Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “And your twenty-three mates gave you leave to risk your thick neck in a stupid flying escapade?”

  The massive Lurk looked surprised. “Do you think I should ask them?”

  Kevin sighed theatrically. “Snatcher, this is a ridiculous idea and we’re all going to die. I can only assume that this lever here drops it down the ramp into Anurmar Gorge, at which point we discover whether we have gliding characteristics of a butterfly or of a large brick.”

  “It triggers the catapult?” Snatcher asked innocently, pressing a lever.

  “Don’t! Oh God, Snatcheeeeeeeeeeer!”

  The craft lurched as the catapult shoved them all in their backs. Kevin heard Lurks tumbling about back there. He slammed several buttons and a light came on–the only light with a label still attached, which said, ‘cargo bay.’ There, they wouldn’t lose the future of the Greymorral Lurks, because he had a horrible suspicion most of the apparently nubile ones were making the journey with them–Snatcher’s harem.

  A fearful rumbling began in the undercarriage. The aircraft picked up a respectable speed before shooting out over Anurmar Gorge and heading on a direct collision course for the opposite wall!

  “Snatcheeeeeeeeeeerrrr!”

  “Try pulling it back.”

  “Pulling what?” said Kevin. “My arms won’t move!”

  “This.”

  Snatcher’s paw shot out and accidently pushed a different lever to the one he had aimed for. The craft pitched sideways, throwing his entire weight momentarily onto Kevin’s lap. This had the salutary effect of lowering his arms, which yanked the guidance levers downward, and they went screaming into a stunt-style loop for which their air vessel was clearly never designed. Some of the Lurks howled in the back. Others just held on for dear life.

  “Get off me, you lump!”

  “Trying!”

  “We’re going to crash!”

  The Lurk helped lift Kevin’s arms and the aircraft, with a violent wobble, somehow levelled out–relatively speaking.

  “Now we’re heading away from Shadowmoon Keep,” Snatcher pointed out. He had somehow wedged himself between the floor and the ceiling. “Pull up gently. Good, a bit more. I wonder how birds make it look so easy?”

  “Heavens only know, Snatcher!” Kevin gasped, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “I don’t like heights. Are you boiling or is it just me?”

  “Is that Broadleaf Valley down there?”

  “Er … probably. That means we need to be heading in the opposite direction, doesn’t it?”

  “Just about.”

  “I’ll try to bring her around. Hold on.”

  “Gently!”

  Snatcher crashed into the back of Kevin’s seat, growling something about chewing his ear off if he did not pay attention. That did rather focus the attention. Kevin distinctly heard one of the Lurks shouting that she was sitting on her head. He eased his death-grip of the controls and tried to bring the aircraft level. Flying by magic. What a trick!

  “Excellent work, good outlander!”

  But they both stared out of the windscreen as they swooped low toward Shadowmoon Keep. In slow motion, a crevasse opened alongside Anurmar Gorge, right through the staging area they had sneaked through the previous evening. Tiny dots down there, smaller than ants, were the Trolls scattering in panic as the cliff collapsed slowly into the gorge, taking the Keep with it in an avalanche of unimaginable proportions.

  “I guess the Elemental Dragon of Earth was a little irritated, eh Snatcher?” Kevin said shakily. “Do you see the Lurks anywhere? Did they escape in time?”

  “There!” cried Snatcher, pointing.

  The aircraft wobbled as Kevin took a look past the nose. Yes, that had to be them, a cluster of some two hundred grey pebbles standing not a stone’s throw from the new edge of Anurmar Gorge. The Greymorral Lurks faced a long walk home–and it was up to him to see that home was still there when they arrived. He would have the Unicorns fetch them as soon as possible. He would … try to solve one problem at a time, Jenkins!

  “Keep flying north while I read the map,” said the Lurk. He clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “This lighttime, we struck the Dark Apprentice a blow he’ll not soon forget. You destroyed two dark wizards. Not too shabby for a dying Human I once fished out of the Deep Bogs.”

  Kevin grinned back. “Just think, noble Snatcher, now all we have to do is figure out how to land this thing!”

  The Lurk guffawed and whacked Kevin so hard on his shoulder that he nearly chipped a tooth.

