by Jacob Cooper
“Fear,” the first man whispered in a low grumble. The High Duke seemed to consider for a moment. One of the horses whinnied as a mounted soldier joined the High Duke and the first man. He wore the tunic of a Khansian Guard.
“I don’t see anything, your Grace,” the Khan offered.
The first man huffed at this. “Not surprising.”
“Are you certain we are not alone?” the High Duke asked before the Khan could respond in kind.
The first man stood for a moment, giving the briefest hesitation. Then: “Quite so, my Liege.” He smiled predatorily, as if in anticipation. The High Duke considered again, looking somewhat uncertain.
“Discovered we must not be,” the long-bearded man barked in a guttural and broken Sentharian, the common tongue of the Realm. The pitch of his low voice resonated like the Roniah River rushing over large rocks.
“Go,” the High Duke finally commanded. “I place this Dahlrak upon you.” Looking up to the Khan, he ordered, “You will follow and observe. Assist if necessary. See to it he fulfills his Charge, but do not interfere lest you become part of his Dahlrak, his Charge.”
“It shall be done, my Duke!” the Khansian Guard acknowledged.
“We’ve seen what we came to see,” Wellyn remarked. “The rest of us will depart.”
Reign felt the first man approach slowly, prowl-like. The distinct feeling of becoming prey riveted through her and she silently fled before he reached her position.
Numbness dominated her senses as she darted through the frondescence, paying no heed to the scrapes and cuts she received as she clumsily navigated the forest and bounced off trees. She lost her footing in her scrambling to put distance between herself and her pursuers and fell face first into the forest floor, the smell of wet soil and dead pine needles filling her nostrils. The ground was cold and damp. Her limbs shook as she raised herself to her hands and knees, confused and frustrated by her strange lack of coordination. She spat dead leaves and mud from her mouth as she tried to think coherently. Her limbs did not seem like they were her own at this moment, heavy and sluggish. It was maddening. Wood-dwellers, even younglings such as Reign, had incredible mastery of their physical abilities, speed being among their foremost. This was never truer than in the forests in the Western Province where her people lived, where she was now filled with unfathomable trepidation.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered. Her voice sounded alien to her, as if not her own. The tips of Reign’s fingers felt tingly and abnormal. Her pulse quickened as she felt her pursuers through the ground and the roots of the trees, the same trees that were screaming in terror from the event, the atrocity, she had witnessed. She had never heard a sound so horrific before it was cut short, not in all of nature. It was not an audible scream, one only a wood-dweller could feel. The echo of it still remained in her mind undiminished, an indelible sonic scar seared into her skull. Reign’s insides twisted until she retched upon the ground and shook more violently. The pulsing of her blood racing through her veins caused her head to feel like a piece of hot iron on a blacksmith’s anvil, every throb a crushing blow.
Get up! Get up! she chided herself, shaking her head, but she remained on her hands and knees. The man on horseback she judged to be farther away through the vibrations in the ground, though still approaching. She was not as concerned about him as she was the hooded man on foot. His size posed a perplexing irony, for he was seemingly faster than she was, faster than a wood-dweller. Built like an ox but with the swiftness and agility of a panther. He was closer in distance and headed directly toward her position. Even the sound of his footfall was feral. An audible shudder of dejection escaped her lips, coming forth as a high-pitched moan. She tried to stifle the involuntary sound but only succeeded in making the noise more unnatural. Was this what hopelessness sounded like? Daddy, she pleaded desperately, trying to force her prayer through the forest, but she could not clear her mind enough for her appeal to be propelled. She did not know if she had the strength to send her plea over such a distance, assuming she could even establish a connection. Hot tears escaped from her eyes and splashed down upon the backs of her hands as she told herself again to get up, but her body did not respond.
Oddly, she noticed the moonlight’s reflected gleam off the tears that fell to the backs of her hands. It was more an amber color than white.
It is nearly second moon, she thought.
