Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “No. I thought to seek your opinion first. And please don’t look at me as though I’m a warty toad.”

  A short, joyless chuckle died on her lips. “I don’t know what to say, good Kevin. There has never been a need to replant one of the Elliarana. I didn’t think that was possible. They have always stood for us Dryads as symbols of the Forest’s enduring strength. Legend tells how Elliadora gave her own seed to plant the Sacred Grove at the dawn of time, when Driadorn was conceived in her mind but not yet brought into being. It was also there that she died–do you know that story?”

  “Zephyr shared it with me.”

  “You know then how we believe that in dying, Elliadora’s spirit became infused with the trees of the Sacred Grove. It was her spirit that spoke to me that darktime–”

  “Yes, when you told me off for making a sceptical remark.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Your tongue can be very sharp at times, Alliathiune.”

  She stuck it out at him. The Dryadic patterning extended even to its tip, Kevin noted absently. “Mind your step, then, or more will follow! So … you think that the Blight will spread more quickly now? I must speak to the Dryads. I should consult those who have a greater understanding of the mysteries. I should attempt a Seeing.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea.”

  Alliathiune shot him a loaded look. “So your opinion of Seeing has changed, has it?”

  “I decline to comment,” said he, grinning mischievously. “Is that one of your birds, Alliathiune? There on the bush?”

  “Oh–so it is. Come here, little one.”

  The tiny bird chirruped. Kevin had the impression that he had been carefully judged by its beady black eyes before it hopped into the air and darted down to Alliathiune’s outstretched hand.

  “A very pretty yellow wagtail,” she added, stroking its head with the tip of her forefinger. “Would you like to hold her, Kevin?” He gaped without speaking. “She won’t bite. What are you afraid of? Will you let the barbarian outlander hold you, little one? Hold out your finger.”

  Kevin’s forefinger became a perch and the tiny claws pricked his skin slightly. “It weighs nothing at all!” he exclaimed, amazed.

  “Gently!” Alliathiune admonished him, settling the bird with a soothing touch. “Don’t scare her with loud words or sudden movements. Now, what do you have for me? Is it this capsule? How brave you are to make such a long journey in these troubled times.”

  The wagtail preened herself like a miniature diva and let Alliathiune unfasten the tiny capsule from her leg. He watched the bird in amazement. “What have we here?”

  “What does it say?”

  “If you’d kindly refrain from blocking the light … ah! ‘Urgent message make still mirror at eventide’,” she read. “A still mirror, good Kevin, is a Unicorn spell that enables communication over considerable distance between two adepts. Unfortunately there are few who boast the requisite power to complete such a connection.”

  “I see.”

  Alliathiune called, “Zephyr! Would you come here a moment?”

  As the Unicorn ambled over, Kevin wanted to leap to his feet and dance for joy right along with the brilliant stars above. It was alright! Alliathiune had forgiven him! She had held his hand, ruffled his hair, and accepted his compliments.

  And then he remembered the icy voice which had issued from Alliathiune after they crossed the Bridge of Storms. It can never be. The one thing you desire is the one sacrifice demanded. Dryad and Seer. Twin secrets … what sacrifice did Alliathiune need to make? What could never be?

  And his happiness evaporated with a cold shiver.

  Chapter 18: The Dragon-Magus Amberthurn

  Kevin rose well before dawn after a nightmare about spidery creatures dicing up his intestines for a meal. His companions were all still asleep. Even Amadorn, who was often troubled with pain in his deformed spine, breathed easily. Funny how he hardly noticed the Druid’s misshapenness anymore. If only one could see beyond outward appearances at all times. That would be a trick. Kevin scratched the few straggling hairs he was trying to cultivate on his chin in the hope of one day calling them a beard, as he reflected upon this insight. He wondered how the others saw the Druid.

  For once, he had denied Akê-Akê the opportunity to rattle his ribcage with the sharp edge of a hoof–a morning ritual in which the Faun took particular pleasure. He considered returning the favour, with a stick or a pebble perhaps, but dismissed the idea. There were weightier matters to consider.

