Time Spiral

by Scott McGough

  “Don’t insult me with that toy.” Freyalise did not stop striding and did not turn her head. “Save its edge and your strength for the Gathans.”

  Snarling, Radha drew the kukri. With her feet once more on Keldon soil and her grandfather’s weapon in her hand, hot fiery mana was hers to command once more. The dagger’s blade glowed searing red.

  Freyalise stopped. A crimson flush crept up her shoulders and neck as she slowly turned back to Radha.

  Radha did not wait for her to finish. She inhaled sharply, concentrating on her rage, focusing it through the kukri dagger. Freyalise completed her turn just as Radha drew back the angled blade and let it fly.

  The dagger tumbled as it climbed, missing Freyalise by yards. It spun on, rising until it sank deep into the bark of a Skyshroud tree thirty feet above the ground.

  “What—” Freyalise began, but the explosion prevented any more. The tree Radha hit erupted into flames that billowed out and up from where the dagger stuck, all the way up to Skyshroud’s threadbare canopy.

  Radha drew a tear-shaped blade in each hand and shouted. “Every step of the way, Planeswalker.” Her face felt hot but Radha’s mind was calm. “I’ll take one tree with me for every step away from the mountain.”

  Freyalise’s skin had gone beyond blood red. Her naked eye disappeared under a film of ruby light and she stood elegant, beautiful, and deadly as fire billowed behind her.

  “Or,” Radha said. She left the alternative unvoiced, instead striking the edges of her blades together. The space around her filled once more with leaves of vibrant green flame that circled and danced.

  There was power here and in Skyshroud, but it would never be enough. Radha’s Keldon blood demanded Keldon fire, and Freyalise must be made to see that.

  Radha cried out as she crossed her blades then flung her arms out straight in front of her. The flames around her rushed up to the burning tree in a swirling cloud of bright, flickering shapes. Radha’s stream of green leaves punched through the column of orange and yellow flames already surrounding the tree. The firelight streaming down on Freyalise changed, shifting from flickering yellow to constant, eerie green.

  Freyalise simply stared, silent and furious, as Radha sheathed her blades. The fierce warrior allowed herself to smile at last. She gestured with her eyes, indicating the area above Freyalise. Disdainfully, Freyalise tilted her head back and turned only slightly.

  The tree was completely surrounded by a cloud of flaming leaves. They were yellow, green, orange, and red, and though they burned brilliant against the dusky sky they did not consume the thin, dead branches. For a moment Radha’s magic had not only recaptured the full glory of Skyshroud at its peak but surpassed it.

  The fire tree lit up the entire valley, even casting its intense yellow glow back into the forest itself. Below, the saproling thicket wriggled and retreated from the glow, mewling piteously. The leaf-flames quickly spread to surrounding trees, wreathing each smooth trunk and skeletal branch in the same dazzling foliage. Soon the entire outer edge of Skyshroud was crackling. When the broken trunk directly over Llanach ignited, Radha saw the captain and all of his rangers standing amazed, shock-still. Silently astounded by the spectacle, the rangers’ wide eyes were filled with the reflection of Radha’s fire.

  “I will lead your rangers, Freyalise,” Radha said, “and I will save your forest, but I will do so my way and only on the mountain.”

  The patron of Skyshroud remained furiously red, glowing vapor rising from her goggled eye. With a haughty flick of her wrist, she extended her hand up and Astor’s dagger tore free from the center of the great blaze. Handle-first, it flew to Freyalise’s hand while the planeswalker continued to stare balefully at Radha. Deliberately, Freyalise lowered the dagger to eye level.

  “Come with me now, my child.” Freyalise opened her hand and dropped Astor’s dagger to the snow. “To the far side of the forest.”

  Radha planted her feet and crossed her arms. “No.”

  Freyalise’s angry color abruptly vanished. She stood facing Radha, her proud, pale features immobile as a porcelain doll’s. “You are a constant trial to me and a perpetual disappointment.” She waved her hand angrily, sending the kukri dagger whirling toward its owner. Radha stood her ground, eyes narrowed, and caught the dagger by the handle with the tip a finger-length from her nose.

