The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  “To face judgment?”

  “He has to,” Finn said. This was not something he wished to speak of, and his head was spinning now. He needed all his concentration just to stay upright, and his injured arm was a dead weight without feeling. There was no longer any pain and there should have been. He knew vaguely that he had to do something about this.

  “Because he killed someone,” Grath said.

  “Yes,” Finn said, struggling to remember what they were talking about. “A young man. A boy, really, who tried to stop Corr’s men from stealing Errantry horses. Corr struck him down and rode away. So yes, that’s the reason I’ve been searching for him all these years. He must answer for what he’s done.”

  “So you’d turn your brother in for one killing?”

  “I swore an oath that I would.”

  Grath shook his head. “You cunning ones are not so smart after all, are you?” he said. “You know he’ll never go back there with you. Why should he? He’s the Sky Lord. He didn’t become that by sparing those who got in his way.”

  “He’s still my brother. He’s still Corr Madoc of the Bourne. He’ll do what’s right.”

  “That’s what he is doing, boy,” Grath said, and he shook his head and turned away. Finn was about to reply angrily when a hand fell on his shoulder.

  It was Doctor Alazar.

  “Finn,” the doctor said. “I’m glad to see you.” His face was streaked with sweat and the front of his tunic was dark with blood. There were even tiny flecks of red on the lenses of his spectacles. He looked exhausted, and Finn remembered that Alazar had been in the infirmary all this time, working with the dwarf healers to keep Corr’s wounded Stormriders alive.

  “You, too, Doctor,” Finn said warmly. Alazar had accompanied him from Fable on the journey to help Will Lightfoot find Shade. Once Corr had agreed to let Will go, Finn had wanted the doctor, as well, to return to Fable, but Alazar had seen the terrible state of the Stormriders’ infirmary. He had chosen to stay and help, even though he detested what Corr had done to his own men by giving them the fever iron.

  “Have you seen Corr?” Finn asked. “Is he all right?”

  The doctor frowned.

  “A motherworm crashed right into the observation platform,” he said. “Most of the Stormriders there were killed. Corr was burned, but we got to him in time, Finn. He’ll be all right. He sent me to find you. He wants to see you in his command chamber. He wouldn’t go to the infirmary, of course. That damned gaal. It makes these fools believe they’re immortal.”

  “Thank you for helping him, Doctor,” Finn said. “Are you coming back with me?”

  “I’ve got work here,” the healer said, looking around at the blood-stained Stormriders still standing guard at the breach.

  Finn nodded. He was about to hurry away, but there were black spots bobbing in front of his eyes now and his legs wouldn’t obey him. He stumbled and felt the doctor’s arm catch him.

  “Finn?” Alazar said. “What is it?”

  Finn brushed at the black spots in front of him. They wouldn’t go away. And now something was roaring in his ears.

  “Look at your shoulder,” Alazar cried. He’d lifted a torn flap of Finn’s blood-soaked wool tunic. “Great sun, why didn’t you come find me?”

  Finn knew there was an answer to that question, but he couldn’t call it to mind. The black spots were filling his vision, there was nothing else to see—and then he was falling like a cold, hollow thing into the dark.

  He woke up in a soft bed in a long, vaulted stone chamber. The room was lit by candles in sconces on the walls. His sword arm was bound tightly with bandages and held in a sling. It felt stiff and the pain had come back, although now it was only a dull throb. And there was something else. Yes, the cold fire was in his veins again. Not as strong as before, but it was there. Someone had given him more of the gaal.

  He lifted his head and Doctor Alazar appeared beside him, setting a clay jug and goblet on a small table beside his bed.

  “Welcome back,” the doctor said with a frown of concern. “How do you feel?”

  Finn rose unsteadily on his good elbow and with effort managed to move himself into a sitting position, propping his back against the bed’s rough headboard. The chamber, which he guessed was the infirmary, was lined with beds like his, though they were all empty.

  “Better?” Alazar asked.

  Finn tried to speak but his throat was parched. “Could use some water,” he managed to croak.

