“Fly,” Ferno said in a grumbling voice that Zollin had come to understand. It was part word, part growl, and uniquely dragon.
“Yes,” Zollin said, levitating himself up and onto the green dragon’s broad back. “It’s time to fly!”
Chapter 8
Victory had never seemed so hollow. Lorik's enemy had been defeated. Baskla could not challenge his rule over Ortis any longer, and the king who had allowed Yettlebor to betray Lorik and murder his closest friends was dead. Yet the pain he felt over that betrayal and loss was just as potent, just as painful as before.
He could sense something in Baskla, something powerful and threatening, but he didn't know exactly what it was. The chaotic magic inside him was affected by the presence of the powerful entity to the north, it felt cold and frightening. Lorik was not the type of man to feel afraid, and since he had accepted the power of the dark magic in Ort City no man could stand against him. Even huge creatures like Bartoom, the great black dragon, did not frighten him. But something in Baskla was at work, spreading like a disease, and fear was the essence it fed on.
“What is bothering you?” Spector hissed.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Lorik replied.
They were traveling east along the northern border of Ortis, toward the Wilderlands. Lorik remembered his first sight of the mighty redwood trees that grew three or four times larger than any normal tree. He remembered how the canopy of the forest blocked out the sunlight and how he could feel that he was being watched. The world had been a mystery to him then, his own life like a ship without a rudder, tossed about on the sea. He had no purpose, just a burning desire for something more. Then he had been captured by the forest elves who called themselves the Drery Dru and forced to climb the King Tree. He had ascended to the top of the tallest tree in the Wilderlands, finding the swords of Acromin, and being transformed by the power of the diminutive Drery Dru. That transformation had given him the strength to defeat the Norsik Raiders, but it had also been tainted by an evil power when Lorik went to Baskla to find King Ricard's daughter.
Spector had wanted the two of them to push in to Baskla, since the northern kingdom's army was defeated and scattered. His desire for revenge against the people that had murdered his wife was insatiable, but Lorik had hesitated. Nothing good had come from their neighboring kingdom to the north. And something was there, something cold and menacing, something more powerful than King Ricard's army, perhaps even more powerful that Lorik. So he was returning to the Drery Dru, to seek the council of the wise elves and to offer them a chance to expand their own kingdom.
“Stay here,” Lorik ordered his ghostly companion. “I need to know if anything or anyone from Baskla comes into Ortis.”
“I cannot patrol the whole border,” Spector hissed.
“But you can be my eyes until I return. I want to know everything that happens.”
Lorik knew his spectral friend disliked being apart from Lorik. He suspected that the wraith's strength waned the farther they moved apart. Spector had always obeyed Lorik, even if he didn't like what he was told to do, and the big warrior was beginning to believe that while the wraith maintained his old friend Stone's essence and memories, he was unable to disobey Lorik.
“If you insist,” the ghostly form hissed.
Lorik turned and began to run along a track that was little more than an animal path. He stretched his legs, running hard and enjoying the release of his pent up frustration. It seemed at every turn someone was challenging him. He liked having Spector at his side, it was the closest thing to a friend he had, and yet it was maddening the way the angry wraith constantly pushed back against every decision Lorik made. He had built a new city, created a haven for the outcasts of every kingdom, and defeated an invading army, yet he still had no peace. He hoped in the Wilderlands he could rediscover the peace that eluded him.
At a full sprint Lorik could cover more ground that most horses could travel in several days. Even the outcasts struggled to keep up with Lorik when he ran at his fastest. And due to the power of the chaotic magic inside him, he could keep up the pace for hours. It was late in the afternoon when the towering trees of the Wilderlands came into view and Lorik finally slowed down.
He entered the dark forest at a jog, weaving between the trees until he was deep enough into the Wilderlands to contact the forest elves. He stopped and leaned against the wide trunk of one of the trees. It only took a few moments before a vine was lowered. The long tendril had a loop tied at the end. Lorik placed his foot into the loop and took hold of the vine. The Drery Dru raised him, seemingly without effort, but Lorik wondered how many of the elves were involved to raise his substantial weight without trouble.
