He stood in a chamber. It was about as big as the Temple, although not quite as high. The ceiling and walls were made of earth and appeared to be reinforced with thick, uneven beams. He walked over to one and touched it, and gasped. It was a tree root. The whole cavern was thick with them. He looked up at the ceiling, suddenly realising where he was.
He was standing right underneath the Arbor.
The floor was also made of packed earth and was empty, apart from a figure lying right in the centre, motionless. He ran across to it and turned it over and realised it was Nitesco. He put his hand on the Libraris’s chest. He was still alive. Chonrad shook him gently, but Nitesco did not rouse. Clearly, he was in some sort of induced slumber.
Chonrad turned and looked around him. The only other thing in the chamber apart from Nitesco was a wooden tablet set into one of the walls, about four feet square in size. He went over to it and touched it. It was highly polished and dust-free, although clearly nobody had been down there in years. The surface was empty of marks or carvings, and there was nothing on it to explain what it was doing there.
He looked up at the roots above his head, thinking about the fact that he appeared to be standing right under the holy tree. His fingers touched the tablet again. “Are you something to do with the Arbor?” he murmured to himself.
And then something happened that made him jump back as if he had been burned. One word appeared on the wooden tablet as if an invisible hand had etched the letters there with a chisel.
Yes.
V
Teague wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or merely under some kind of spell. He could hear the sounds of battle echoing around him, but he could not turn around; his feet were rooted to the ground, his body limp and unresponsive.
His gaze was fixed on the Arbor. He could not take his eyes off it. He could still hear it crying, but the sound was now far off in the distance, like an echo. What was drawing his attention more was the soft whisperings of a conversation, audible even over the clashes of swords on shields and armour in the background.
He strained his ears to hear what the voices were saying but could not quite make them out. He frowned, concentrating. The more he concentrated, the more he began to make out individual voices.
“…for so long…”
“…they have forgotten…”
“…can hear us. Call for him…”
“…growing dark. Growing dark…”
He shivered. The voices sounded lost, forlorn, like figures at the bottom of a well, calling to be found. Part of him wanted to run to them, to try to help them, but the other part of him just wanted to flee and get as far away from the tree and Heartwood as he could.
“I do not want this,” he whispered, although he wasn’t sure to whom he was talking. “Please, leave me alone.”
The voices continued to whisper: “…he has engaged Valens…”
“…the Militis will fall…”
“…she is hurt, she is hurt…”
The last words struck a chord within Teague, and he stirred and roused from his dream, the voices dying and the sounds of battle growing louder around him.
His vision cleared. To one side of him, Beata stumbled from a blow to her left shoulder. He had told her the wound might not have completely healed, and he had been right. She grimaced, her body twisting, dropping her guard.
Teague screamed, wrenching himself free of whatever force was holding him in place, and ran to her, but he was too late. The Darkwater warrior took advantage of her exposed left flank and thrust his sword, and it entered her right side just under her armpit, skewering her through her ribcage.
Behind her, Procella had turned at Teague’s scream and now bellowed as she swung her sword, slicing the water warrior’s head clean from his body. But Teague hardly even noticed. He caught Beata as she slowly collapsed, and he fell to the ground with her on top of him.
“No!” he sobbed, gathering her in his arms, trying to place his hands on the wound. They slipped on her armour, which was already thick with blood, and he cursed. He locked his fingers behind her back so she couldn’t slip out and closed his eyes. He searched for the seed of light within her so he could link it to the ground and feed it energy.
But it wasn’t there.
His heart swelled with horror. He searched again, and again, looking for some sign of life.
There was, however, none to find.
He sat there for a while, soaking in her blood, while Procella and Fionnghuala and Bearrach fought around him, protecting him from the Darkwater warriors who continued to fall through the holes in the roof. He could not believe she was dead. Beautiful, vibrant Beata, with her fiery temper and frighteningly accurate battle skills. She had travelled across the world to find him; she had cajoled and argued and bullied him all the way back, and got herself shot for the effort. All along he had fought her, and now she was gone and he could have his way and go home.
