Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  “What does that mean?” Liza asked. “Someone took him?”

  Fel showed her palms. “This is good news. There’s no . . . Forgive me, but there’s no blood. And a ban’shea would leave no prints, so . . . I think he’s okay. But I think he was taken.”

  “ZED!” Brock shouted into the distance. He moved quickly, placing his own feet within the footprints.

  “Brock!” Liza called. “Let Fel lead. She’s a trained tracker.”

  “I can follow footprints in the snow!” he barked.

  “You’re following the wrong prints.”

  Brock paused, considered the trail he was following. It led uphill, back in the direction they’d come from. Fel was already leading the others away at an angle, deeper into the forest, where the skeletal trees stood closer together. He kicked at the prints in frustration, then hurried to catch up.

  Liza gripped him by the arm as he caught up. “We’ll find him, Brock.”

  “I was sure he was right behind me,” Brock replied as they hurried after Fel. “When he was drafted I told him, I promised him, we’d look out for each other, and now—”

  Liza’s grip tightened, and she pulled him down low. Brock saw that Fel had lifted her fist, signaling that they should stop. If something was wrong, though, he couldn’t see what. The world was as silent as ever, the trail they followed showing the only sign of life in a dead forest.

  And then he saw the figure standing among the trees.

  She was lithe and tall, and so still that Brock had mistaken her for a sapling. Her garments marked her as a stranger. She wore metal and stone and a supple, waxy material that was familiar, but which he couldn’t place. Her face was covered with a mask of immaculate white, its chin coming to a point, with simple slits for her eyes and mouth.

  “What . . . is that . . . ?” Liza whispered.

  Brock shuddered. “Does it remind anyone else of—?”

  “The naga,” Jett said, his voice husky at the reminder of the monster whose venom had nearly killed him.

  Micah scoffed. “It’s not a Danger, it’s just some kind of scarecrow.”

  And then the figure tilted its head, turning its black slits on Micah.

  “Wedge formation!” Liza shouted, already stepping forward with her shield raised.

  The figure lifted its hand, and Brock held his breath. It looked to him like a gesture of greeting, but he was wholly expecting that hand to produce a fireball or a lightning bolt or even a tentacle.

  He’d seen far too many tentacles in the last six weeks.

  He drew his weapons and saw the others had done the same. Jayna flexed her fingers.

  “Liza?” Jett prompted, hefting his hammer. “What’s our move?”

  The figure stood its ground and said something in a language Brock didn’t recognize.

  “Anybody catch that?” Micah asked.

  “We come in peace,” Liza said. “Do you understand?”

  The figure ignored her, turning its gaze now on Fel. It spoke again, utterly unintelligible.

  “We’re wasting time,” Brock hissed.

  “All right,” Liza said. “All right, maybe we just . . . just keep going.” She took a sideways step.

  And the forest burst into motion.

  Suddenly they were everywhere: up in the trees and behind every trunk, and two of them even popped up from within snowdrifts. They all wore those eerie masks, white as their surroundings, and they were all armed. In the time it took Brock to blink, a dozen nocked arrows were pointed directly at them.

  “Well,” Micah said, dropping his mace into the snow. “That I understand.”

  Brock had gotten used to sorting his enemies into three categories. There were the people, those he could talk to and, in theory at least, reason with. There were the Dangers, beyond reason, with whom communication was impossible. And there was Mousebane, in a category all her own, who seemed at times to understand just what Brock wanted and chose to do the opposite. And who, he noted, had disappeared deep into Fel’s pack at the first sign of trouble.

  What he wasn’t used to were people who just didn’t have any idea what he was saying.

  “We are looking for our friend, you understand?” he said, enunciating each syllable.

  The strangers had taken their weapons and managed to communicate that the group should walk forward. Mostly that was achieved by surrounding them and prodding them with arrows. Other than an initial exchange in their unfamiliar language, they had been as silent as the woods themselves.