“You are even larger than before,” a small, childlike elf said.
Lorik nodded, but the elf was hurrying away before he could respond. He could hear the activity of the elves all around him. Their lilting voices sounded like children singing, and although they didn't use metal tools or cut the trees, they were always busy tending to the giant arbors that were their home.
Another elf appeared carrying a pitcher of the sweet, fruit wine that was a staple of the forest elves' diet. The Drery Dru drank from tiny cups, but Lorik took the pitcher and drank it all in one long draught. Then he handed the pitcher back and thanked the small elf.
“It is always a pleasure to serve a king,” the jovial elf said.
Lorik nodded and began making his way through the entwined branches that made up the thick canopy high above the forest floor. The elves lived in amazing villages inside the massive tree trunks, but the branches made interconnecting pathways so that the Drery Dru could travel from tree to tree, traversing the entire forest without ever touching the ground.
Being one of the only humans to be welcomed into the forest home of the elves was not an honor that was lost on Lorik. He felt a burden lift from his shoulders as he traversed the wide branches. The forest floor was lost in darkness below him, but he felt no fear from being so high above the ground. Even on the narrower branches that bobbed and swayed under his weight, Lorik's sense of balance was perfect and he was able to move through the forest easily. But unlike his journey to the Wilderlands, he didn't rush through the canopy. Instead he strolled, taking in the wondrous sights of the forest elves at work and their incredible living architecture that was grown rather than built.
He saw the elves gathering fruit, and others painting fantastic works of art onto the bare wood of massive trees after the bark had been carefully removed and converted into dozens of different utensils, tools, and even weapons. Time seemed to stop in the high forest village, there was no need to rush, no need to worry. Life went on, the trees grew at their own pace, and the Drery Dru were simply part of something larger, something simple and yet exquisite. There was nothing quite as satisfying to Lorik as when he was among them. Yet, it was the ease with which he adapted to the languorous lifestyle of the forest elves that had allowed the evil of the false king Yettlebor to take root in Ortis.
He thought back on his time with the Drery Dru, when Queen Issalyn had been his lover, as a bittersweet phase of his life. A part of him wanted to spend all his days with the wondrous elves, yet he regretted those days as well. His heart was forever rent by Issalyn’s betrayal, and his enemies had gained strength enough to deliver devastating blows to Lorik that he feared he might not ever recover from. Even when he was alone with Kierian he didn’t feel as though he could get swept away in her love. He didn't know if he could ever trust anyone enough to truly love them.
“You look lost,” said a small voice from just above him.
Lorik looked up to find Shakyh sitting on a thin limb just above him. Her short legs dangled as the limb rocked up and down. She was one of the first of the Drery Dru to welcome him to their kingdom, and even though she looked like a child, she was one of the elders of the forest elves.
“Perhaps I am,” he replied.
“They say not all who wander are lost, but I th
ink that depends on how one wanders,” she said. “What troubles you, Lorik the Conqueror?”
“A more accurate question might be what doesn’t trouble me. I take it you know of the invasion, of the loss of my friends?”
“The seers have had visions, but they are rarely clear or complete. You have had loss, as well as victory. You have suffered through terrible trials and built something new. That is what we know.”
“And do you know of King Ricard’s invasion?”
“We have felt danger and death,” she replied simply.
Lorik was reminded how differently the forest elves saw life and death. It was one and the same to them, even though the elves didn’t grow old and die the way most creatures did. The elves’ lives were tied to their trees. As long as the forest survived, so did the Drery Dru. But, according to their lore, there were other forests in the distant past that were destroyed, wiping out nearly all of their kind.
“Nothing is as simple as I thought it would be,” Lorik said. “And yet, there is more that I need to do. I cannot simply give up, or turn my back on those who need me.”