  Foremost in his mind was the conversation Zephyr had conducted with a Unicorn at Elliadora’s Well via the still mirror he had set up. Apparently, those left at the Sacred Well had sent out hundreds of kestrels and falcons to scout the Seventy-Seven Hills and bring back their reports. Dark creatures were roaming the Old Forest, they had learned, rousing the Yatakê and Drakes and assembling the Faun tribes at a place called Fourfire Valley, the Unicorn name for the ancient home of the Drakes. There, despite a Faunish hatred of cold, enclosed spaces, the tribes were being pressed into service as diggers in order that the Trolls might be found. The Unicorn had sneeringly called them ‘Blind Trolls’, referring to their dislike of sunlight.

  Thaharria-brin-Tomal had come under attack by Black Wolves, but the Unicorns had repulsed them after a short but violent skirmish.

  Furthermore, an army of Men was already camped on the hills north of Driadorn, poised to sweep down into the Forest. It swelled by the turn as columns of foot soldiers marched down from the lands around Agád-Badûr, a maritime town at the mouth of the Whiterun River. Rumours of strange metal beasts and new weapons had yet to be confirmed. But sappers had built bridges across the Whiterun and a crude road snaked its way south through the wilderness beyond Driadorn’s borders–and a harsh wilderness it was, frequented by fierce predators, tangled and snarled with acres of thorn bushes. Kevin made a note on his mental map. Two to three moons, by his reckoning, before Driadorn itself was under siege–unless the Fauns moved first. But would they strike before unleashing the Trollish hordes? No one knew.

  Further east of the Sacred Well, two full moons’ travel along the Rhiallandran river according to the Unicorns, lay the Goblin territories. The scouts sent there had not yet returned … a sudden chill ran down his spine. Zephyr might have scoffed at the ‘undisciplined rabble of midgets’, who were apparently no taller than three or four feet, but if there were enough, they too would pose a threat–especially given that most of their allies lived west of the Sacred Well. That flank was vulnerable.

  Tactically it was a right old dog’s breakfast, the Human worried, pacing up and down with his hands clasped behind his back. Three armies approaching from three different directions. Which would attack first? How should they split their meagre forces to counter the advance? At least the central point of the Well and its magical resources were factors in their favour. The Unicorns could communicate and co-ordinate with the other races.

  But something else kept intruding and spoiling his concentration.

  Blast the Lurk.

  That typically steady comment of his was a thorn in his conscience. No amount of fretting about a developing war changed the basic problem–the thing that had been keeping him awake all night. ‘Do to the Mancat whatever you did to the Faun on Lyredin’s Way’. Dratted interfering ruddy pestiferous swamp-mired annoyingly right son of a smelly goat! Kevin wrung his hands. Maybe just a touch. That was all it took last time.

  Just a touch.

  There was no way on Earth he could stand around and let the Mancat perish. Not that he liked cats particularly, one way or the other. Pitterdown Manor used to house a couple before one had kittens and Father drowned the lot of them in a fit of drunken rage. Jolly uppity creatures, all airs and graces, but Kevin had cried when Brian told him what Father had done–much to his brother’s amusement.

  Everyone slept. All it would take was a swift touch. No one would be any the wiser. None of the others had been able to
counteract the effects of the poison, which had no known antidote. It was his woeful skills, or nothing. Trembling, Kevin crept over to where the Mancat had been laid and looked down at her. There was enough light to see how pale and still she lay. Her breathing was shallow and very rapid. The poison must have pervaded her system by now.

  The Key-Ring slipped over his wrist, cool and unresponsive. A deep breath steadied his nerves. Kevin reached out.

  Before his hand could even touch her, he felt every hair on his body stand to attention as though he were standing amidst an electrical storm. From the clouds came a bolt of bluish lightning that seared brilliantly across his vision and echoed off the surrounding peaks like a gunshot. It jolted the Mancat out of her bedroll and threw her clear across their camp, landing her in a tangle between the Witch and Alliathiune.

  He, for once, was left on his own two feet.

  “Phew,” he whispered, wiping his brow. “Special effects!”

  Hunter leaped to her feet as though stung and shrieked, “Who set my tail on fire?”

  “Mighty High Wizard,” said a voice, right in Kevin’s ear.

  His knees buckled as though scythed through by a reaper’s stroke.

