by Greg Curtis
He would have gone to the sound as fast as he knew how, except that he couldn’t. He had no idea where the laughter was coming from, and he was frightened that it might stop before he had a chance to find the person who made it. No matter who or what was laughing, not even if it was the great demon himself, he didn’t want to be alone.
“Hello! Please! Show yourself.” There was a plaintiff note in his voice, almost one of desperation and he hated hearing it, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I am.” The voice, though it wasn’t a voice and there were no actual words spoken, was inside his head, almost as though he had understood her meaning without being told anything. It was impossible and yet it had happened, and worse, though he could see nobody at all apart from the endless expanse of green and blue, he knew she was being truthful. In some way she was the world around him. And she was still laughing, happily.
“Creator?”
“Life!” With a single word that wasn’t a word she answered all his questions, and he knew both that she was the sum of all life and magic in the world, that which the dryads and the elves called Gaia, the Goddess, the Earth Mother or simply the Lady, and that he wasn’t dead.
He learned that he wasn’t alive – but he wasn't dead either, which was somewhat confusing. Instead he was in some sort of abeyance, his body slowed at the moment of death so that while his spirit finally freed from his flesh, could travel to her, be with her without leaving for the afterlife, he would not actually die for perhaps many weeks or years, whichever she chose. Time enough that he could learn what she wanted him to learn, and then be rescued and restored to life so that he could do her bidding.
He understood that he would be held there by her until she had done what she had to do. And what she had to do was live. From the great oceans full of fish, to the lands covered in plants and animals, and the skies filled with birds, she had only one purpose, and that was to live. But she had a problem. Two in truth.
The first was the Huron, and her servants had attended to them for the moment. She could not allow herself to be so badly harmed by them again, much as the dragons had said. The first time, when they had been young and strong, had nearly killed her, as they had destroyed so much of her and left the rest unbalanced, and life always had to be balanced. Those that died had to be replaced with more young, while the magic that was used up had to be restored, something the ancients had never understood.
Moreover, though she was largely healed now after thousands of years of work, she was still missing some of her creations, and she rued their passing much as an artist would miss his finest paintings. But the unicorns and the pegasus, the simurgh and the phoenix, the manticores and the sphinx, and so many others of her finest works had been destroyed in the blink of an eye. Creations it had taken her thousands and millions of years to craft, gone in a heartbeat.
She wanted them back and she didn’t want to wait another million years to bring back those she had already created. Though it had taken five thousand years for her to reach the state, she was finally impatient.
Her second problem was the necromancer, not just because of the threat he posed to more of her creations, maybe not even because of that, but simply because the undead were an anathema to her. There was a cycle of life, with the living passing away, their numbers being replaced by new living creatures, and the dead themselves moving on. But the undead were like a piece of wood jammed in a wagon’s wheel as they broke that cycle and prevented the wagon from moving. Their bodies should have been in the ground, giving the last of their essence to the plants to absorb and feed upon, that goodness in turn to be passed on to those that ate them and so forth, but instead they walked without true life, and killed without feeding, while their victims became more undead themselves. They were a disease and she didn’t want to be ill. Least of all while she was still recovering from the injuries done to her by the ancients.
That he understood, was where he came in.
Even as she told him of her needs, or rather as she let him understand as much of them as he could for himself, Alan felt himself becoming sleepy, exhausted as though he’d been awake for days instead of just hours, and he knew that that was her intent. She was going to use him, perhaps to change him so that he could better serve her, and despite the fact that he didn’t want to be changed, he knew that there was no choice, not even if he’d had the power to resist her. She was life, Gaia, the Goddess, the Earth Mother and he was but the tiniest part of her. He had to obey.
Darkness took him quickly.
Chapter Twenty One.
Explosions were the first thing that woke Ulnor as he slept in late after returning his prisoner to the elders late the previous evening, and he was briefly annoyed at being woken. But only briefly. He was very tired after having marched Tria back to Nightfire for three full days, with no sleep as he had kept watch day and night. But the noise and the screaming soon told him he had no time for rest.
He hurriedly fell out of bed, dragged himself up and pulled on his leather vest, and grabbed for his weapons before running for the door to his quarters and reaching the hallway. There he found himself only just behind the other rangers who were running for the outside in much the same state as him, confused and panicking. But then it sounded like war had broken out, and the humans from the south had brought their much feared cannon into the woods. It couldn’t be though. Their king had recently been deposed in some sort of attack, and even if they had been as warlike and violent as he’d been taught, they didn’t have anyone else to lead the kingdom of Calumbria let alone an army.
Sprinting down the central stairs as fast as they could, they reached the common room in a confused rabble of rangers, and just behind could see the early morning sunlight streaming down from above, and for a second thought that at least they had a chance to find out what was happening. Then the next explosion tore the top stories of the rangers’ hall apart above their heads and shattered everything else around them.