Shakyh sat in thought, her tiny legs swinging, her face looking as innocent as a child’s even as she wrestled with the problems Lorik was struggling with. Finally she spoke, her eyes twinkling and her voice upbeat, yet her words were heavy with meaning.
“You cannot fear your strength, King Lorik. Every tree needs pruning to reach its full potential. Nor should you fear your own kind. Your power will draw men to you, men of all different backgrounds and with different needs. You must rise above the masses, that is why you were chosen. The world doesn’t need another king, it needs someone who can care for it, help it grow. Don’t fear the pruning. It is as much your destiny as the growing.”
Lorik wasn’t quite sure what to say, but Shakyh didn’t wait for a reply. Instead she hopped to her feet, blew him a kiss, and skipped away down the swaying branch. Lorik watched her go, envious of her certainty. She knew her place, knew her purpose, and was content. He on the other hand, seemed burdened by his purpose and didn’t feel at home anywhere except in the Wilderlands. It was the one place he knew he didn’t belong. And not just because he wasn’t an elf, everything about him was different. He was too big, too conflicted to really be part of the Drery Dru. He had a destiny and he would have to face it, but first he needed to find Hennick and propose a plan for the future of the Wilderlands.
Chapter 9
Mansel enjoyed riding, and would have been just as happy camping out despite the freezing weather, but he was sensitive to Danella’s plight. She was sore after the first few hours, and even though they walked the horses through most of the afternoon, she shivered with cold. They came to a small settlement well before twilight and took rooms at the small inn. The village was little more than a stopping point on the Weaver’s Road that ran from Ebbson Keep straight across Yelsia to Orrock. Merchants and messengers stopped at the village, buying supplies for their journey, enjoying a warm meal, or taking a room for the night.
Danella, exhausted and sore, retreated to her room immediately, but Mansel lingered in the common room near the fire. He drank ale that was a bit sour, but welcome just the same, and ate a bowl of stew that he guessed had been cooking through the long winter, with new ingredients added each day to replenish what had been eaten the day before. Two nobles arrived an hour after dark. They were wearing thick cloaks and accompanied by servants. The men kept to themselves, although Mansel could hear them mumbling about the poor state of the inn, and the lack of wine.
When Mansel went up to his room he found himself in a space so small that if he reached out both hands to either side of his body he could reach the side walls. The room had no fireplace or even a metal stove, just a small brazier with a few glowing coals. The narrow bed consisted of a wooden frame with ropes laced across it and a thin, straw mattress, but there were several thick quilts and blankets so Mansel had no trouble staying warm.
The next morning when he got up, the room was cold. There was no water to wash with, not that Mansel would have bothered in the freezing room. Instead he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and hurried to the common room to warm up by the large fire. Danella was there as well, sitting close to the fire and ignoring the nobles who were watching her every move. The innkeeper served fresh-baked bread, hot porridge, and plenty of butter, jam, and cheese. Mansel ate his fill, but Danella only picked at her food.
“You should eat,” Mansel said. “It won’t do us any good if you’re too weak to travel.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“No you’re not. I can’t change the way you feel, or make you less sore, but the food will help you get through the day. Eat!”
She continued picking at her food and Mansel was just finishing his bowl of porridge when one of the nobles approached them. The man had a thick beard that was carefully trimmed. His belt was made from calf skin, and silver glinted from the handle of his short sword.
“My lady,” he said, addressing Danella, “my name is Homar, son of Oggno, duke of Osis. It would be my pleasure to accompany you on your journey.”
Mansel looked up, a little surprised and slightly amused. Then he looked at Danella, who was staring at the flames of the fire as if she hadn’t heard the noble’s offer.
“We are honored,” Mansel said. “I am Mansel and this is Danella.”
“I know who you are, my lady,” Homar said, still addressing Danella.