  * * * *

  Kevin would dearly have loved to examine the magic that kept their strange, silent flying craft aloft, but instead let Snatcher took a turn at the controls while he succumbed to utter exhaustion. When Kevin awoke in the small hours from a horrible dream about Brian, he took over and the Lurk went to the hold with the avowed intention of checking up on his harem. Kevin slammed the cockpit door pointedly–and rather childishly–thinking, ‘Animals!’ But he repented immediately. Snatcher was no animal, he was a true friend. Brian was the animal. Or would he thereby insult animals, even?

  With a sigh so deep it emptied his lungs–as though seeking to empty himself of those memories–Kevin gazed out over the rolling cloudscape of Feynard, lit silvery-blue by the light of almost-full Sulä, and wondered how many Humans had every enjoyed a Dragon’s-eye view of another planet. A heavy weather-front obscured the world below, shot through with an occasional flare of lightning, but ahead Kevin saw a break in the clouds. Were they still over the ocean? Or would they soon spy the Seventy-Seven Hills and the great Forest of Driadorn? To his perception the airplane hang motionless in the sky; only a wuthering of wind against the fuselage suggested a tremendous velocity, their true speed. Five on the dial–did that indicate five hundred miles per hour? After a while of staring, half-hypnotised by the might’s fragile beauty, his eye would begin to imagine the world below unfurling like a carpet, all the distance they had covered over many lighttimes.

  An hour later, the aircraft ghosted silently over a coastline. Still later, as Indomalion fired the sky with its customary display of long, trailing sun-flares, Kevin realised that he was flying over a different ocean, a mottled green ocean–the vast sylvan demesne of Driadorn’s Forest, sprawling to every horizon and beyond. Where did one land an airplane in this wilderness? He should consult the map. He should find a river, or the slash of the Küshar Ravine, but all he could do was stare and drink in the beauty.

  The name Feynard, he realised for the first time, could be broken into two parts–‘fey’ meaning whimsical or strange, and ‘nard’, a type of perfume used in embalming. A world of whimsical perfume. As he pondered this, a glint of white on the horizon presaged Garlion’s arrival–the first time he had seen the primary sun. The white dot, tiny in comparison to Indomalion, was nevertheless dazzling. He could not look at it. He shaded his eyes, and felt heat beat against his fingers. The seasons were turning. Soon the pulse of Forest life would surge into Budding season.

  Life and death. The Forest symbolised life. Dryads nurtured that life; they were intimately part of it. What could Alliathiune’s needful sacrifice therefore be, other than death? Kevin bit his lip at this insight. It chilled him to the marrow, because he knew he was right. A seed must fall to the ground, die, and be buried, in order to live. Some seeds required fire to germinate. Why else would the Dryad Queen need to blackmail her niece? Why else would Alliathiune talk about her Seer magic in cold, callous terms, especially as compassion was at the heart of a Dryad’s nature? Her love for the Forest was a tragedy about to play out to its conclusion.

  His heart constricted in his chest.

  A rustle behind him presaged Snatcher’s return to the cockpit. “Behold the many-splendored raiment of Driadorn,” he declared. “She adorns herself in queenly majesty.”

  “Spare me the cheer, old chap. We’re about to battle my evil brother for the fate of the realm.”

  “So melancholy, good outlander?”

  �
�A swamp-dweller being cheerful?”

  The Lurk stretched his joints until they popped. “Truthfully, good Kevin, I suspect I may have over-exerted myself in the darktime. All my mates are so beautiful, so–”

  Kevin blushed as he groaned loudly and long. “Help me read the map, o noble, poetic, and unquestionably over-amorous Lurk. I spy a thread of river over there.” But Snatcher gazed past the map with an aghast expression in his huge eyes that made Kevin shudder. “What? What, Snatcher?”

  “The Forest’s colour,” croaked the Lurk.