  “All right, buddy,” Jett said to Brock. “You know if they don’t speak the trade tongue, talking slowly in the trade tongue isn’t going to get you anywhere. Besides”—he nodded at the ground—“we’re still following the trail. I think it’s fairly clear they are taking us to Zed.”

  “So we can all be prisoners together,” Micah said. “It’ll feel just like being back at the guildhall, I bet. Until they kill us and feed us to the Dangers.”

  “They won’t do that,” Jayna said, but she sounded wholly uncertain about it.

  “What else would a group of armed weirdos living in the woods want with a bunch of kids? How do you think they survive out here without getting eaten themselves? They’ve got to be Danger-worshipping cultists sworn into the service of some fiendish abomination.” Micah made a face as if the answer were obvious and Jayna were deranged not to have come to the same conclusion.

  Brock turned to comfort Jayna, but she didn’t look scared—she looked determined. “I’m still good for a spell or two, Liza.”

  “They are not going to kill and feed us to anything,” Fel said.

  “Oh yeah?” said Micah. “You figure the Dangers will just eat us alive?”

  “Micah . . .” Liza warned.

  “Look at what they’re wearing,” Fel said. “Consider it. Pauldrons of metal and buckles of stone. Their cloaks are woven cotton in a season when animal fur would be preferable. And the rest of it . . . some kind of plant matter.”

  Brock took a second look at the waxy-looking material on their torsos and arms and legs. She was right. It looked like they’d wrapped themselves in leaves coated in lacquer.

  “No animal products at all,” Liza said. “Not even Danger skins.”

  “So what, they live off berries?” Micah made an exaggerated show of scanning their surroundings. “How does that work in the winter, exactly?”

  “And who doesn’t speak the trade tongue?” Brock put in. “Everyone speaks it. It’s the whole point of having a trade language!”

  “It’s nice to see you two getting along, anyway,” Liza said.

  Block glared at Micah, and Micah glared back. “We’re not getting along,” Brock insisted. “We’re just . . . annoyed in the same direction.”

  “Is it getting brighter out?” Jett asked.

  He was right, Brock realized. As they’d walked, the forest had become darker and gloomier, to the point where he’d wondered how their captors could see much of anything through their slitted masks. He’d wholly expected to trip over a clutch of undead elves—according to Jayna, the woods had been swarming with them—but as unsettling as their surroundings were, they were clearly moving farther away from where the Lich’s forces had lain in ambush. Now, as Jett had indicated, the forest had brightened somewhat. It seemed to grow brighter with each step.

  “That isn’t sunlight,” Liza said. “Does anyone else feel that?”

  Brock looked at her. “Feel what?” he asked, but she struggled to explain it.

  “Jayna?” Liza prompted.

  Jayna shook her head. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Then they crested a hill, and Brock saw the trees. Trees that glowed with their own inner light.

  “You think you’ve seen everything,” Jett said. “You flee a horde of reanimated elf corpses and you say, well, that’s it, I’ve seen all there is to see. And then—”

  “—glowing trees,” Brock finished.

  And beyond those trees, the forest was l
ush and verdant.

  Passing between the lit trees was like stepping into another world. After miles and weeks of snow and ice, the greenery all around them was a jarring and welcome change. The air was warm.

  “This is some pretty great magic,” Jett mused.

  “Magic?” Jayna said. “Maybe . . .”

  “Maybe? Of course it’s magic.” Jett removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves. “Sometimes I forget magic isn’t all about setting monsters on fire.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Liza said lightly, but she was intently scanning their surroundings. The ground was an uninterrupted expanse of moss, but beneath it was a hard material. Cobblestones. The trees here, thick and heavy with the foliage of high summer, reached far into the air to form a ceiling of leaf and branch. They did not glow from within like those at the perimeter, but daylight filtered through the canopy, lighting the scene in cool shades of green and yellow.

  Everywhere there was stone—stone steps, stone wells, stone walls—and everywhere that stone was overrun with algae and weeds and creeping vines.

