and he’s my responsibility. Please, Violet said, and I promised Finley he’d be fine. I’m charged with protecting him.

  His eyes connect with mine, and he whispers a single word: “Go.”

  The command may condemn him, but it isn’t a choice for me, not really.

  I run.

  My paws fly across the forest floor as easily as my wings claim the sky. The ashen, earthy scent of magic hangs faintly in the air, still far weaker than it used to in these parts. I cling to the sight-and-sound trail of scuffed dirt and quivering vegetation, uniformed pant legs rubbing together and the thumping footsteps of rubber-soled boots. Every stride pierces my heart with a thousand knives. Patches of blood are smattered across the ground, and on the leaves, Helos’s scent.

  And then, without any warning whatsoever, the trail ends abruptly.

  I crash to a halt and pause an instant before retracing my steps. Impossible. It was clear enough only moments before. My ears strain to relocate the party, but the only remnants they detect sound underground, which makes no sense. I search the area thoroughly, scrabble at the forest floor, even lurch a few paces farther ahead in the hopes of picking the trail back up. But my eyes and ears aren’t wrong.

  It’s simply vanished.

  Panic rips through me then, so forceful that my bobbed tail brushes out. Do they have magic? But no, that would be impossible; humans cannot wield magic. They’re simply gone. My brother is gone. And I’ve killed people.

  The reality of that begins to sink in. I didn’t just fight them off. I ripped their throats out and can still taste blood between my teeth. I don’t even want to know what my coat looks like.

  And I don’t regret it.

  I think that should be impossible, but it’s the truth. They were after my brother—and my friend. It was us or them, and I chose us. I chose us, and I don’t regret it.

  I’m not sure what that says about me.

  I try to imagine what Helos would have done, were our situations reversed. Throughout our childhood, our survival strategy was always to run away. Evade, outsmart, hide. Wait for the danger to pass or flee so far away that we lost it.

  What would Helos have done?

  This is the question that plagues me as I perform another thorough examination of the area. But the trail is truly gone, sight, sound, and scent, and I’m forced to admit defeat.

  Overwhelmed with despair, I ti
lt my head to the sky. A mournful yowl erupts from my throat, high-pitched and piercing. I send the sound into the forest around me, hoping that somehow, wherever he is, Helos can hear it and know that I’m coming for him. Hoping that he’s even alive to hear it.

  But first, there’s someone else who needs saving, and at least I know where he is.

  I pick my way back to Weslyn, limping after a thorn catches in my paw. Fortunately, beyond that, I seem to be unscathed.

  He’s right where I left him: slumped onto the forest floor, white shirt stained scarlet, alone except for the slain men around him. The fur rises along my spine. He’s breathing heavily and dangerously pale, clearly exerting a great deal of effort to keep silent.

  Even to my weaker nose, the putrid scent of death hangs heavy in the air. I count nine bodies in total—the one whose belly Helos slit with his antlers has since expired. Apprehensive, I glance up through the cracks in the canopy, where vultures have already begun circling overhead. Cursed fortune.

  When Weslyn finally catches sight of me, his eyes widen significantly. He looks afraid, and I honestly don’t blame him.

  I need to pull the arrow free and assess the seriousness of his wounds. To do that, I need to shift back to human. Normally I would do it without a second thought—it’s just another form. But for some reason, being naked in front of him suddenly feels different, and I find that I don’t want to.

  Don’t be ridiculous, snaps the voice inside my head. He needs you.

  Steeling my nerves, I pad over to my pack and sit beside it, looking at him expectantly. He closes his eyes.

  Though I hate the thought of traveling in a dress, the pants I ripped today were one of only two other pairs. For all I know, there could be more of those men nearby, and I can’t risk ruining a second set. Checking once more to ensure his eyes are really closed, I shift to human, remove the thorn from my hand, and quickly pull underthings and the lavender dress from my bag. Heartbeats later, I’m kneeling at Weslyn’s side.

  “Let me look,” I instruct, trying to ignore the wariness in his expression. When he doesn’t offer the wounded arm, I reach for it myself and gently remove his other, soaked hand from beneath the arrow shaft. Fortunately, the hole is close to the edge; it seems to have cut through more fat than muscle. The pain must be horrendous, but still—he’s lucky.

  A quick inspection of the remaining tears in his clothing reveals the other cut a little above the knee, but that one seems shallow enough, thank fortune. I have to disinfect them, and I have to stop the bleeding, but I’m not a healer.

  “My bag,” Weslyn says through gritted teeth.

  I snatch it from the ground and drop it at my feet. Though I’m hesitant to rifle through his things, he’s in no state to do it himself, so I flip the covering open and peer inside.

  It takes some time to find what I need. I end up laying out some of his belongings on the ground—clothing, food, the book, and the journal. I leave the box of stardust where it is; his injuries don’t look severe enough to merit using any of that precious supply, and I won’t risk it going anywhere other than the inside of a pack. At last, I produce the roll of bandages and the vial of disinfectant that he used on me. There’s no needle or thread, so after I free the arrow, we’ll just have to hope that a tight enough binding will stop the flow of blood. I don’t want to think about what will happen if it doesn’t.

  “I’m going to take this out,” I tell him, indicating the arrow and attempting to sound confident.

  Weslyn opens his mouth to speak, but before he can protest or dwell too long on the anticipation of pain, I fist the shaft and break it in two. Weslyn swears fiercely and drops his head, gasping as I slide the pieces free.

  “Sorry,” I breathe. As tenderly as I can, I roll back the sleeve until it’s up to his shoulder. My fingers are covered in his blood, as I’m sure my face is still covered with the blood of the men I killed. I can feel it starting to dry.