This small realization of something so common was enough to help her mind locate a momentary focal point and regain control of her limbs. She pulled her hands, now caked in mud with small twigs and pine needles sticking to them, up from the ground and pushed herself upright. Run, she commanded herself. Her canter began again, more slow and awkward than it needed to be if she were to escape. A tree root nearly dropped her to the ground again, but she recovered before going all the way down. An erratic breathing rhythm stayed with her as she compelled her quivering legs to carry her forward. Her small dress was torn and tattered almost beyond recognition. As she moved, Reign’s muscles relaxed enough for her cadence and speed to return. Her flight was swift and silent as with all wood-dwellers. No one could hear the light-footed lope of a wood-dweller save for another of their kind. She fell more into her stride as she overcame her initial anxiety, though her fear still brimmed close to overflowing at any moment. She should be safe beneath the canopy of trees in the night, but something primal told her to run and not look back. Her only thought was to get to her father’s hold, to her home where she knew she would be safe. On a conscious level she did not know where she should run, but her instinct of direction took over as she gave herself to the promptings of the forest.
If she could just reach her father, her strong and fearless father, she would be safe. She knew this. The ox-like panther of a man pursued her, this she also knew. He was no wood-dweller, and his pursuit carried the sound of deep peril in its wake. She could acutely judge his distance behind her, and she knew he was gaining ground. How he was able to track her eluded her but also fed her fear, stoking it hotter and hotter. The man was too fast. But her father would save her. He had always saved her. He feared nothing.
As Reign passed a Triarch tree with inhuman haste she reached forth her hand, palm out, and for the briefest of moments made a clean connection against the ancient tree’s bark. Instead of listening and receiving through the tree, she attempted to project her own message. Her father had tried to teach her and her twin brother the skill, admonishing them not to tell others of the ability. It required a tremendous amount of serenity and concentration for the mind to enter the required state in order for the trees to allow a channel to be opened through them. But, their efforts to sync their minds with the forest had met with little success. Reign had to succeed now though her mind was filled with anything but serenity. She did not know if she possessed enough strength or skill to make the plea endure over such a distance. Would it fizzle to little more than a faint echo? Was the thought to even try such a feat just foolish hope born of her desperation? Reign was desperate. She could only manage to send one word before her momentum forced her to break away from the tree and continue her panic-stricken run.
Please hear me! Reign cried inside, begging the Ancient Heavens to ferry her message swift and accurate.
The man drew closer.
It was the smell. Salty. Metallic. The smell of fear. That’s how the chase-giver was able to track her. This was the way of it for his kind. The scent of fear was intoxicating, perhaps more so than any other.
This fear was particularly potent. Tantalizing, it drove him like a bloodhound in a hunter’s trance just before the imminent kill. Ruthless. Relentless. He could not be released from his Charge until he obtained his purpose, or was killed.
All emotion gives a scent, easy to track, hard to lose – and all sentient beings give off emotional scent. A chase-giver can smell the emotion and, when Charged, he is attracted to it like a wolf to wounded prey. Their sense of smell was not only more powerful than oth
er beings, but also more comprehensive in spectrum. An emotion felt always left a scent where the quarry had once been, and the stronger the emotion conjured the longer the scent remained. It could linger for a day, sometimes from first moonrise to second moonfall of the following night, leaving an invisible but strong odoriferous trail for one of his kind to pursue.
The chase-giver’s senses heightened as he closed the distance. Adrenaline flowed and empowered his already rippled muscles as unnatural velocity attended him, morphing him into the haunting of nightmares, the unspoken dread of all living. All creatures could be prey to his kind once he was released, once Charged. Of the very few alive who knew of their existence, none really comprehended what gave chase-givers their ability, nor their seemingly inhuman strength while Charged, but he did not care to understand the reason. All that mattered was the effect, the thrill. This kill promised to be special.