  “You are of Skyshroud,” Freyalise said, “yet you turn your back on her. She has nurtured you, nourished your roots so that you might grow tall and strong. She tolerated your Keldon blood, hoping it would make you a better elf, a war chief to protect her from her violent neighbors. Instead, that blood has ever taken you away from her, luring you with promises of ancestral fire.

  “Is this your final choice? To quit the forest for the mountain, to fight not for a cause or your home, but for the sheer joy of frenzy? Now, when your home, your people, and your deity need you most … will you place Keld before Skyshroud?”

  “Keld is Skyshroud,” Radha said. She forcefully slammed Astor’s dagger into her belt. “And Skyshroud is Keld. You made it so, Freyalise, and I am living proof.

  “The Gathans have abused the power of this place. Under their yoke, Skyshroud lies fallow and the fires of Keld have all but gone out. I will break Gathan supremacy and redeem mountain and the forest together.”

  Freyalise’s stoic face now twitched in frustration. “Redeemed is not restored. I tell you Skyshroud will not endure unless we all rally to defend her.”

  “Ahh, but I do not seek merely to endure but to conquer. Driving away the Gathans is endless, a fool’s game. They will never stop coming. Greht is the key. His warhost is vast and well-organized, but that organization hinges entirely on him. Remove him and the entire Gathan army starts to disintegrate from the top down.”

  Freyalise shook her head sadly. “More likely the second-most fearsome will instantly step in to take command. Keldon warhosts are not so simple to disrupt and Greht’s army is not as dependent on him as you suspect. Killing him … assuming you can … would weaken them all, but ultimately it will only create a temporary vacancy.”

  “While they are temporarily weak,” Radha said, “between the time Greht falls and a new Gathan rises to replace him, while they are without a warlord, you and your rangers can be slaughtering them at will. For once the children of Skyshroud will be on equal terms with the sons of Gatha.” She raised her voice, knowing that the nearby rangers were hearing every word. “Does that appeal to you, Llanach? The idea of taking the offensive? Of riding out and seizing victory with your own hands?”

  The captain glanced nervously at Freyalise before answering, “All that would please me if the patron wished it so.”

  Radha eyes grew large and bright. “Come with me.” She turned to Freyalise, a triumphant smile forming. “Will you let them follow me as you intended? Allow me to lead them into battle to save our home?”

  Freyalise was fixed on Llanach, her covered eye flashing. Radha had seen many of the planeswalker’s moods over eighty years, joyful, angry, stern, indulgent, but she had never seen Freyalise heartbroken until now.

  The patron’s voice rose, rolling out over the valley, filling the cold night air with her words. “I am going to the far side of the forest,” she said, “where the Gathans make merry with our trees. Radha is going to the mountain, to confront Greht at the center of his warhost. You Rangers of Skyshroud must now choose how you will defend our home. The true sons and daughters of Skyshroud will follow me, its patron and protector. The rest … Radha and anyone else who follows her … shall never be welcome here again.”

  Still lit from above by Radha’s flaming leaves, the assembled rangers shifted and muttered among themselves. Radha took a step toward the forest, unwilling to let Freyalise have the last word. She pulled Astor’s dagger and held it high, shouting, “I mean to kill the Gathan warlord and break his army’s back. I say putting Greht’s head on a stick is worth ten exiles.”

  To her surprise, several elf voices
rang out in agreement. She had expected Llanach and the others to crumble in the face of Freyalise’s ire, but almost a dozen Skyshroud rangers now emerged from the ranks and were crossing the valley floor toward her. Llanach was among them, though he scrupulously avoided Freyalise’s glare.

  “Selfish, ungrateful children.” The patron of Skyshroud whispered so softly that only Radha could hear. She turned toward Radha and Freyalise gathered her cloak around her shoulders.

  “Good-bye,” she said. “You will die tonight, Radha. As Greht is crushing your skull and burning the flesh from your bones, remember your home as it was, green, lush, and strong, and curse yourself for not fighting to save it when you had the chance, for I shall surely do so.”

