Up and down the line, companies of men bearing torches marched forward and made for the trees where the forest bordered Stragglers’ Drift. Linwood took himself alone to a high place and there he watched and waited. Lady Isobel came to join him after a time and stayed silent beside him until she could hold her tongue no longer.
‘Do you believe we can withstand them if they come? We know not their numbers or their true strength? And we have Lachlan at our back,’ she said, respectful and cautious, yet determined to be heard.
Linwood turned and smiled, but his eyes were cold, and she felt her skin prickle.
‘I will not be dictated to in my own land. Not by Lachlan, nor by a talking man of the forest, regardless of his strength. The Creatures of the Devising and Awgren himself fell before the might of King Linwood and the Stragglers. We shall see how the Dryads fare.’
With that he let out a long solitary blast on his horn and once again it was echoed from coast to coast.
Let them burn, he thought. Let them burn and see who is mighty when the ashes are taken up by the wind and dumped in the seas.
The advance parties broke into a run and when they reached the treeline they set all about them aflame with their torches. Once as much was alight as they could manage, they hurled the brands far into the darkness to kindle the undergrowth. Once the torches were thrown, they ran back towards the camps, huffing and blowing but daring not to look back, for rumour was growing amongst them about what lurked beneath the dark boughs – something terrible that could not be killed by anything but flame.
Linwood watched as the darkening sky filled with smoke as the fires took hold. A wall of flame rose high, consuming grass, root, trunk, branch and leaf. Animals ran before the flames ever into the depths of the woods, and Linwood’s men retreated unscathed. They took formation, turned and watched as the forest began to burn.
Linwood bade his horse come about and sent orders for dinner to be set upon the board.
Encased within the trunk of a wide black oak, Morrick began to sense he was not in a coffin. It was as though he was suspended in honey, upright and unseeing. When he beat upon the wood now, he realised that there was no sensation in his hands, merely the anticipation of contact, and yet he knew that wood was before him and around him. When he breathed, there was no intake of breath into actual lungs. He was remembering breathing and imagining the sensation. His mind hurled left and right, up and down, seemingly confined within his skull, but as time wore on (and he knew not how much) the sensation of being trapped began to lessen. He knew it not, but his body was dissolving around him even as his spirit fought to move it as it once had. For every realisation of what he was becoming, a little less the corporeal sensation became.
Emotions fired and raged within him, and at times it was as though he occupied his memories bodily and yet after a time, he would see them for what they were. He felt as though a billion parts of him were arcing around a billion obstacles and his essence began to flow up and down, to expand and contract. He felt life flowing through him and contentment with it. There was no hunger or thirst. Even his emotions were but approximations and yet they remained compelling. He was haunted by faces and impulses; to love, to fight, to run and hide. He struggled less and less until his spirit settled and was content to flow up and around the tree until it filled every leaf, root and twig. Yet when he reached the tips of the roots he shrank back and remained within the black oak, though he knew not why. There was no sight or touch, merely thought and being. Images of his old life plagued him.
Time and again he would strive to move his body, though by now he knew that what had once been flesh and bone had now dissipated within the tree.
Then he was not alone. On a day when a breeze stirred his branches with a chillness that curled his leaves, he felt a presence with him. He knew her at once and yet could not place her. She was soothing and coursed through him.
Daughter, he thought.
The presence remained for a time then drained out through his roots.
Daughter, he thought again, then dwelt on it no more.
He began to hear others, although hear was not quite correct. He began to know others. To know what they knew, but as understanding not as information. He also began to feel sudden losses as the forest diminished. He sensed the burning of the trees in the north.
‘Father.’
He could not hear as he had done as a human, yet the words were spoken and his spirit heard. Someone stood on the outside of this wall of wood, this upright coffin in which he had found such peace.