  Kevin looked, and began to perceive what the Lurk meant. When would the outlander learn not only to look, but to truly see? Biting his lip, he directed the airplane into a slow descent. They did not speak as, moment by moment, the reason for the catch in the Lurk’s voice became clearer. The mottled appearance he had noted earlier was not only shades of green, but the difference between the green of pockets of still-healthy leaves and the grey-black blotchiness of the Blight. Great swathes of Forest had deteriorated so severely that the drooping of their leafy evergreen crowns was apparent even from a great height. The disease was rampant; the scale of the devastation, numbing. The Blight was far worse than he had ever imagined. Whatever power had been stemming its advance had failed. Had they been gone so long?

  All he could think was that Alliathiune would die if she ever saw this. Even he, hardly Feynard’s foremost Forest-lover, could find no words.

  “So much. So fast,” he whispered. “How can this be, Snatcher? How?”

  The Lurk shrugged massively. “We may only hope we return in time. Were we gone so long? I must–” he let out a low, keening sob, “–I must read the map. Help me.”

  Once they thought they had a good idea of their position, Kevin could withhold no longer. He told Snatcher about what he had deduced about Alliathiune. The Lurk blinked for some time, thinking it over, before quietly agreeing that he could see no other conclusion.

  They flew on in silence until Indomalion was well above the horizon.

  The Lurk said, “Then our task is clear, noble Kevin. We must honour the noble Dryad’s sacrifice even as we seek to honour the Forest in Her need. There is no higher calling. This is the way of love; and its true meaning.”

  Kevin’s eyes filled, and he cried.

  Chapter 28: The Magisoul

  Kevin brought their air vessel around for a second pass over the Sacred Grove, remarking, “If the Dark Apprentice is indeed down there, he has hidden himself well. And he’s doubtless well warned of our arrival.”

  “What choice do we have?” Snatcher said, but softly, as if he were talking to himself. “The Blight must be ended, or Driadorn will perish. To end the Blight we must take the Magisoul to the Well and cast down your brother’s automaton. Then the Elliarana must be restored and the Forest healed. After that, we still have three invading armies to deal with.”

  Kevin chewed his bottom lip, which was already raw and bloody from his worrying. All possible avenues of thought and memory that he could delve into for courage had been mined out. Brian’s shadow lay like a spectre over his heart, numbing his will. Cricket bats, cigarettes, sticks, and fists. That was the language of his brother’s hatred. How would he ever find the nerve to reject those years of abuse?

  Nor did the Sacred Grove hold fond memories. Last time, he had drunk himself into a dreadful state and then mortally insulted Alliathiune in front of Driadorn’s foremost creatures. Now he was planning to confront Brian on the same ground.

  “The grass is the only place,” said Snatcher. “It’s a natural runway. Slow it down as we practised, and then drop the beast on its belly. We’ll stop in time.”

  “But there are people–creatures–down there!”

  “Why don’t we make a low pass? Scare them out of the way.”

  “Do you trust me to do that, Snatcher?”

  “Just don’t hit the Sacred Grove,” the Lurk advised.

  Kevin covered his face with his hands!

  It needed a second pass to convince the Unicorns down on the meadow that they actually meant to land, Kevin having been too tentative at first. For the real landing, they came in low over the trees and dropped as early as possible onto the grass without digging in the nose, which he had read somewhere was the best way to bring down an airplane. So having bounced several times across Driadorn’s most hallowed turf, they ploughed a huge furrow across the sward up toward the Barlindran River, kicking up a tremendous spray of soil and rattling around like pebbles in a tornado. The pilot gave up halfway, convinced they were all going to die, and opted for howling himself hoarse. He was not the only one.

  The aircraft bucked and jolted, groaned and roared, and eventually came to a teetering rest upon the Barlindran’s banks.

  “I’m never doing that again!”

  “Never say never,” Snatcher replied cheerfully. “Come on, good outlander, your legs are trembling like willow-saplings in a storm!”

  “My stomach is only slowly finding its way back down my throat, Snatcher. Do you think our friends in the back survived the journey?”

  The Lurk nodded quickly. “I think so. We should go. Every moment’s delay costs our Forest dear.”

  “At least we are back at Elliadora’s Well far earlier than we had calculated, my friend. My worst fear was that we would return to find the Sacred Grove being redeveloped by Trolls, or worse, that the Drakes would have taken up residence. Do you have the Magisoul?”

  “Safe as a Lurk’s paws.”