  The doctor lifted the goblet. “Here.”

  Finn greedily gulped down the cold, refreshing water. When he was finished, he looked around the room. “Where are the other wounded? I thought this place would be filled up after the battle.”

  “It was. You’ve been here an entire day and then some, Finn. We patched up those we could. Not all of them made it.”

  Finn heard the exhaustion in Alazar’s voice. He had not known the doctor well before they set out from Fable with Will Lightfoot and had thought him dour, even a little odd the way he was forever writing in his journal and collecting plants and stones and other curiosities. Yet since they’d come to the fortress, he’d worked tirelessly to save the wounded Stormriders, even though he condemned their all-consuming war and their enslavement to the gaal.

  “Where is Corr?” Finn asked. “You said he was burned—”

  “Corr is fine. It would seem nothing can kill the man. He came to see you often. You’d lost a lot of blood and your arm was in a bad way. I thought I would have to take it off, Finn.”

  “Take … my arm?” Finn said. A chill slid through him.

  “Despite all I did the wound began to mortify. Your entire upper arm was swollen and turning black. I’ve never seen it happen so quickly. I didn’t see any choice but to take off the arm. Then Corr came. He brought his own dwarf healers and they gave you … well, something that’s keeping the rot in check. I don’t know if your arm will ever heal, but for now it isn’t getting any worse.”

  The doctor looked quickly away.

  “What did they give me?” Finn asked, though he already knew.

  “I argued with him, but Corr insisted,” Alazar said. “It was a restorative laced with gaal. More than I’ve ever seen any of the Stormriders have. And the poultice on your arm is of the same concoction. I’m sorry, Finn. It was either that or the arm.”

  Finn lay back. He could feel the liquid fire rushing through his veins, felt his heart hammering as if he were running up a steep hill. Yet there was something cold at the heart of the fire. A kind of icy rage, pure and savage, that would stay hidden until he chose to unleash it.

  “What happens now?” he asked almost indifferently, as though they were talking about someone else.

  “You will have to keep taking the gaal,” Alazar said. “Otherwise the rot will almost certainly return and it will spread quickly. And then I’ll have to remove your arm, if it isn’t too late already for that. I’m sorry.”

  For a moment Finn felt something, a hollow sadness that cut through the cold fire inside him. Then it was gone.

  “It’s not your fault, Doctor,” he said. “You did the right thing.”

  Alazar studied him in silence and then pulled out a small leather pouch from the pocket of his tunic. It was a twin to the one Grath carried on his belt.

  “Take only a few grains each day,” the doctor said. “That should be enough. It will have to be. Only a few grains, Finn. More than that and … well, not all the Stormriders who died in the siege were killed by the enemy. I found some without any wounds. I believe they took too much of the gaal and it burned them up from the inside.”

  Finn nodded. He accepted the pouch from the doctor and closed his hand tightly around it.

  “Where is Corr?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t say. He was here not long ago, sitting at your bedside, but Nonn called him away suddenly. He’s probably in his command chamber, making plans for the assault.”

  “The Nightbane have com
e back?”

  “I mean he’s planning his own assault. Corr has been repairing his skyships while you’ve been here. Apparently he and his Stormriders have decided they haven’t had enough punishment. They’re going to attack the city.”

  “Adamant? That’s madness.”

  Finn threw back the blanket and began to climb stiffly out of the bed. His arm hung in its bindings like a dead thing. He was wearing only his shirt and breeches, and he looked around for the rest of his gear.

  “Wait a moment,” Alazar said. “You’ve just woken up, Finn. You’re in no condition to—”

  “I’m not staying here, Doctor,” Finn said. “There’s no point anymore. I have my medicine. It’s all I’m going to need now.”

  Finn found Corr not in his command chamber but on the burned and blackened observation platform, standing at a chart table with another of his lieutenants, a man named Kern. Instead of his usual cloak and mail Corr was wearing a dark, dully gleaming plate armour Finn had never seen before. His neck and part of his jaw was bandaged. Nonn, the ancient-looking leader of Corr’s dwarf allies, stood nearby, looking out over the valley with several of his people gathered around him. They were speaking among themselves in low voices and now and then darting glances at Corr.