  Radha bowed respectfully. “Good-bye, Freyalise. Skyshroud may wither, but it will endure if Keld does.” She straightened. “And I will make Keld endure.”

  Sneering, Freyalise vanished from sight in a soft cloud of light. In the distance Radha heard the sound of a thousand slivers skittering and chattering Their noise receded into the deeper part of the forest, toward the far side of Skyshroud.

  Slowly, the majority of the elf rangers followed their patron and the sound of the slivers, melting into the woods and leaving Radha with her small band of warriors in the valley.

  She quickly counted noses as the flames in the trees dimmed. There were less than a score altogether, including Skive and Dassene. The rangers were a mix of archers, scouts, and spearmen. The elves were each armed with a flimsy improvised sword.

  “Gather round,” Radha said, hunkering down on one knee. She quickly scratched a few shapes into the frozen ground with the tip of her kukri. When she was surrounded by a single-file circle of warriors, Radha tapped the crude map with the dagger.

  “This is us,” she said, “and this is the mountain.” She slashed a series of crosses between the two locations. “There are smaller units of Greht’s warhost bivouacked all through this area. If we go in more or less a straight line, we can hit five or six of them on our way to the mountain.”

  Llanach nodded but asked, “What for?”

  “I want Greht to know we’re coming. His warhost’s communication is so tight they’re like one huge, living thing. I want to be chopping off fingers and toes and leaving deep puncture wounds as we make our way to the head.”

  Skive hissed happily. Llanach nodded again and said, “What happens when we reach the head?”

  Radha leaned forward and stabbed the map, skewering the symbol she had drawn for the mountain. A plume of fire shot up, startling everyone in the circle and pushing them back.

  “Whatever happens,” Radha said, “it’ll be loud.”

  Commander Hessig earned his rank by catching the previous commander’s whip in his bare hand and burying an axe in the man’s forehead. Greht rarely tolerated murder within the ranks, especially if it advanced the murderer, but Hessig was so effective as an overseer that the Gathan warlord allowed him to maintain the position he’d taken by force.

  Lately, Hessig carried his whip coiled at his waist, rarely using it except when they went raiding. There had been precious little to raid but plenty of lumber to fell, so Hessig and his ten-warrior squad had turned their axes on Skyshroud’s trees instead of the elves who guarded them. This would be his fifth trip back to the forest for wood, and he hoped it would be his last. Greht had already begun construction of his expanded armada and the ships would be ready to sail in less than a week. Hessig intended to be on the first boat out, perhaps lashing the oar-slaves for an extra bit of speed.

  “Commander.” The burly, scarred Gathan stood outside Hessig’s tent with his head respectfully bowed.

  “What is it?”

  The raider looked up, careful not to meet Hessig’s eye. “Both sentries on the south perimeter are missing.”

  Hessig emerged from the tent with his hand on his whip and a feral gleam in his eye. “Deserters?” he said hungrily.

  “No,” the other said. “There were signs of a struggle and blood.” He sniffed. “Tasted like elf.”

  “Elf?” Hessig was amused but also slightly unsettled. The elves were less than a joke, paper dolls with tinfoil swords, but if they had followed Hessig out this far, they were truly desperate.

  “Gather the others,” Hessig said.

  “Done.” The other Gathan turned and began calling to his comrades.

  Hessig watched impassively as the unit assembled. The elves had always been cowards, and if they had attacked the sentries then Hessig knew exactly what their strategy was. They would try to lure Hessig and his men into the thicker brush, trusting the Gathans to either come searching for their missing warriors or looking to avenge them. Every step the Gathans took in pursuit of the sentries delayed their timber raid and increased the likelihood of elf traps and ambushes.

  Hessig had a surprise for them. Under Greht’s leadership, even small units like this one were capable of battle magic. A commander like Hessig could strengthen and toughen the raiders under him, and they in turn would enhance him. There was no elf trick to counter a squad of Gathans in full berserker fury. Let the tree-huggers spring their trap: Hessig would make sure it broke its teeth on his flesh, then he would force the jagged pieces down the elf leader’s throat.