  “It’s a dead city,” Jayna breathed.

  “Are you kidding?” Liza smiled and brushed her fingers across a flower as they walked along the broken cobbles. “This place is very much alive.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jett said, awed.

  “Zed has, sort of,” Liza replied.

  Brock considered the structures as they approached what appeared to be a residential district. The uniform rows of squat stone houses made for a striking study in order and chaos. Despite being of similar size and shape, no two buildings were alike, because nature had left its mark upon each in unique ways. Some were covered with verdant moss, others with flowering vines that wove unimpeded through open doors and windows. One structure had a tree growing from it, right up through its very roof, but it appeared otherwise intact. He could just make out the movements of the people inside as they snuck glances through darkened windows.

  “The shrine we visited last summer,” he said. “The druids! Their shrine was like this, the trees and stone all wound together. This is similar, just . . . bigger. Way bigger.”

  “Druids?” Jayna echoed. “Alive out here all this time? Alone?” She looked around at their silent captors with new interest. “Is it possible?”

  “The druids who built that shrine were elves,” Jett reasoned. “And these ones were definitely most interested in talking to Fel.”

  “But I couldn’t understand them,” Fel said softly.

  “So they’ve got some weird druid language and a secret handshake,” Micah said. “We can figure it out. If they’re elves, we’re on the same side.”

  Liza’s smile faltered. “Probably. But from what we’ve learned of the divisions in Llethanyl . . .” She glanced at Fel. “Better not let our guard down just yet.”

  As the druids led them down the avenue, the city grew more cramped, buildings and trees alike crowding in. Eventually they were forced to walk two by two, with half the druids leading the way and the other half following behind. Their silent captors kept their bows drawn, but, strange masks aside, they weren’t terribly menacing. Still, Brock was growing nervous once more. He didn’t miss the snow, but without it he had no way to know if they were still following Zed’s trail. And whatever Liza said about the city, it felt like a dead place to him, a once-great achievement that had been strangled by the green as thoroughly as any Danger could manage. He imagined Freestone’s familiar marketplace in a similar state, and the thought made him shudder.

  They went down a narrow staircase slick with growth, positioned between two buildings so that the light of the street above was quickly forgotten. If these druids were elves, their eyes would be better equipped to handle the darkness. Brock peered ahead, running his hand along the slimy wall to steady himself.

  As his eyes adjusted, the staircase bottomed out, and the druids led them through an ancient archway and into an expansive indoor space beyond it.

  Indoor wasn’t quite right, however. Huge pieces of the structure were missing, allowing shafts of light to illuminate ancient stonework and massive roots. Brock imagined tremendous trees must be high overhead, hidden from view by what remained of the domed ceiling, supported by the roots that wove their way down the walls and deeper still.

  He wondered if the vegetation made the ceiling more or less likely to fall on their heads.

  There were more druids here, and they parted to reveal Zed standing among them. Brock’s heart leaped into his throat, and he held his breath as Zed saw them and rushed forward. If Zed was their prisoner, the druids made no move to stop him, and within a moment he had flung his arms around Brock and Liza and as many of the others as he could reach.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” he gushed. “I was afraid I’d never find you and nobody here will speak to me and they took my scepter.”

  One of the druids, the unarmed woman whom they’d first encountered, reached out and poked lightly at the point of Zed’s ear as if expecting it to fall off.

  Zed suffered the inspection with a small grimace. “Also they keep doing that.”

  “Yeah, well,” Micah said. “We thought they’d have fed you to their sinister woodland overlords by now, so maybe look on the bright side.”

  Zed’s eyes goggled.

  Liza huffed. “We didn’t—”

  “You are bleeding, though,” Micah continued. He reached out and, his hand glowing with a honeyed light, touched a small cut on Zed’s brow.

  The druids all turned to watch, chattering excitedly. Their words echoed about the space like music. And then they bowed their heads to Micah in an unmistakable display of respect.

  Liza’s jaw dropped. “What . . . the . . .”