He remembered seeing her at Henton, elegant in her dress, like a real lady, quiet and so unlike a warrior, he would never have realised the truth. And then he remembered the day she had found him at the Harlton Forest, and the terror he had felt when he saw how she had changed, and realised what she was really like.
He still found it difficult to marry up the two Beatas: the gentle, elegant lady and the fierce, aggressive warrior. It was hard to think of them as the same person. And then there was also Beata the lover, who had given herself to him freely. He knew part of that had been curiosity, that she had been intrigued to find out what it was all about, but he thought it had also been more than that. There had been something between them, like lightning, quick and fierce, and damaging if you got caught in it, but beautiful nevertheless.
And now she was gone.
He bent and kissed her gently on the forehead, then pushed her carefully to one side onto the ground and got up. He stared around him like one who had woken from a dream. The knights were still in front of him, trying to keep him safe from the Darkwater Lords who now definitely outnumbered the standing Militis, but Teague could see it wouldn’t be long before they fell, too. Fionnghuala bled profusely from a cut on her neck, and Bearrach was holding his left arm in a strange way, as though it had been numbed with a strike. Valens was now fighting a magnificent, powerful Darkwater Lord and could barely defend himself again his blows. Dolosus was motionless, on his knees in the midst of the warriors in the outer circle. And all around, knights were falling like felled trees. Only Procella remained unhurt and magnificent in her fury, but Teague could see that eventually the number of the Darkwater warriors would overwhelm her. The tide had turned. The element of water was on the rise.
“…come to us…”
“…Teague…”
Slowly, he turned to face the Arbor. The tree was calling him. He could hear the voices, tens, maybe hundreds of them, whispering to him, beckoning him.
He swallowed. He could not reason why, but he was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life. Still, he thought of Beata lying on the floor, and he began to walk slowly forwards.
When he was just a few feet from the trunk, standing with his feet amongst the roots and his head just being touched by the drooping branches, he stopped. In front of him, the great rent down the middle of the trunk was obvious, and from this position, he could just see the Pectoris, pulsing slowly in the middle.
Once again he felt himself begin to grow sleepy. This time, however, he did not fight it.
He closed his eyes.
Immediately, the sounds of battle around him grew dim, and the voices in the tree grew louder. This time, however, he could hear them more clearly.
“Teague… You have come to us!”
“I am here,” he whispered. “What do you want me to do?”
“Come closer…” echoed the answer.
His heart pounded. His eyes still shut, he walked forwards the few feet until his hands met the trunk.
“Closer…” whispered the voices.
&nbs
p; He pressed himself against the wood, his cheek to the bark, and wrapped his arms around the torn trunk. He slowed his breathing.
Gradually, he reached out with his senses, the way he had always been able to do since he was a child. All Komis had some ability to do this, but he had never met anyone who was able to do it in the same way he could. He could not explain how he did it, however. It was like physically reaching out with your hand to take an object from someone’s grasp, but you did it instead with your mind, stretching out with your thoughts, to touch what he thought of as the energy of Anguis, which seemed to flow beneath the land as the rivers flowed on the surface.
Immediately, warmth and light flooded him. He gasped, shocked at the amount of power that flowed through him. If previously he had felt the energy he had contacted was like a river, then this was the ocean, vast and awe-inspiring, terrifying in its strength and size.
It overwhelmed him like a tidal wave, and for a moment, he thought he was going to drown in the energy. Then, just as quickly, it dimmed.
When the voices spoke, they were as clear as if they were standing beside him.
“Teague…”
“You came…”
“I am here,” he repeated. “What do you want me to do? How can I help you?”
As an answer, he received in his head a series of images. They were pictures of people, male and female, young and old. He watched them play through his mind, not understanding what he was being shown. “Who are these people?” he asked. “What do they have to do with the tree?”