  His warriors were assembled and ready, and they were in an ugly mood that reflected Hessig’s own: bored with the non-combat detail and furious that their camp had been attacked. They were ready to march out and take vengeance on any and every stranger they saw.

  “There are elves about,” Hessig said. He uncoiled his whip and cracked it loudly overhead. “They’re waiting for us to come find them.” He smiled roughly. “Instead we’re going straight to the forest.”

  The warriors grumbled, but not so loudly that Hessig would chastise them.

  “We’re going to the forest for the last time,” he added, and his troops rewarded him with an enthusiastic grunt. “We’re going to do our job. We’ll bring more wood to the beach, one more load, then we stay at that beach and wait for the ship to be ready.” He cracked the whip again. “Any elf we see between now and then is fair game.” He drew a short stabbing sword in his free hand. “And I plan to see a lot. The ground will be blood-sodden before my ship sets sail.”

  A louder, rougher cheer went up among the raiders. Hessig felt the fight inside them surge through his bones. They were strong. They were disciplined. They were hungry. This night, they would be invincible.

  Something shoved Hessig from behind, driving him forward a step. His chest felt strange, burning hot but distant. His throat seemed clogged, almost closed.

  Hessig looked down. A sharp, green crescent was sticking out of his chest, its smooth face smeared with blood. Hessig coughed, spattering more red on the crescent, and the strange weapon twisted and curled like a thing alive.

  Before him, his assembled warriors bellowed, roared, and drew their weapons. Hessig heard the faint whistling of arrows dropping from overhead. He had no breath and his throat was full of something thick but he still tried to call out to his troops.

  A thick mass of arrows rained down on his raiders before they had moved two steps. They were definitely elf arrows, their shafts elegant and polished, and the heads expertly fashioned and perfectly balanced. To Hessig their arrival seemed sudden, jarring, as one second his men were in angry motion, coming to his aid, and the next they were all knee-deep in a field of arrow shafts that covered the ground like summer wheat.

  His warriors fell, their arms and legs riddled with elven bolts. Vile curses and pained moans filled the air. Their wounds were grave but not mortal. How could so many arrows miss so many vital spots?

  “You’re right about the sodden ground, butcher.” The voice came from directly behind Hessig’s ear, hissing slightly. “But it won’t be elf blood.”

  Hessig’s whip dropped from his numbing fingers. He felt a second painful shock as the strange weapon was pulled back through his chest. Commander Hessig fell, toppling forward and landin
g with a splash among the pink slushy mixture of warm blood and Keldon snow.

  Radha came out of the shadows behind the command tent and sidled up next to Skive. The viashino was wiping the end of his tail clean on the Gathan overseer’s leather breeches.

  “Well done,” she said.

  Skive nodded. “A pleasure. These aren’t Keldons.”

  “Not at all. If you’re through here, go and fetch the two we left intact.”

  “Understood.” Skive went out into the campsite, smoothly navigating the wounded Gathans being herded and dragged away by the elves.

  Radha kneeled and rolled the overseer onto his back. She paused, searching her memory for the right symbol. Then she drew Astor’s kukri dagger.

  Skive returned when she was halfway done. “The elves are bringing the sentries,” he said. He grimaced and peered down for a closer look. “Is that necessary?”

  “It is.” Radha finished her dire chore with both hands, a sharp grunt, and a wet, twisting crack. She stood up. “This is the third camp we’ve hit and I want to be consistent. Every Gathan with a whip dies and is marked. Wound the others. Leave one and only one healthy enough to run the news back to Greht.” She turned and gestured with her dripping knife. “Bring them here.”

  The Gathan sentries were battered, bloodied, and helpless, but they were not cowed. They struggled and fought against their bonds and their elf handlers, hurling curses and snapping their teeth at any hand that came too close to their mouths.

  “Shut them up, Skive.”

  The viashino slithered forward to the Gathan captives, opened his mouth wide and hissed menacingly. The sentries continued to struggle, but they stopped making noise.

  “Greht is finished,” Radha said, “and one of you gets to bring him the news.”

  “Your bones will bake,” one Gathan said. “Your heart will crack.”

  “Doyen Greht will crush you,” said the other.