Lord Thannuel Kerr stood atop a tree, scanning all he could see below him as he clutched a Triarch leafling in his hand, listening intently. The moonlight was more than enough illumination, especially coupled with the sensitive hearing of a wood-dweller. He sprang the length of a hundred men to another treetop and continued to reach out through the forest. Easily climbing and jumping between treetops, a wood-dweller was at home anywhere a forest was found. Where he currently perched, at the edge of his hold just southeast of the Western Province’s state city of Calyn, he listened intently for his daughter. The rain fell in thick circle patterns from the clouds above, a typical occurrence as the Low Season approached. As seasons changed, the formations of the clouds in the heavens morphed in response, signaling which season approached and the waning of the current season. The Dimming Season, with only twelve days remaining, was coming to its end as signaled by the clouds increasingly forming great hollow-centered circles in the sky, releasing their moisture to the world below.
Wood-dweller younglings were often found dancing across the treetops in the center of a circular downpour, staying completely dry. It was a game to them, trying to stay in the middle of the falling rain without getting wet as the clouds glided through the skies. This was a favorite game of Thannuel’s son, Hedron. Many children from Calyn often visited the Kerr hold to play through its massive corridors and elevated pathways that wove amid the trees for great distances. Kathryn Hoyt, daughter of Lord Hoyt of the Southern Province, visited often with her family. She was promised to Hedron, much to the boy’s annoyance. Thannuel knew the boy would soon overcome that and then he and Moira, as parents, would have a different kind of problem. Kathryn would blossom into a lady of rare beauty in not so many years and Hedron’s annoyance would turn to drooling as he also matured. Lord Kerr shook his head in mild resignation.
Moira often found her happiest moments running and jaunting with the children, but Thannuel also knew his wife’s heartache at not being able to carry another child. Hedron and Reign would be the only gifts the Ancient Heavens would grant them. Thannuel smiled to himself as he thought of the younglings.
He recalled the many times Reign pretended to be a squirrel as she gathered acorns and nuts and brought them home to hide in her chamber, much to the dismay of her mother. It was not uncommon for her to follow a family of squirrels for hours and silently observe them. In fact, after her studies were completed, it almost never failed that Reign would bolt out of the hold on one of the elevated pathways straight to the forest outside the walls. Kerr never feared for the safety of his children in the woods; they protected his family and the people of his province.
The sun had retreated into night hours ago, however, and Reign had not returned though it was nearly second moon. This was unusual, even for his independent nine-year-old princess.
She’ll be ten in less than a cycle. They grow up too fast!
Moira had scolded her husband for not keeping watch better, but he was occupied with matters of state. Though mostly mundane and routine, these were important issues that he must attend to with haste as the Lord of his province. Still, he could not ignore the pang of guilt that crept upon him. Did his duties as Lord of the Western Province outweigh the importance of fatherhood? Certainly not, but he would be agreeing with his wife if he admitted this out loud; that would depart from the natural tendency of their relationship and would simply not do. He smiled again to himself, this time facetiously.
He would have been awake now even at this late hour regardless of his daughter gone missing or home in bed. He did not sleep much in these times. Less rest was physically needed as his capacity for Light grew. That would be a natural side effect, he had been told. The extra wakeful hours were usually well spent in preparation for what he prayed would never be necessary, though he held little hope that his prayer would be answered. He had set a meeting for next span with his old friend, Antious Roan.
General Roan, now, he reminded himself. It wasn’t surprising to him that Antious had risen to bear the rank of general and lead the armed forces of the Western Province. Lord Kerr felt great pride in promoting him last year. He knew of no greater patriot to Arlethia than Roan; nor of anyone who had sacrificed so much for the Realm.
The Orsarian War took much from him, Lord Kerr reflected. More than should be asked of anyone. He was excited to see his dearest friend again, to whom he owed his life.
He will listen, he’ll understand.
Kerr again leaped to another tree, this one a Triarch, and instantly went rigid as he landed upon the tree’s apex. The single word, though not more than a faint whisper, jolted through him as his left hand brushed across a cluster of the smooth three-pronged leaves, his right still in possession of the leafling.