“We are traveling east to Ebbson Keep,” Mansel went on. “I’m on an errand for King Zollin.”
“It just so happens that we are traveling to Ebbson Keep as well,” Homar said. “We have a large wagon. It is warm and comfortable. I’m sure you would be happy to travel with us.”
Mansel waited, wanting to see what Danella would say. She never looked away from the fire.
“No, thank you,” she said in a soft voice.
“Your kindness is appreciated,” Mansel added.
Homar glared at Mansel as if he had been insulted.
“There is bound to be fighting in Ebbson Keep and along the border, my lady,” the noble went on. “I really think that you would be safer with us. We have a band of nearly thirty knights.”
Once more Mansel waited for a moment, not wanting to speak for Danella. He felt a bit annoyed with Homar, but Danella wasn’t his to command. If she wanted to travel with someone else or go somewhere else, she was free to do as she pleased. When she didn’t answer Mansel spoke up.
“We’ll take our chances,” Mansel said.
The glare that came from the noble-born man was intense. There was jealously in his gaze as well as frustration. But he didn’t say anything else. He simply turned and walked quickly away, leaving the inn with his companion and servants in tow.
“Well that was interesting,” Mansel said.
“They think that having me as their lover will improve their chances of becoming king,” Danella said. “They don’t care for me. They think only of themselves.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Mansel said. “You’re a beautiful young woman after all.”
“Beauty and love mean nothing to most men. They either want someone to cook and clean for them, or someone who will elevate their station. I don’t know why they believe that I could improve their chances of winning the throne. I’m not even from a noble family.”
“Sometimes beauty plays a part in the way a person, especially a lady, is perceived. But it matters little now. We should push on.”
The innkeeper’s son had their horses saddled, fed, and ready for the day. Mansel helped Danella into the saddle, noticing how she winced as she settled onto her mount and readjusted her seat in hopes of finding a more comfortable way to sit. Mansel climbed onto his own horse, led the way out of the small village, and back onto the wide road, headed east. Snow wasn’t falling, but it did blow across the road from the drifts on either side. The horses plodded onward, seemingly oblivious to the harsh conditions, but Mansel felt the
biting wind all the way to his bones.
They rode past Homar's war band, giving the knights a wide berth and hurrying ahead of the slower-moving group of warriors. At midday they stopped at a farmhouse where they were invited inside to warm themselves by the fire. They walked the horses afterward, Danella limping slightly but never complaining. When Zollin and Brianna flew down, Mansel was forced to hold the horses to keep them from bolting in fear from the presence of the dragons.
“Make sure to deliver these dispatches to the Duke,” Zollin said. “Hopefully we’ll be back before anything happens in Ebbson Keep.”
“You don’t think the gargoyles will attack again?” Brianna asked.
“In time, but I fear it was my presence that drew them to the border. I’m hoping that until I return the Keep will be safe.”
“That’s a little crazy,” Mansel said. “The gargoyles had no idea you were planning to take control of Yelsia.”
“That’s not why they attacked. It’s the magic. Whatever it is that I’m feeling in Baskla, it feels me too. It wants my power.”
“Then maybe you should stay away,” Mansel said.
“No, you’ll need me and Brianna too. There is no telling what you’ll be facing. And hopefully we'll come back with a plan for a joint strike with Lorik.”
“You think you can trust him?” Mansel asked.
“I don’t know. He seemed like an honorable man when I met him before. He’s got powers that are vastly different from my own. He’s not a wizard exactly, more like a vessel for a powerful magic. He’s a swordsman really, you’d like him.”
“He leads outcasts now,” Mansel said. “I’m not sure I trust anyone who would side with that lot.”
“They didn’t ask to be transformed into monsters,” Brianna said.
“No, but they fought like mindless killing machines until Zollin stopped the witch. I hate to think what fighting them would be like if they were in their right minds.”
Controlling Chaos (The Five Kingdoms Book 12) Page 6
