Protector Of The Grove (Book 2)

by Trevor H. Cooley

  Could it really be her? Was she sending a tendril of bewitching magic down into the ground from where she sat, attaching it to her father? Did Jhandra have a reason to want Justan dead? She bent down and whispered urgently in her mother’s ear.

  Justan knew that he had to get through to Xedrion somehow, disrupt his rage. What he was doing wasn’t working. He had to go on the attack. With a shout, he lunged forward, bringing Rage up in sweeping strike, forcing Xedrion to block for the first time since the battle had begun. “Stop and listen, Protector!”

  When Xedrion didn’t respond, Justan continued the attack, swinging his swords back around to their natural extended positions as his plan formed in his mind. Xedrion’s face was a rictus of rage. The protector let out a primal cry as he was forced onto the defensive.

  Justan tried an old trick he had tried back in Training School. He sent out a bizarre series of nonsensical attacks, using the flats of his blades, sometimes deliberately attacking just the protector’s Jharro staff. Xedrion’s rage shifted briefly into confusion and Justan brought Rage up under the protector’s guard.

  When the sword touched the underside of Xedrion’s staff, Justan gathered Rage’s energy and released it in a focused point against the Jharro wood. The staff was blasted in two, throwing Xedrion’s arms out wide long enough for Justan to lay the flat of Peace’s blade against the protector’s cheek.

  Xedrion’s thoughts flashed through Justan’s mind. He saw the protector’s deep and abiding love for the grove and his people. He saw Xedrion’s fear over the disappearance of his oldest son and his mourning over the death of his friend and mentor. He also saw a father’s righteous anger over his daughter deserting his side and falling in love with a complete stranger.

  Above those innermost feelings, enhancing them, overriding them, was a bewitching-fueled gray haze of anger. The anger had been focused until it was all pointing towards Justan, pushing Xedrion into finding ways to blame Justan for all of his problems.

  Xedrion’s eyes went wide with shock and he froze as all those emotions left him, sucked away by the power of the sword. “What kind of magic trick is this?” he asked.

  “You didn’t send the basilisk,” Justan said in sudden understanding, keeping his sword pressed against Xedrion’s cheek.

  “I would never use such foul means,” he replied without emotion. “You must remove your sword now if you do not wish to die, Sir Edge.”

  Justan looked down and saw that a blade of wood had formed in the center of Xedrion’s breast plate and was directed at his heart. He shook his head. “I can’t do that, Protector. The moment I remove my sword from your face, your anger will return. Someone in this tent is manipulating you with bewitching magic, trying to get you to kill me.”

  “Impossible. I would never allow such a thing,” Xedrion said. But he sensed a bit of truth in what Justan had said. With emotion taken out of the situation, the decisions he had been making did not make sense. He called on his training and turned his mind’s eye inward. Then he saw it. The intrusion was a small thing. A tiny connection, but it had been funneling hatred and anger for a long time. “Remove your blade. I see it now.”

  Hesitantly, Justan removed Peace from the warrior’s cheek and stepped back. The anger indeed reappeared on Xedrion’s face, but it was no longer directed at Justan. He turned and looked to the women clustered around the gray chair. “Jhandra, did you do this to me?”

  The pregnant woman was no longer reclining on the ground, but stood behind Alexis, Xedrion’s fourth wife. Jhandra’s Jharro circlet was no longer on her brow, but had turned into a dagger that she had pressed against Alexis’ throat. Jhonate stood next to them looking confused.

  “No, darling Xedrion,” Jhandra said. “Never would I use anything but my wiles on you. Alexis, however, has been hiding her little talent from all of us.”

  The auburn-haired woman scowled. “Don’t talk nonsense, witch! We all know you’re the only one of us with that kind of power. You’ve been using your magic on Xedrion for years. Admit it! That’s why you’re his favorite. That’s why he wears your ribbon!”

  “Can you trace the source of the magic influencing you, Protector?” Justan asked.

  “It vanished before I had the chance to discover its source,” Xedrion said. As he walked towards his wives, he lifted the two broken pieces of his Jharro staff and pressed them together, commanding them to meld back as one. “Put your dagger down, Jhandra.”