Help!
Though not an audible voice, the timbre felt familiar. Apprehension gathered within him, but Thannuel captured the friction and recycled it, directing the energy to enhance his sensitivity of touch and hearing. He stood more still than stone waiting for further communication. The soft whirl of a breeze. Occasional sprays of precipitation flecked him and beaded upon his sleeveless jerkin. Silent as an ancient statue, he waited. Listened. Nothing. Perhaps it was nothing. It had to be nothing. Who else besides the Gyldenal knew how to sync their minds with the forest to open the channel both ways? It took someone of extreme sensitivity and power of will and the Gyldenal were far from here, deeply secluded in the Tavaniah Forest in the most northwest parts of the province. Yes, it had to be nothing; he tried to convince himself of this. But the word he had felt, it was powerfully projected. The overtones were desperate. He could not shake the familiar feel it had. Pitch and inflection were lost when speaking through trees, but there always remained something identifiable within the message, the way it felt as it entered your mind through the trees, the intonation. And yet, Thannuel was conflicted within himself. He was certain of the identity if he could believe that this was not a trick of some kind. Reign does not possess the ability, he thought. He had tried to teach her, but he knew she was still too young for the mental maturity required. Most do not even know of the possibility, how could she—
His ponderings were cut short as he felt the vibrations before he heard them. Footfall—three distinct pairs. A horse and rider still far off, but the other two much closer. Without dismissing the rider’s vibrations, he pushed them to a sequestered part of his mind for now and converged his mind upon the two closer pairs of footfall. One determined and heavy, the other short and light and…fearful. The latter was a wood-dweller.
He knew Reign’s stride almost instantly and spurred himself across the top of the treed-canopy to intercept her. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could sense fear in his daughter’s sprint, almost desperation. Finding the hilt of his sword he quieted his mind, quelled his emotions, and opened himself to the forest’s influence and power. Through the Triarch leafling he still held, Thannuel began to draw into himself the strength of the ancient trees he now sprinted across at increasing speed. Something else caught his attention as the power swelled within him: the trees were afraid and confused, but they
were also furious. Lord Kerr had never sensed emotion such as this from the forest. Anxiety pulled at the frayed edges of his concentration, but did not take hold. He unsheathed his sword, its dark gray blade forged of Jarwyn steel dully catching the waning white light of first moon as it began to hum with power.
Centering his being as he had been taught, Thannuel inwardly recited the ancient axiom: Focus. Think of nothing but this moment.
It changed. It was still her scent; the chase-giver felt sure of that. But it had morphed to something else entirely. What was it? He found that he knew the scent; it just wasn’t typical for this situation. Why would his prey be now feeling relief? The chase-giver increased his gait and he finally caught sight of his prey. He could tell he was tracking a female, but a girl? A child? This only fueled his delight in his unholy pursuit.
As Reign reached the borders of her family’s hold, she knew her father would come now. He would come and he would save her. The sound of the pursuer’s footfall was thunderous in her ears, like the cacophony of a thousand men on horseback, but she knew that was the adrenaline. She had been taught from the walking years that adrenaline heightened the senses, propelling the mind to an exaggerated state. The man was so close now. She did not need the senses of a wood-dweller to know this.
A snarl came forth from the man and startled her. He couldn’t be that close. A cold finger brushed against her shoulder but slipped off before it could secure a hold. She gasped a sharp inward breath that hurt her chest, so quick was her intake of musty air as she splashed through a span of murky puddles. Risking a glance down and to the left, Reign glimpsed a marred reflection in an undisturbed puddle of a ghastly white hand nearly upon her, reaching and frantically grasping for her. Her face had drained of blood and was as pale as the outstretched felonious hand that sought her. A meadow opened around her as she ran and she felt even more vulnerable as the familiar and comforting canopy of branches faded into the starry night.