It was so fast and so powerful that Ulnor didn’t even have a chance to raise his arms to protect his face, and instead watched everything all around him simply vanish in a ball of fire. Then the impact of the blast caught him, and it was as though a giant had punched him, his fist so large it smashed every part of his body, before tossing him like a pebble.
Heartbeats seemed to last for hours as Ulnor found himself flying unexpectedly through the air, most of the hall with him, spinning madly out of control. He could feel the fire everywhere, burning him. He heard screaming and knew it was his own, if only because he couldn’t hear anything else above the roar of the blast. He couldn’t see anything save fire which was everywhere, even when he had his eyes closed. And when it finally cleared a little and he could just make out the ground so far below, he just had time to scream a little more before he smashed hard into the outstretched branches of one of the huge oak trees that supported the town.
It was a terrible impact as the unforgiving wood showed his flesh no mercy, the worst fall he’d ever known, and from the start he knew it would be bad. But it was worse than that. He hurt. He hurt a lot as he felt bones breaking in his chest from the impact, and something sharp had torn through his thigh all while his entire body was still on fire.
After that, with the breath driven from his lungs, for the longest time he could do nothing, except lay there gasping, and try not to die. But he suspected that that was not going to be an easy thing, especially when he could feel the back of his head burning, and knew his hair had caught fire. The pain was terrible and he couldn’t even find the breath to scream, let alone try and pat out the flames with his hands. Then the enemy flew by underneath him as he lay there suffering, and he knew things were even worse than he’d imagined.
It was a bone dragon. Though he’d never seen one, he recognised it instantly from the tales. A creature of white bleached bones hanging together by nothing at all, a creature that was so vast it filled his entire vision, a dragon made of death. It could be nothing else. Its b
aleful red eyes glowered as it passed underneath him, and then the stream of fire it was laying down in front of it as it flew through the air underneath him turned the land into an inferno for as far as he could see.
For the longest time he lay there, hurting, burning, and staring at the field of fire beneath him, and knew that the war had finally come to them, and far sooner than they’d expected. It was just too horrible to be true, and too real to be denied. But worse than that he knew what had happened. Tria had been telling the truth, and when his mistress had been asked to speak to the Council she’d brought the bone dragon to the village instead. He should have listened to him. He should have told the elders to take more care with her. But he hadn’t. He had just told them the bare facts of what the boy had said. It had never truly seemed possible to him that the boy could be telling the truth. It had never occurred to him that an elder could be so corrupt. It had probably never occurred to anyone else.
He should never have brought the boy back. Orders or not, he should have dropped him where he found him. Everything he saw was a direct consequence of that mistake. It was a bitter understanding. That he had caused this. And even the pain of his injuries couldn’t take that horror away from him.
Eventually though he started breathing again, and enough of the pain went away that he could lift his head up and try to make sense of the war that had come to his home, try to make plans to save some of the people. The sight that greeted his blood filled eyes though was more terrible than anything he’d ever witnessed.
The entire city, all of Nightfire, was ablaze, the huge ring of oaks and cedars and pines that supported the leagues of buildings and the platforms and walkways, was alight. Towering flames leapt for the sky all around, and smoke, vicious, black, acrid smoke was blotting out the clear blue. The grasslands beneath them, the meadows and orchards that formed the heart of the city, were on fire too and two bone dragons were soaring through the sky, freely raining more fire down upon them.
Bodies were everywhere. He could see the blackened remains of so many scattered among the char that had once been fertile meadows far below. He could see more hanging from the branches of the trees all around, and he knew that the dead had to number in the thousands.
And there, in the very middle of the huge clearing that was the heart of the village, he could see a solitary figure standing out in the open, on the only patch of green remaining, her arms raised to the sky as she commanded the bone dragons, and he knew it was the mistress of fire. Thoria Saffa, an elf, almost an elder, a powerful and highly respected spell-caster, and their enemy. Though he couldn’t see her face from under her hood, he recognised her staff; he knew the way she held herself. Though she could be no other, it wasn’t to be believed. But it wasn’t to be born either.
“Fetid crone!” Somehow the anger that ran through him at the sight of her standing there directing the undead in their evil, took away the pain, and let him make it to his feet and draw his longbow which was still somehow tied to his back. His body was burnt and broken, there was something long and sharp sticking out of his leg, and he could barely breathe, but none of that mattered when such evil stood there before him. He had to protect the city, he had to kill her.
Four hundred paces, an all but impossible shot under the best of circumstances, but he would not miss. And then though it hurt more than he could stand and he screamed with the pain, he notched an arrow and pulled the bow string all the way back. Broken bones, torn muscles, burnt skin, none of that could be allowed to stop him as he sighted the elder, whispered his prayer, and then released the arrow.