  With a nod of acquiescence, the pregnant woman let go of Alexis and stepped aside. The dagger in her hand turned back into the circlet and she placed it on her head. “When Jhonate told me what was happening I knew what to look for. Alexis had sent a trail of bewitching magic under the ground extending from her feet to yours. An old Roo-Dan trick, I’ve heard. As much as I despise the woman, I’ve never thought to look for that.”

  “Is this true, Alexis?” Xedrion asked.

  “Of course not,” she snapped sternly. “You know who the witch is.”

  “Shall I call in a listener, then?” Xedrion said. “You have been avoiding listeners of late now that I think of it.”

  Her defiant look slid away and she placed her hands on her hips. “Oh very well. I do have a bit of talent. A small bit, but you have never bothered keeping your guard up around me.”

  “This is a foul crime, Alexis,” said Herlda bin Shun, Xedrion’s first wife. “You tried to bewitch the Protector of the Grove.”

  “It was no crime, Herlda,” Alexis snapped. “It was a chickoree.”

  Jhandra laughed. “An obsolete old custom. From the days before the Troll Queen.”

  “It is part of our heritage! We are Roo. How quickly you all forget. If one witch wife sees another witch wife using magic on their husband, she is allowed to counter it with magic of her own!”

  “I told you a million times! I never use my magic on our husband!” Jhandra retorted, reaching for her circlet again.

  “Stop your foolishness!” Xedrion commanded. He was breathing heavily and his fingers trembled as he pointed at Alexis. “You were the one always pushing the old customs on me. You wanted us to be more like the Roo of old. How long have you been manipulating me?”

  “From the moment you allowed your precious Jhonate to join that dry foot school,” she said. “It was a necessity, Xedrion! You were slowly throwing our heritage away. Yes, we need to protect the grove as our ancestors promised. But we also need to protect ourselves.” Her eyes were alight with conviction. “How long until we start letting them in? How long until dry foot settlements populate Malaroo. Our children will soon forget who they are!”

  “You sent the Roo-Dan to the border after us, didn’t you?” Jhonate asked.

  “Oh, very well, I suppose you shall get some listener to pull it all out of me anyway,” Alexis growled. “Yes, I got a message to the Roo-Dan the moment Listener Beth told us you were coming. Better to kill you all before this disaster of a contract goes into effect.”

  “Treason,” Xedrion said, pointing his restored staff at her. He advanced slowly. “You know the rules better than anyone. You know what you are forcing me to do.”

  “I committed no treason,” she snapped. “The Roo-Dan are Roo just like we are. Just because they don’t wish to guard the grove doesn’t mean they are no longer our people.”

  “You are forcing me to have you executed!” Xedrion shouted.

  “You will not do that,” she said, giving him a simmering smile. “Jhandra is not the only one with wiles.”

  “Do not be stupid,” Herlda said. “He does not feel that way about you.”

  “Perhaps not, but he is still my husband. He has always come to me when I requested it.” She chuckled. “More often of late. I suppose it is time to announce that I too am carrying a child again, Xedrion. Can you execute your own unborn offspring?”

  “Take her out of here!” Xedrion cried. “I do not wish to see her conniving face!”

  “Wait, father,” Jhonate said. “Can you fi
rst command her to call off the nightbeast?”

  “That,” Alexis said, her glare returning. “Was not me. I would never associate with such darkness. The basilisks have always been at odds with the Roo.”

  Justan’s shoulders slumped. If she didn’t hire the nightbeast, who did?

  Three of Jhonate’s siblings led Alexis from the tent. The woman followed them as if it were her idea, a smug look of satisfaction on her face.

  Wearily, Xedrion walked to the gray chair and sat in it. The plates of Jharro wood that had rested on the seat formed around his legs, becoming more pieces of armor. He put his hands in his face.

  Jhonate walked over and grasped Justan’s hand. “Father,” she said hesitantly. “About our betrothal.”

  He looked up at them, frowning. “What I said before was . . . incorrect. You followed the rules of our traditions even if you did use a bit of trickery with Sir Hilt. Your betrothal is not nullified.”