Morrick swam forward through the trunk of the tree as he had once done through the Whiteflow. He concentrated hard and imagined his hands were extending out before him, visualising it. He felt his open palms reach the inside of the bark and imagined himself with substance until he sank to where the roots emerged above the soil, never relinquishing his hands’ touch of the bark. He stepped forward and met resistance. He exerted all his being and forced onward until his hands breached the exterior of the tree.
Callum looked across the glade at the foot of Mount Greenwood towards the black oak. He jumped to his feet, but at the sight of two clawing hands of bark thrusting out from within it, he spluttered and fell back against a tree. Chips of bark dropped from the hands as they kept moving towards him and long black arms became visible. Callum’s hands rose to his face and clasped his open mouth, but a reassuring hand took a hold of his shoulder and Riark was there beside him.
‘Fear not,’ he creaked as he swayed, ‘he will know you.’
Morrick felt drained as he expended all that he had into escaping the bounds of the tree. His arms were now full formed, and he stepped forward so that one gnarled foot burst forth. He hooked the other out and dropped his arms back so that he could exert pressure on the trunk and prise the rest of his body into the light. His long torso of black polished wood, armoured in scales of bark, arched out of the trunk followed slowly, by his face and head.
Callum saw a roaring, screaming mask form from the tree, and in a whipping motion, it swept forward. A few moments more and a creature in the shape of a man stood before Callum and the king of the Dryads. It stood some six-feet tall and its bark was living armour, wrapped in tight intricate patterns around him, layering up before their eyes as though it were being carved from a block. Bands of thin wood rose and fell until the figure resembled a carved statue of some decorated god, adorned in the finest armour. The face, however, was of dark polished wood and deep within the sink holes of the eyes, white stars shone out. There was no mouth and to begin with, the head was smooth. Then long, tangled ivy, black and curling, burst through the wood of his head and grew until its ends swayed and tickled the grass.
This thing before him was breathing, Callum could see that and yet there were no orifices though which it could take breath.
He thinks he’s breathing, Callum thought. He doesn’t know.
The creature that had once been his father raised his head in a familiar way and smiled. At least, the surface of the wood hitched up as would cheeks and jowls if a mouth had moved. The effect was unnerving, and Callum shivered. As though he realised what he lacked, Morrick whipped his head back and forth until a ragged mouth burst open, as though he had screamed through lips which had been sewn together.
It was monstrous and Callum was afraid, despite Riark’s warning.
‘He looks as he feels,’ said the Dryad, leaning to whisper in the boy’s ear, ‘but you need not be afraid. He will know you.’
Morrick stepped forward and loud cracking sounds signalled the first bending of his imagined knees.
‘Son,’ he said in the hiss of steaming water. Flecks of green foam shot out of his mouth and bubbled around his lips.
‘Father,’ said Callum, shrinking behind Riark.
Morrick’s fingers groped at his neck, feeling for the noose.
‘You died – as you wished,’ said Riark.
Morrick’s white eyes turned on him, and Callum had the im
pression of intense fury.
‘You deny me even death?’ he roared, his volume completely unrestrained and unbelievable to Callum. Birds rose up from all around to make their escape. Callum closed his eyes then took a deep breath and stepped forward.
‘They saved you, Father. I came after you, but was too late. I couldn’t leave.’
Morrick’s head turned slowly, and he regarded his son.
‘Your sister was here. With me.’
Callum was puzzled. He looked up at Riark who shook his head.
‘Now is not the time,’ he said. The king of the Dryads turned back to Morrick.
‘The woodcutter is dead, but his spirit endures. You are of the forest now, more so than you ever were. And though now you still feel the pain of your passing and carry with you the memories of your life, the more time you spend within the trees, the less you will feel and the less you will remember.’ Riark smiled. ‘You will have peace.’
The Dryad that was once Morrick looked from Riark to Callum and back.
‘My son?’
Riark nodded yet again.
‘He may stay with you if he wishes or our people will guide him back out of the forest.’