  They stepped down the short ramp that opened from the rear of their vessel and joined the Greymorral Lurks there, blinking in the bright sunshine. A curious crowd streamed down from the Grove–Unicorns and Honeybears, Bears, the Jasper Cat, Two Hoots, and many more.

  “I like your optimism,” he said. “Look. What’s that, rising out of the trees? Birds?”

  Snatcher rose to his full height, shaded his eyes with his paw, and stared long and intently at the region Kevin had pointed out. When he spoke, his voice was low with unease. “Nay, good outlander, those are no birds that you behold. Those would be Drakes. Scarce a turn hence, for the Drakes are swift indeed, and the Sacred Grove will come under attack.”

  Like sleek black shadows they were, the Drakes, gigantic bats winging across the treetops toward the Sacred Grove. But unlike bats, their flight was sinuous, like oil slipping across the surface of water. There was nothing about them that was not graceful, beautiful, and utterly deadly.

  Kevin shook in dread of this sight and cried, “Let’s move!”

  One of the Unicorns neighed the alarm, thin strains of panic clearly audible in his voice. Kevin and Snatcher ran at once for the Arch of Indomalion, as they had planned. They first had to stop the pollution of the Forest’s life-source. After that they could concern themselves with the Dark Apprentice and his minions.

  For all the initial signs of panic, organisation magically appeared from chaos. Unicorns and Honeybears manned several emplacements of catapults and other weapons Kevin could not identify, a group of Dryads trotted down to the Sacred Grove, and the Druids set up shop close to the mountainside of the Well itself. Kevin could saw movement in the trees down the Rhiallandran River, and the wink of something metallic up on the mountaintop. Where were the X’gäthi warriors? Concealed somewhere? He panted hard, not accustomed to running.

  A clap of thunder rent the clear sky and the Arch of Indomalion flickered and changed colour. With a swirl of his voluminous cloak, Brian surged out of the shadows and held up his staff. “Halt!” he thundered.

  He had hidden the real Arch with an illusion, Kevin realised belatedly.

  And then he saw Alliathiune. He gasped. The Dryad was preciously balanced on a small wooden stool. Her arms appeared to be trussed behind her back with a ridiculous excess of rope, and her legs at knee and ankle. An old-fashioned hangman’s noose led from her neck to the apex of the Arch, where it was tied off with an ostentatious knot that screamed, ‘Brian’s handiwork!’ Zephyr’s horn hung at
her belt.

  “Alliathiune!”

  “Hold, good outlander,” Snatcher cautioned.

  How long had Brian been hiding near the Well?

  “I would suggest that whichever of you holds the Magisoul, he approaches no closer,” Brian said conversationally, although his voice was still amplified enough to echo off the Well behind them. “And I would suggest no monkey business on the part of the Druids or the Unicorns listening in the trees–nor those Dryads approaching from the Elliarana. Let me outline the situation for you.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Alliathiune screamed. “Save the Forest!”

  “Silence, you fool!” Brian raised his meaty paw. “Allow me to demonstrate. Are you aware of the ancient binding spell called laik-Sälïph, lovingly developed by Dark Wizards to grant Dryads the most delightfully agonising death imaginable? I see you are. I considered using it on your precious Seer here, for the amusement of making you watch her die–slowly, in great affliction, as a nameless tree somewhere in this great Forest was lovingly pruned by one of my creatures.”

  “My God,” Kevin whispered. “You’re sick, Brian!”

  “I would prefer the term ‘imaginative’, little brother.” And he laughed at Kevin’s reaction. “But it occurred to me that the life of one Dryad Seer, no matter how important, would not be offset against the livelihood of the Forest. So I devised a different plan.”

  “A few years ago I spent an enjoyable couple of afternoons playing around with the laik-Sälïph on a Dryad who happened to fall into one of my traps, and I discovered something rather interesting.” Brian pulled out a long knife, and waved it in their direction. “The spell can be reversed, so rather than visiting the damage to an object upon the Dryad, damage to the Dryad can be visited upon the target object. With a little experimentation I soon learned how to augment the effects. So what if the Dark Apprentice bound this Dryad to the Elliarana, you ask? You get results like this!”