  “Then we have your blessing?” Jhonate asked.

  He raised a finger. “I am not yet prepared to do that. I need time to sort through how I really feel about this. So many decisions I have made lately seem questionable. Please, Sir Edge, come to Roo-Tan’lan. See our city. Know our people. You have impressed me today, but I do not give up my daughter so easily.”

  Justan nodded. That was a much better response than he had expected. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Justan, we come, Gwyrtha said.

  There was a sudden commotion at the front of the tent and several Roo-Tan men entered the tent. Some of them carried heavy bundles of cloth over their shoulders. Gwyrtha and Hilt followed in behind them, the rogue horse having shrunk to her smaller, faster size.

  “Hubrin, son! You have returned!” Xedrion stood, his expression hopeful. One of them, a dark-haired muscular man carrying a Jharro sword and bow strode forward. His ribbon was black. Justan recognized that meant that he was Xedrion’s second born and son of Herlda.

  Hubrin embraced his father, but his expression was grim. “We arrived back in Roo-Tan’lan a few days ago and came straight here when Sen told us you were gone.”

  “Then you did not find Xeldryn,” the protector said, crestfallen.

  “Not a trace, Father,” Hubrin said. “We found nothing but two empty villages and these.”

  He gestured to the men and shouldered their burdens onto the floor, their noses twisted in distaste. They unwrapped the bundles, rolling their grisly contents onto the floor with series of wet thumps.

  “By the gods,” Hilt said with a grimace. “What are those?”

  “I do not know,” Hubrin said, his gaze haunted. “They came upon us just outside the troll swamps. We dared not use fire, but laced our weapons with pepper.”

  On the earth before them, lay three bizarre slime-covered creatures. They looked like mixes of troll and beast. One was small with a cat-like head and a troll’s body. Another looked to be ape-like, but with razor teeth. The final one was perhaps the most disturbing. It had the body of a troll, but the face of a man.

  Epilogue

  Mellinda found that once she started making changes to Arcon’s body she couldn’t stop. She had spent hundreds of years buried under a tree, living life through the thoughts of other creatures. Her only desire had been to escape and roam free again. Now she had that life back. Why settle for a body that wasn’t perfect?

  When she was finished, the person looking back in the mirror was no longer Arcon, the thin blond-haired mage with eyes that made the girls swoon. No. There had been a tricky bit of modification involved, but the person standing before her was no longer a man in any way. She was Mellinda reborn. Her face was the same face she remembered seeing in the mirror a thousand years ago when she was young.

  Her eyes were emerald green, her skin a light brown. Her figure was the same eye-stopping figure men used to look twice at when she walked down the street. The only blemish, and it was a slight one, was the single blond curly lock of hair that hung out of her long black mane, falling across her face.

  For some reason no spell she tried seemed to affect that particular lock of hair. After some thought, she decided to make the rest of her hair just as curly. Now it looked like a specific choice instead of a defect. In fact, she decided she liked it.

  Oh Arcon was going to be so upset when he found out what she had done to his body, well, her body now. Then again perhaps she wouldn’t tell him. After all, there was no need to ever let him out of his little lightless soundless prison.

  “What have you done?” said Arcon’s voice in shock. Then it rose in anger, “What the hell have you done to me you evil b-!”

  Mellinda shoved his thoughts back down to his prison and slammed the door. How dare he get out and harass her? She locked him in tight with thick black bands of her will. This was her body now.

  Mellinda twirled in front of the mirror and allowed herself one girlish giggle before getting down to business. With a writhing wave of one finger, she dismissed the mirror spell and with a swipe of one undulating arm, the pillar of fire around her dissipated. Her smile fell as she saw the scene around her. Evidently she had taken longer than she’d thought.

  The morning sun had broken over the horizon, revealing a broken camp. The bodies of dead dwarves and gnome warriors lay on the ground along with several humans. The rogue horse’s corpse lay where she had last seen it, but there was no sign of the prisoners. Mellinda allowed her lip to pout. She had looked forward to destroying the young man that had struck Arcon with his magic axe.