‘I want to stay with you,’ blurted Callum.
Morrick stared at him then down at his own hands, turning them before him as though trying to take their measure.
‘Who am I?’ he said, cracking and creaking as the wood around his lips softened and split.
‘You’re my father,’ said Callum.
‘You had a name. I forget it. You were the woodcutter,’ said Riark.
Morrick leant back against the black oak and his shoulder blades absorbed back into the trunk. To Callum his father looked as though he had been whittled from a living branch, he was so much a part of the tree and yet still in the form of man.
‘I was a woodcutter and now I am of the wood.’
‘Of the oak,’ said Riark.
The Dryad that was Morrick smiled, and Callum laughed uneasily, surprising himself. Riark turned to him, inclining his head.
‘That’s what his name means. Morrick. It means of the oak,’ Callum explained. ‘He told me so before he went to war.’
Riark locked eyes with Morrick.
‘Of the dark oak.’
And Morrick nodded.
He remembered all that he had forgotten as a human now that he was no longer constrained by a brain. He knew every word he had heard or spoken, remembered all he had seen.
‘Yet it will all go, of that I can assure you,’ said Riark, ‘the more time you spend with the trees.’
‘Will the hate subside?’ asked the Dryad that had been Morrick.
Callum sensed heat coming from him, and indeed, steam rose from the cracks in his bark. Ivy thrashed and danced around him.
‘It will,’ said Riark.
Morrick was quiet for a time.
‘I do not wish to forget the hate. I need it.’
Riark shook his head.
‘For what? No, but I do need you to remember some things. I made you an offer; that you could reside with us if I could take counsel with you. You are new-born to the forest and retain all that you knew. At a time when war is being waged upon us, your insight will be invaluable.’
Riark turned and walked towards the slopes of Mount Greenwood. Before him the wood parted into a doorway. Callum and the Dryad that was Morrick walked through into the green twilight of the king’s halls. He strode towards his bower across many miles while they spoke.
‘The humans have set the forest ablaze. Very soon the flames will engulf Mother Trees and so, as I promised to both the child of the linden dell and his queen, I must act.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Callum, kneeling to drink from a narrow stream that broke the green carpet of the floor.
‘What will we do?’ said a voice. Callum saw a woman form amongst the water and spat a mouthful back into the steam. She tinkled a laugh, and her flowing hair washed down behind her till it rejoined the water. Fish swam up her and a weed flailed within one of her legs.
Morrick offered Callum a hand and helped him to his feet.
‘Your sister…’ he said.
Callum’s eyes widened, and the Naiad stepped forward to embrace him, drenching him as she did so. She laughed again, and he stepped back, not sure what to think or feel. He fell down upon the bank and rubbed his eyes.
‘Bracken?’ he said. ‘I wonder when I will wake.’
‘I was Bracken. Now I am Whiteflow.’
Morrick and the Naiad sat down beside Callum. Riark stood off a little way, regarding the reunited family with curiosity.
‘I seek your father’s advice,’ said Riark. ‘He knows their ways better than most. He has been a soldier and he has fought the men who now encroach on my realm.’
Callum looked to his father in anticipation, but Morrick did not seem to respond.
‘Dark Oak?’ asked Riark.
Morrick looked up.
‘What would you have me tell you?’ he asked and, for the first time, he extended his fingers so they burrowed like worms into the soil. Riark watched him with amusement as a mother might watch a child attempting to crawl.
‘If I respond with force, will he stop the onslaught?’ asked Riark.
Dark Oak pondered for a time whilst all the while the Naiad, Riark and Callum watched him.
‘Linwood has designs on the whole continent. He wants his road. And from what you have told me, you have shamed him. He is not a man who will be slighted. I believe he will let the forest burn if he can. You must destroy him if the forest is to survive,’ he said, and when he had concluded, his fingers shrank back to their usual size and he trailed the tips in the stream, feeling again the pain of the branding he had suffered at the man’s hand. Callum looked on in horror as the wood of his father’s cheek splintered until an approximation of the brand was etched thereon.