  When he saw Finn, Corr’s lined, weathered face buckled with gladness and relief. He beckoned his brother over and stiffly put his arms around him. For the first time since he’d discovered the Sky Lord was his brother, Finn saw that Corr was moved by something other than anger or reckless resolve. For a moment it was just the two of them and all else was forgotten.

  “Thank the powers you’re all right, brother,” Corr said. “The doctor told you …?”

  Up close Finn could see the terrible blisters on Corr’s face and neck. He should have been in agony, but of course he was taking the gaal powder. At last Finn could understand how his brother was able to shrug off such terrible punishment to the body.

  As Corr pulled away, Finn looked more closely at the strange armour his brother was wearing.

  “We’ve discovered the fetches aren’t indestructible,” Corr said, noticing his glance. “We broke two of them open with the lightning. Once the fetches inside had fled we were able to salvage enough of the armour to make one complete suit.”

  “You’re wearing fetch armour?”

  “That’s one of the lessons of your beloved Errantry, isn’t it? In battle you always have two weapons at your disposal: yours and your enemy’s. The metal is amazingly light, and there’s so much gaal in the alloy one no longer needs to consume the fever iron powder.”

  “Corr, this is his armour. He commands the fetches with it.”

  “His will may be strong enough to control those mindless wraiths, but his realm is far away and here my will is stronger. I’ve tried the suit now and it’s safe. I want you to have it. It can help you.”

  “Many of your people died at the breach,” Finn said, ignoring Corr’s offer. “Our people. Bournefolk. We would have been overwhelmed if the Nightbane hadn’t retreated.”

  “They didn’t retreat,” Corr said. “Not exactly. Kern was in the observation skiff. He saw it all.”

  The lieutenant nodded. Kern was a small man with the quiet, self-effacing manner of a clerk. He had seemed to Finn out of place among the frenzied, battle-hungry Stormriders, yet he had a pouch of gaal on his belt like everyone else. Something else he carried was a small book and a pencil, with which he always seemed to be taking notes.

  “The host broke into three at the bottom of the slope,” Kern said in an expressionless voice, as if reading out a list of supplies. “The smallest group fled back across the valley to Adamant. The other two, at least a thousand in each, marched to the east and west of us. They climbed the valley walls again, on either side of the fortress, and headed south.”

  “They passed the fortress as if we weren’t even here,” Corr said.

  “That’s because they don’t care about the fortress, Corr,” Finn said. “The Nightbane are leaving the valley to join the fetches. They’re all marching to the Bourne. Will Lightfoot was telling the truth. They’re marching to destroy Fable.”

  Corr exchanged a glance with Kern.

  “You still believe the boy’s wild story,” Corr said to Finn. “That a host of armoured fetches and an entire army of Nightbane are needed to conquer one insignificant little town in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Malabron is moving quickly now, Corr—sooner maybe than even he had planned—because of something that’s happened in Fable. I don’t know what it is, but I believe Will. Your Stormriders, the Ironwise, this fortress—none of that matters to him anymore, if it ever really did. Probably the dwarf city doesn’t, either, now that his fetch army is built. Malabron has staked it all on taking Fable. His forces will crush everything in their path, and then the Bourne will be another dead land, like this one.”

  He gestured at the map and pain shot through his arm and side. The fever iron that Alazar had given him was wearing off already, he guessed. For a while it had swept aside the fear he’d felt for his friends, but that fear was still there.

  There was a map spread out on the chart table and Corr studied it now. He ran his fingers across its rough parchment and he seemed to be weighing what he’d heard. Then he looked up at Kern.

  “Take out the skiff,” he said. “Make another sweep. Confirm the Nightbane are still on the march, that they haven’t stopped or circled back.”

  “Sir, the scouts just reported in,” Kern said quietly, glancing at his little book. “The Nightbane are almost two days’ march away and still heading south. There’s no need to take the skiff out again so soon.”