  * * * *

  “We are looking forward to meeting the Dragon-Magus, of course,” said Zephyr’s smooth tenor, echoing in the high tunnel. “We come bearing gifts from the Council.”

  “The Dragon-Magus has been expecting you.”

  “What kind of Troll are you, may I ask?”

  “My tribe is little-known, noble Unicorn,” said the other voice. It was scratchy and harsh, as though speaking Standard Driadornese caused it pain. “We serve our great Lord Amberthurn as scholars and librarians. We are of the Hexath branch of the Trolls.”

  “Ah–no, your tribe is unfamiliar to me.”

  The Unicorn sounded aggrieved, Kevin thought uncharitably, opening his eyes to see who it was that was speaking. He found himself cradled in the Lurk’s arms, as he had suspected, and by peering over Amadorn’s shaggy head could see the long arms and ungainly gait of a Troll, garbed in a simple blue robe, with long grey hair hanging down his back. Zephyr strolled at his side, leading the party as was his wont, but he swung his head around as though sensing the Human’s gaze and gave a sardonic snicker.

  “Welcome back, good outlander. Well rested from your labours, I hope?”

  “I thank you for the healing,” hissed Hunter, her slit eyes gleaming in the half-light. “I am wholly restored, and grateful.”

  “Ah–good. Great! Uh … where are we?”

  “Dawn was seen these three turns past as you slept, noble Human,” replied Zephyr, “leaving the patient Lurk to bear you meanwhile.”

  “He was drained by the work of healing wrought upon–”

  “Good Dryad, he hardly merits your justification,” interrupted Zephyr, sneeringly truculent. Kevin was surprised that Alliathiune had sprung to his defence, unpredictable as always. “Once more, after a darktime spent sneaking about trying to conceal his deeds, the outlander rests at our expense. I tire of this constant need to–”

  “Good Unicorn, I tire of your groundless complaints and your graceless ill humour. There is no need to pick on poor Kevin just because he did the Mancat a good turn.”

  “Poor Kevin? Poor Kevin my grandsire’s a pink striped ass!” the Unicorn shouted, losing his temper with spectacular abandon. “I don’t know where you found the courage during the darktime, you timid little man, but you had better pray that you find that kind of courage again when we’re in trouble–instead of just standing there like a useless lump of clay when the Men of Ramoth attack!”

  “Do we have to quarrel?” snarled the Witch, with such venom in her voice that both Zephyr and Alliathiune were stunned to silence. “Did you not hear what the Tomalia scouts have reported? War is upon us! War, and famine, and pestilence to follow! Did you not hear the outlander say but a few moons may separate us from their first assault?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Zephyr whinnied, baring his teeth like a wolf. “He was guessing! It’ll take far longer than that for the Men or the Fauns to organise their armies. I for one don’t care for scaremongering and crude guesswork, especially over matters of such consequence. Experience tells us–”

  Kevin sucked in his breath. The Unicorn’s comments had cut him to the quick. Father and Brian used to tear him down like that. He was used to it, used to letting it wash over him. However, the fact that he considered Zephyr a friend made it smart far worse than expected.

  “Experience told us precisely nothing about the Blight,” he muttered.

  “War is different. We have the histories to guide us.”

  The Witch drew herself up like a thin stick. “Noble Unicorn, do you honestly think that our enemies have not also have learned from those same histories? That there will be some repeat of past blunders? Now who has his head in the clouds?”

  There may have been further nastiness, but for the intervention of their Troll guide. He said, “Nobles, sound carries underground and there are feral Trolls that inhabit some of these side tunnels. We should proceed quietly for a space.”

  “Feral Trolls?”

  “Indeed, good Faun. Think of them as the lice upon your hairy body. Itchy, pervasive, and difficult to get rid of.”

  “I do not have lice,” muttered Akê-Akê, scratching his rump.

  “We can protect ourselves.”

  “But of course, noble one-horn.” The Troll was smooth, like river pebbles. “Your stalwart presence is a comfort in these dark halls.”

  “Does Amberthurn use this selfsame passage?” wondered Amadorn.

  Zephyr, Alliathiune, and the Head Witch were all sulking and angry, like a group of chastised children, Kevin thought to his private amusement. Why had the Witch joined in the argument? She had never expressed her sympathies for the Forest’s plight before! And she had sided with him, which was most out of character.