Riark turned to Whiteflow.
‘Will the Naiads assist us in quenching the fire’s thirst?’
‘We will,’ she said in her shrill voice. ‘I suspect the Sylphs will assist as well. The smoke pollutes the skies beyond their tolerance.’
She turned to Callum.
‘The whole northern border is ablaze. Streams dry up and smoke fills the air.’
Riark nodded and walked onwards towards his bower, underneath the splendid branches of his elm.
‘You are too weak to come with us. Rest here with your children and when this business is done, I will set a place apart for your boy.’
With that, Riark dived into the trunk of his Mother Tree and was gone. Morrick stayed a respectful distance back from the elm, but Callum went on into the bower and nestled into a bowl of the tree, pulling his cloak about him.
The Naiad turned to Morrick.
‘Dark Oak,’ she said and advanced upon him. Morrick knew not why, but he wrapped his arms around her. She was drawn up into him and he knew her mind utterly.
To Callum’s eyes, his father seemed to become inanimate when the Naiad entered him. It was not until she dripped out of his fingers and the ends of his hair and formed again, lying like a cat curled at his feet, that his father moved once again.
Dark Oak reached out to Callum, beckoning him over.
‘Tell me. What do you think of the world?’
‘How do you mean?’ said the boy.
‘I thought so little of it that I left it,’ said Dark Oak, ‘or tried to do so. Do you think it is a good place? Are you happy?’
Callum thought for a while.
‘I think it’s neither good nor bad, that bad things happen and so do good.’
‘And what causes the bad things?’ said Dark Oak.
‘Humans,’ said Whiteflow, and they both turned their eyes upon Callum.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Life, in Linwood’s experience, was relentless; it kept coming at you and it was your task to strike, parry or evade as appropriate. Some men remained where they stood, turning fran
tic circles in the dark as fate approached, parrying shadow-feints and fighting foes that emerged from the mist, but Linwood believed in running head on towards what sought you and in giving it no quarter.
And yet as he sat in his command tent and the forest burned, he doubted himself. He doubted the course upon which he had set his people. He knew not whether he should have acted with more caution and yet, he had moved in haste— gone forward with an act that could not be undone, and so now he must wait.
For what good would it be, to turn tail and depart for Stragglers’ End if the fires did not stop Riark and his people, if they decided to make a stand? Linwood had spent his whole life at war fighting not only the humans of the Hinterland, but the Creatures of the Devising – many of which were huge and hideous, powerful to an extreme; he had been battered and scarred as he hunted them; and yet he had never met an enemy like Riark, who emanated such tangible and justifiable arrogance it could cause him to doubt himself, an experienced man of war.
And while perhaps Aldwyn and Cathryn had one another, while Lachlan could debate his concerns with his friend and brother, Linwood was utterly alone, just as he had always been. He brooded in his chair, and the only counsellor he would ever heed was the voice in his mind.
He mulled over tens of options, weighing up the risks and benefits then hurling the scale away when considering the importance of his honour; honour that far outweighed all risk to himself and his people.
He did not sleep, but thought throughout the night, though his eyelids were heavy.
His reverie was interrupted by a great shouting from many voices, pitched with panic and growing ever louder. His castellan, Willard, burst into the command tent.
‘Sire!’ was all he said before disappearing again. Linwood rose slowly despite the obvious need for haste and found his hands were shaking. His chest felt tight as he marched out into the night.
His tent opened onto the main road to the forest, and he passed hurriedly along it, tucking his thumbs behind his belt so that the tremor in his hands was under control, he made for the crest of the road where the grass plains rolled down towards the treeline. The ridge was manned by every bowman that could be gathered and as many regular soldiers as could be found bows. The rise and fall of their outlines glowed in the light of the bonfires by which they kept warm.
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