  I reach for the shirt I tore when shifting to lynx and use it to wipe the area as clean as I can, a process not made easy by the flowing cut. When I soak an untouched stretch of fabric in the disinfectant, Weslyn stiffens visibly.

  “Don’t be a baby,” I say lightly, hoping to take the edge off of his nerves. Then I press the cloth against his skin. This time he can’t stifle his groan.

  “Almost done,” I lie, being careful to clean all of it. Then I wrap it tightly with the bandages.

  By now, Weslyn looks close to fainting. I slap his face a little, trying not to dwell on the feeling of stubble scraping my palm, desperate for him not to leave me alone in this clearing. Not yet. “Don’t fall asleep,” I say, though I don’t know if that’s actually necessary.

  “Just … painful,” he breathes, blinking slowly.

  Overhead, the meddlesome vultures are loitering. I scan the trees for movement before applying the same treatment to Weslyn’s leg, then wipe my hands and sit back, exhausted. Nothing to do now but wait. The bandage around his arm has soaked through a little, but the blood hasn’t reached all the way around, so I’m hoping that means it’s tapering off.

  Weslyn catches my eye. “Helos,” he rasps.

  The word is a blade to my stomach. I shake my head, wishing I had another wound to treat. Anything to distract me from my failure to rescue my brother.

  “I lost him,” I say. It comes out little more than a whisper.

  “Is he—?”

  “I don’t know!” I exclaim, tears welling in my eyes. I cross my legs and bury my face in my red hands. “I don’t know. I lost the trail.” An avian cry pierces the air, and I allow myself another handful of heartbeats before lifting my gaze to the sky once more.

  “You’re worried … about them?” Weslyn asks, gesturing vaguely to the birds.

  “Not them.” I watch him wince as he clutches his leg and realize we’re going nowhere just yet. “About whatever else might have seen them.”

  We sit in silence for a time. Ever so slowly, the sounds of the forest start to surface again. Creatures coming out of hiding after the disturbance has cleared.

  Never in my life have I felt so utterly alone.

  “Rora.”

  I lift my tear-streaked face.

  Weslyn is struggling to keep his eyes open. “Sorry, but … I think … I’m going to faint.”

  I release a huff of air and almost smile in spite of myself, torn between a desire to shake the life out of him or kiss him.

  “It’s okay. Lie down and shut your eyes.”

  He does as I say, leaving me to scan our surroundings for any signs of movement. Scout, and rack my brain for a clue as to where those men might have taken my brother. My fingers tighten around the skirt of my dress—and my head snaps up. Helos and hands.

  With a glance at Weslyn to make sure he’s not watching, I step carefully over to Helos’s pack and sink down beside it. My eyes well up as I sort through his clothing, shirts he may never wear again for all I know. Stop it. He’s still alive. Surely he must be.

  My fingers brush against loose parchment. Delicately as I can, I extract the folded paper that Helos clung to throughout the river crossing and restore it to its original shape.

  It’s Finley.

  Finley in strokes of black ink, a drawing cut from a leaflet. Messy hair across his forehead, cheekbones carved through an oval face. Standing—back when he could without pain—yet slouching slightly despite the formal attire. I run a fingertip across the tailored suit and vest beneath. Finley would have hated these, but I’m smiling all the same. He was healthier when this portrait was created. Untouched by death’s proximity.

  The thought of Helos clinging to this cutout makes me want to bury my face in my hands once more. I cannot lose him. I will not lose him.

  But for now, he isn’t here, and Finley’s just a picture, and Weslyn’s breathing has deepened into sleep. I’m alone in these evil woods, with only my thoughts and the dead for company.

  * * *

  The marrow sheep arrive
more quickly than I anticipated. Pale brown coats, white rumps, massive horns curling to either side of a head that could crush a person’s skull with a single blow. Carrion pickers of the Vale, hunting for bones to strengthen their horns. The bodies of the Eradain men are still strewn about where they fell.

  Fortunately for us, or perhaps a sign of the Vale’s weakening state, there are only two sheep. I manage to frighten them off in lynx form before Weslyn comes to.

  “We have to move,” I tell him, rousing him from his stupor once they’re gone. I hold out a navy button-down from his bag. “Put this on.”

  Weslyn doesn’t argue or demand an explanation for my rummaging through his belongings again. Instead, he accepts the offering and attempts a one-handed change while I take sudden interest in cataloging my food supply. I’m onto the fruits when he holds out the ruined shirt.

  “Leave it,” I say, indicating the ground. “Can you stand?”

  He drops the shirt and pushes himself to his feet, keeping most of his weight on his uninjured leg.

  “That one doesn’t hurt so bad,” he explains when he sees where I’m looking. “I just don’t want to push it, in case it starts bleeding again.”

  I appraise him critically, unable to determine whether or not he’s lying. His voice sounds stronger, at least. “All right then. Let’s go.”

  I place his things back in his bag and hoist it over my shoulder, ignoring his protests. I grab Helos’s bag, too, since he’ll definitely need that when we find him. The weight of three packs is almost more than I can manage, but I lead us in the direction I ran in earlier without complaint, the track the men took when they stole my brother. We barely make it a hundred paces before Weslyn staggers against a tree.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, panting heavily. “Just need to rest for a moment.”

  I glance between the way forward and Weslyn, torn. After a brief deliberation, I make up my mind. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

  “No, let’s keep going.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure him. “We’ve moved far enough from the bodies. We should be safe.” Another lie, but what am I supposed to do? He can’t even walk.