  To her right, some wounded dwarves were hurriedly gathering up every useful piece of equipment they could find. While to her left, a gaggle of flustered stewards fawned over the unconscious form of Aloysius. She shook her head.

  Mellinda heard a series of loud shouts and turned to look south. A large army was approaching and they had nearly reached the camp. Her eyebrow rose as she saw the distinctive wicked red armor of imp troops and the black shields of Kobald forces. What a mess Aloysius had gotten himself into.

  She walked over to the stewards and commanded they step aside. Of course, none of them recognized her and one even went so far as to shout in her face. Mellinda waved a hand, paralyzing all of them. She then kicked them over one-by-one until they all lay in the dirt, their little self-important limbs sticking up in the air.

  She crouched next to Aloysius, well crouched as much as her still partially out of control legs would let her, and hovered one squirming hand over his head. He had a minor fracture in his skull and one large goose egg. Easily fixable.

  Moments later, the scholar opened his eyes and sat up. He looked at the paralyzed stewards and the mess around him and stood. To his credit, he took it all in stride. He straightened his robe and looked at Mellinda. “I take it you are the one who healed me?”

  “I am,” she said. “Whoever struck you did you a favor. It was a very precise blow. One quarter inch to either side or slightly more force applied and permanent damage would have been done.”

  “Yes,” said the gnome. “Cletus is kind that way. And who am I addressing?”

  “We have already met. I am Mellinda,” she replied.

  His brow furrowed for a moment, but then understanding entered his eyes. “I see. So Student Arcon is no more?”

  “He is gone,” she confirmed. “This does change our relationship, you and I. I’m afraid I won’t be continuing our little venture as Arcon had previously negotiated.”

  “Is that so?” he said, reaching up to give his nose a tug. “Then why, pray tell, did you see fit to heal me?”

  “Because one thing hasn’t changed. I still think you are going to rule this land and that kind of person is the kind of person I like to be attached to. I have a proposal for you that I think you will find beneficial,” she replied. Mellinda glanced at the approaching army. Their scouts had reached the edge of the camp. “Do you wish to continue this discussion here? Imps are approaching.”

  “I know this,” Aloysius said glancing at th
e oncoming soldiers. “I invited them after all. Though I didn’t expect them to arrive until this evening. I had also hoped to have a powerful artifact in hand to make the negotiations go smoother, but I still think I shall do fine. Would you mind freeing my stewards, though? I will need their help.”

  “Very well,” Mellinda replied. While she released them, she thought on the things she had just learned. So Aloysius’ plan to bind the rogue horse’s spirit had failed. Why? He had also found a way to raise an army of imps and kobalds and planned on negotiating with them. First merpeople, now two other demon races? How interesting.

  When the stewards rose, sputtering at the indignity they had just been put through, Aloysius put them to work, giving each of them specific instructions. He wanted an assessment of all damage that had been done and he wanted his tents prepared for seeing visitors.

  The moment he was done, Mellinda cleared her throat. “Would you like to hear my proposal?”

  “I would be delighted,” the gnome replied as he bent and picked up his sword, slipping it into his robe. “However, could you do me one quick favor first? Could you revive Steward Oliver for me? He is a useful servant and he still seems to be breathing.”

  “Alright.” The man he pointed out looked horrible. He was covered with what seemed like several gallons of blood. Fortunately for him, the blood wasn’t his.

  The wounds on the red-sashed steward were only slightly more serious than Aloysius’ had been. He had a nasty puncture wound through his wrist and the blow to the back of his head had caused a fracture and severe swelling. Mellinda healed it all quickly, her fingers undulating as she did so. He would have a severe headache, but she really didn’t care.

  Shade stood, his clothes clotted and matted with dirt. He was wincing with his headache, but immediately looked to the scholar. “Scholar Aloysius are you alright?”

  “I am fine, but do not touch me,” Aloysius said. He addressed Mellinda again. “I know you have a proposal for me, but do you suppose you could do one more favor for me before you begin? Oliver here, as you see, looks like he has been sleeping on the floor of a slaughter house. Would you mind cleaning him off for me with one of your spells? I will need him to meet the leaders of this incoming army, you see. Otherwise they will just come here and disrupt our conversation.”