  “This is the main route into my Lord Amberthurn’s redoubt,” offered the Troll. “Doubtless there are others, some secret besides, which my Lord is able to employ in his many guises.”

  “Ah, a shape-shifter.”

  “It is public knowledge, good Druid.”

  They moved on down a long, straight passageway by the light of a bright, burning sphere upheld without apparent effort by their guide. Kevin estimated that ten or more men could walk comfortably abreast, and the ceiling was at least fifty feet high. At his low request the Lurk set him upon his feet.

  Some two or three smaller tunnels bisected their own at irregular intervals, giving the impression that they might be descending into an abandoned mine. Stout timbers shored up the roof in places, and an odour of damp cinnamon and musk pervaded the air. It was warm, with a slight breeze rising from the depths to ruffle their cloaks. Glimmering of Dawn side-slipped uneasily amongst the swirling currents. He of their number appeared the most ill at ease in the tunnel, but he had insisted on accompanying the group despite his instinctive–and natural–claustrophobia.

  Perhaps three turns had passed in silent procession when Hunter raised her muzzle to test the air. “I smell something,” she whispered, lithe fingers toying with her dagger as though she meant to whip it out and hurl it at someone. “Bodies, scales, and metal.”

  “The Dragon-Magus receives his guests in yonder chamber,” said the Hexath Troll. “It is called the Seat of Reckoning.”

  Ahead the companions saw a tall archway comprised of two intertwined, stylised serpents overlaid with hammered gold. To either side of the archway hulked two vast iron bowls set upon massively squat legs, from which glowed with a ruddy light. They perceived that the roof and sides of the tunnel had receded over the last hundred paces or so, and they stood now upon dressed flagstones of obsidian, but having the sheen and lustre of opal. Beside the bowls stood two enormous, armoured figures that Kevin had initially taken for statues, for they were nigh on thrice his own height, but as they approached the statues snapped even furthe
r to attention, if that were possible, and lowered their giant axes to bar the way. He swallowed nervously. Those double-headed blades must have been four feet from tip to tip. Even Snatcher might struggle to lift one.

  “Who seeks entry to the Seat of Reckoning?” they boomed in concert, and the thunder of their voices made Kevin stumble.

  “Steady,” murmured the Lurk, catching his elbow.

  “They appear to be Trolls,” Zephyr was whispering to Alliathiune, “but what a size! I’ve never seen their like!”

  “Igneous Trolls, bred in the slimy pits of Akla’xa Dugê,” said their guide, clearly enjoying the Unicorn’s reaction. “My master commissioned these especially. How little you seem to know of what transpires in the wider world, good Zephyr. Do the Tomalia not keep abreast of current events?”

  Kevin practically heard Zephyr’s teeth grinding together as he replied, “Indeed we do, noble Troll, only my extensive travels keep me out of touch for long periods.”

  “Naturally.” He raised his voice. “These travellers seek audience with the Dragon-Magus and come bearing gifts from the Council of the Elder Races of the realm known as Driadorn.”

  “Enter!”

  The great axes rose as crashing echoes rolled away into the distance. Kevin felt himself ducking reflexively as they passed the gigantic Trolls, as if he could feel one of those blades descending upon his head and cracking it open like a nut. Jiminy cricket, he had thought Snatcher was intimidating! Then, as they entered the next cavern, he had to revise his thinking–again.

  Kevin had read about cave structures and knew some theory concerning cave formation, but nothing could have prepared him for the splendour that greeted the companions here. The chamber was roughly circular, some two hundred and fifty paces in diameter, and rose to a domed ceiling far above their heads. In its centre was a great pillar of sparkling limestone, cascading from ceiling to floor like a crystal staircase. Other stalactites and stalagmites formed great fans and shimmering curtains depending from the ceiling or rising from the floor where water had dripped and evaporated for millennia. Light glowed from a dozen great iron bowls set at intervals around the circumference. Each was attended by four of the Igneous Trolls that had awed the travellers at the entrance, while further files of smaller but no less armoured Trolls flanked the obsidian path as it snaked around the central column and up to a great flower-shaped pedestal of rose quartz, upon which the Dragon-Magus chose to perch.