“Goddess be!” It flew fast and true, the magic of the longbow making a shot possible that would otherwise be nought but madness, and he watched as an eye blink later the arrow buried itself deep in her chest, and the traitorous hag fell to the grass. She wasn’t dead he knew, he couldn’t be that lucky, especially at such long range, but she was badly injured, the spelled arrow having bitten hard, and he could see her lying on the grass, waving her arms about wildly in surprise as she tried to pull the arrow free. He could see the blood too covering her robes in a great red puddle and knew he had done well. She might not yet be dead, but she soon would be.
That was good, and as he fell back down on to the thick branch, his strength all but gone, he knew a feeling of satisfaction. She needed to die. With the city in flames and the people wailing in fear and grief, she needed to die soon.
Better though was the understanding that without her commanding them the bone dragons had lost their direction, and they sailed through the sky above him, looking for targets, but mostly directionless. For the most part they even stopped launching their terrible cascades of fire.
Then the dragons came, two golds resplendent in the early morning light, and a black, streaking out of the sky, and they tore into the bone dragons like an avenging army, blasting them with dragon fire and then smashing through their burning remains in mid-air with their great talons. The bone dragons stood no chance, not least because without their mistress to direct them they simply didn’t know to fight back, and soon their shattered remains fell to the ground, in great balls of fire.
Ulnor watched them fall with a smile on his face. Even through the pain he knew that it was good that they were destroyed, even if it was far too late. It was good too that the mistress of fire lying on the ground in the middle of the clearing had stopped moving, dead or close to it. “To the Darkfire with you hag!” And as his eyes closed over he finally knew he had done well. He had always tried to.
He might be dying, the pain, which had been so bad only a few moments before, was receding and he was sure that wasn’t a good sign even though it felt like one, but maybe before he died he had done enough to be forgiven his mistakes.
Maybe the Goddess would forgive him.
Maybe even the dark elf wizard would forgive him, enough at least to send his armies of elementals to protect the people. Because the one thing he knew without doubt was that they needed him. The dragons couldn’t be everywhere.
It was a bitter twist of fate, but the one they had hunted like an animal, the one they had called evil from birth, had to become their saviour.
Chapter Twenty Two.
The next time Alan awoke it was to discover that he was in his home, in his bed and staring at the ceiling. He knew it only too well as he’d oiled and polished the oak beams only a little while before. Then again, maybe it wasn’t that recently after all, as his body was telling him that he’d slept for a long time, a matter of days or even weeks rather than hours.
Yet he felt good. Very good.
He didn’t know why exactly. He remembered the battle with the bone dragon, though it wasn’t really a battle as much as a massacre, and he remembered bolting into the cave as fast as he could fly, and then the pain of his injuries as he’d smashed into the rocks and had to start crawling and swimming with a broken shoulder while the bone dragon’s breath had burnt him. He remembered his elemental depositing him on that rock shelf where he had died, sort of, and after that the green and blue world that had spoken with him. But after that everything was a dream at the edge of his thoughts. He couldn’t quite remember it, and yet he knew something had happened. But then The Mother, if it was truly her and not a figment of his injuries, had told him that he would be returned to life with some work to do, and already he felt those duties calling to him. He didn’t know what they were, for some reason he simply couldn’t remember them, but he didn’t have to remember them to know what he had to do. The lady had given him everything he needed to do her bidding.
He sat up too quickly, and discovered that he was giddy from so much sleep. But not so giddy that he didn’t notice Anabeth, one of the healers for the House of Sera, sitting in a rocking chair beside him, apparently keeping watch over him. He had no idea how long she’d been there, but he knew it would be as long as he had. The healer was known for her dedication to her patients.
“Anabeth?” He called her name as his giddiness passe
d, hoping to find out what had happened, how he had got here and how long had passed. But she didn’t answer him, just sat there stone silent in the chair unmoving. Perhaps she was asleep.
She wasn’t asleep though. He knew that as soon as he arose from his bed and touched her cheek gently. She was simply slowed somehow, her eyes still open, still staring at where he had lain. Or then again was it she who was slowed, or he who was hasted? He had to ask himself the question as he saw that his bed sheets which he had cast aside as he arose were still high in the air, refusing to fall back to the bed as they should. He didn’t need any more of an answer as he saw the truth in front of him.
The real question was why, except that he knew that too. He had a job to do, in fact a lot of jobs to do, and the Lady was making sure that he could do it without distraction. She had given him instructions, though not the sort that a mortal man could actually understand or remember, not even the sort that were spoken. These were commands laid upon his soul, and he knew he would do them and do them perfectly as soon as he was able. That would be very soon indeed.
He didn’t bother dressing, there was no time and no point since he would be transforming for flight, and none could see him anyway. Instead he just grabbed his clothes and stuffed them in the satchel on the hutch before leaving the bedroom of his cottage, and even that a little part of him believed was wasting precious time.