  “Well,” Micah said, puffing out his chest. “All I can say is, it’s about time.”

  “Actually, I think Danger worship might have been easier to wrap my head around,” Brock said.

  The druids stirred, turning their attention to a grand archway where another of their number appeared. This figure was dressed in the same strange, simple mask, but instead of the lightly armored plant material of their captors, he wore a flowing robe the likes of which Brock had never seen. It shimmered softly in the light, and its color—Brock knew all the dyes available to man and elf, but this garment was a shade he’d never seen before, a rich blue bordering on purple.

  This was a regal figure. Someone of authority.

  He approached slowly, holding a small object in his upturned palm. He waved his free hand above the object, chanting low and purposefully.

  “It’s a spell,” Zed said, his voice tight.

  “I recognize it,” Jayna said. “He’s holding a parrot’s claw.”

  “Ew,” said everyone.

  “It’s not an actual parrot’s claw. It’s petrified wood—a small tree branch that has hardened to stone over hundreds of years. There isn’t a single one in Freestone, but they were used before the Day of Dangers . . . for translation spells.”

  “That’s good news,” Liza said.

  “Mostly,” Jayna said. “But we have to be careful.” She cast a look over the group, and her eyes lingered on Brock and Micah. “The charm will translate everything we say.”

  Brock pointed at his chest. “Me? Why are you worried about me? I’m very diplomatic!”

  “For the record,” Micah said, “I totally get why you’re worried about me.”

  “Sorry,” Jayna said. “It’s just that the spell will be very, very literal. Some scholars believe that the great war between the dwarves and orcs was ignited over a simple mistranslation of the dwarven word for, um, ‘rear end.’ ”

  Jett giggled. Jayna ignored him and continued.

  “Once he finishes that spell, we have to avoid idioms, slang . . . Metaphors are totally off the table,” she said. “Uh, not literally! I mean—”

  Liza sighed wearily. “I get it. Just let me do the talking. Okay?”

&n
bsp; The mage came to a stop a few yards from them, and the rest of the druids drifted to the edges of the room, the archers watching them intently. The claw glowed with a soft blue light, and the mage’s chanting ended. He turned his eerie gaze upon Fel. This time when he spoke, the claw vibrated in his palm, producing words that Brock understood perfectly.

  “Who are you?”

  “Greetings, honored host,” Liza said, spacing her words out to allow the claw time to sing out in the druid’s language. “We are citizens of Freestone. We fight the undead Dangers in the surrounding woods. We require help.”

  “Not you, Sister of Light,” the druid said, and though the words from the claw were spoken neutrally, his tone sounded harsh. He lifted a finger, singling out Fel. “Who are you? How is it you do not know our language?”

  “M-me?” Fel stammered. “I . . .”

  “And what are you?” he asked, turning to consider Zed.

  “He is a person and his name is Zed,” Brock said hotly.

  “Everyone calm down,” Liza barked at her team. “Please,” she said, returning her attention to the druid. “We are on a crucial mission to liberate Llethanyl from monsters. We must find our friends, or the entire city is doomed.”

  “Llethanyl?” the druid said. “Llethanyl overburdened its bough long ago.”

  “Uh, was that a metaphor?” Micah whispered.

  “Micah, shush!” cried Jayna.

  The druid turned his eyes on Fel once more. “What do we care about Llethanyl? Overrun with monsters, you say? It was ever so.” He pulled the mask away from his face, and Fel gasped. He wasn’t just an elf—he was a night elf, like her.

  “I say let Llethanyl burn.”

  Though the sun waned above them—Zed could just make out the purple haze of dusk through the holes in the dome—the druids’ overgrown chamber remained as bright as midday.

  Zed sat on the floor, while Liza, Jayna, and Fel spoke haltingly with the druid leader several feet away. Too many voices were confusing the conversation, Liza had said. When Micah piped up that the last bit seemed perfectly clear to him, she banished all the boys to the other side of the hall.