  “Take it out,” Corr growled. “Go yourself this time.”

  Kern nodded, tucked away his book and slipped from the room. Before Finn could speak to his brother again, Nonn, the Ironwise chieftain, appeared at Corr’s side.

  “My lord,” the old dwarf said in his deep, gravelly voice, “the siege has depleted both our numbers and what stores of the gaal still remain to us. You know this. Even if you went after the fetches, how far would the ships get and what could they do? Our only hope lies across the valley. If Adamant has truly been abandoned by the Nightbane, then this is the time to launch an assault and take it back. What does it matter where the enemy has gone? We will not get another chance like this.”

  Corr’s finger stopped at the black circle on the map that represented Adamant.

  “Without the gaal, my lord,” Nonn went on, “your men will not fight and the ships will not fly.”

  And without it I will die or lose my arm, Finn thought.

  “We need to make sure about those dragons first,” Corr said. “We’ve spoken of this already.”

  “There have been no dragon sightings since well before dawn,” Nonn said. “We think all the motherworms may already be dead or driven off. And there can only be a small force left at the city, if any at all. My smiths have nearly finished repairing and equipping the remaining skyships. Give the word, my lord.”

  Finn gripped his brother’s arm.

  “Corr, you must listen,” he said. “Even if Will and Balor made it home already and brought a warning, the Errantry will have no chance against the fetches and the Nightbane. Maybe we can’t stop them, but we can slow them down. We can put ourselves in their way and give our people more time.”

  Corr looked down at his brother’s hand on his sleeve. He placed his own scarred hand on Finn’s.

  “You mustn’t strain yourself, brother,” he said. Then he faced Nonn. “Can your smiths have the ships ready within the hour?”

  The Ironwise chieftain turned to one of his people, a scarred and wizened old dwarf even more ancient looking than Nonn.

  “Have the repairs been completed?”

  “Almost, my lord. There are only a few calibrations left to be—”

  “Get it done,” Nonn barked, then he turned back to Corr. “The ships will be ready, my lord, but there isn’t en
ough gaal left to take the fleet all the way south to your homeland. You know this.”

  “We’re not going to Fable,” Corr said. “We’ll be sailing for Adamant. We will recapture your city, Nonn, and once we have the mines we will build a hundred skyships and nothing in this world will stop us, not even fetches in armour.”

  “No indeed, my lord,” Nonn said, his wizened face breaking into the first smile Finn had ever seen from the dwarf chieftain.

  Finn turned away. He looked out the observation platform, but all that could be seen now was a curtain of roiling smoke. Fable was so far away and he was bound now to the same deadly metal that held his brother in its grip. If he refused the gaal, he would die. But it would surely kill him, and probably all too soon. Either way he had failed his friends. He could no longer help them.

  “We must save ourselves first, Finn,” Corr said behind him. “We’re of no use to anyone else otherwise. Get some rest. I’ll send for you when the city has been taken, and then we’ll talk again about the Bourne.”

  Finn faced his brother. He looked at Corr’s scars and terrible burns, and it seemed to him he was looking at a truer map of the Valley of Fire than the one spread out on the table.

  “I’m going with you to Adamant, Corr,” he said at last. “After all, I’m a Stormrider now.”

  4

  THE NEWS BROUGHT BY the Red Duke of Tintamarre—that Nightbane were massing north of the Bourne—had spread quickly through Fable and the surrounding towns and villages. Riders of the Errantry hurried through the countryside, sounding the alarm and urging all inhabitants to leave their homes. By the evening of that day the high road was filled with a steady stream of wagons, carts and people on foot.

  Many sought refuge in Fable, which was already crowded with fleeing Storyfolk from other lands. All too soon Lord Caliburn, the Marshal, was forced to close the gates to all newcomers. There were angry words, and some folk who had been shut outside came to blows with the sentries. A few who had been turned away set up camp on the hillside and in the woods around the city, while most headed back on the road for the towns to the south.