“They are us…” the voices whispered. He frowned, watching the images in his head. It was if he were looking out from the point of view of the Arbor, seeing these people standing before him. Behind them, he could see the Temple, the imposing walls rising above them.
Gradually, however, as the pictures continued flashing by, the background began to change. Suddenly, the Temple as he had seen it vanished, and it was replaced by a smaller, square wall with no roof. Then, after maybe fifty more images of people, even that wall disappeared, and the tree was left in the open air, exposed to the elements.
Teague gasped. “You are taking me back in time!” He watched the people standing in front of the Arbor, looking up at him. “All these people have stood before you, from the days before the temples were built.”
“Yes…”
He frowned. There must be some reason the tree was showing him these people in particular. He could see nothing about them that linked them; they were Wulfian, Laxonian, Hanairean and even Komis, the further back in time they went. “I do not understand,” he said urgently. “What are you trying to tell me? Who are these people?”
Suddenly, the pictures slowed down and stopped. Gradually, he watched as time reversed itself and began to run forward again, but this time the flashing images were speeded up, and he gasped as, in seconds, the last thousand years sped by in front of his eyes.
As time caught up with itself, the images slowed once again. Standing before him was a slightly blurry figure, and he realised as he looked closely it was actually every single figure he had seen merged into one, like the layers of an onion or a rose’s petals.
Then, taking his breath away, the thousand-figures-as-one stepped forwards into him. As the Arbor, he felt himself embrace the figure and welcome its energy into himself. And suddenly, he understood.
The people he had seen standing before the tree were sacrifices who had given themselves willingly to the Arbor, who been embraced by it and who had become part of it, part of its heart. These people were the Pectoris, their essences hidden within its beating form.
And it was his turn to be next.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I
Locked in the argument between the two elements, the Militis and water warrior who was both Dolosus and Damaris could only watch the battle raging between Thalassinus and Valens.
Though the High Lord of Darkwater was the younger and stronger foe, Valens had a tremendous amount of experience in battle and years of training, and this showed clearly while the two were fighting. But he was also wounded, and after a while he began to favour his weaker leg, and Thalassinus soon spotted this and started to press his attentions on that side. The High Lord was strong and fearless, shining like a beacon in his gold sash.
Dolosus/Damaris twisted in agony where he knelt on the ground, torn with indecision. Part of him wanted to run and help Valens, but the other half admired the impressiveness of his real father, and wanted to be part of his world.
Feeling his earth counterpart giving ground, Damaris the water spirit crowed triumphantly. It was Valens’s undoing. The Imperator heard the call and turned slightly. He saw the figure kneeling on the ground amidst the water warriors who were still rising from the puddles on the floor, and he saw his form flicker, and the semi-transparentness of the water elemental coming through.
And in that second of his distraction, Thalassinus took the chance to pull back his sword and thrust at his opponent’s stomach. The blade entered Valens above his right hip, skewering him completely. His head snapped back and he stared at his assailant with surprise. He coughed, blood appearing on his lips, then gradually slid to his knees as Thalassinus withdrew the blade.
It was the worst thing the Darkwater High Lord could have done, for in that moment, Dolosus knew what really mattered to him, and with a resounding: “No!” he pushed himself to his feet, and crushed the water elemental inside him, where his voice was heard no more.
Dolosus covered the distance between the two of them in seconds. He caught Valens in his arm as the older knight fell forwards, and lowered him gently to the ground. He stared into his eyes, and brushed the hair back from his forehead gently.
Valens opened his eyes. “Dolosus?” he queried.
“It is I, Father.” He heard a snarl from Thalassinus but did not look up.
Valens smiled. “You know I have always thought of you as my son,” he whispered.
“I know. And I have always thought of you as my father. I just did not know it until now.” Tears came into his eyes. “I am sorry I realised it too late.”
Valens tried to raise his hand to touch Dolosus’s face, but he was too weak. Instead, he just nodded. “It is not too late,” he said, his voice fading with his body. “Kill him, Dolosus.”
Dolosus swallowed. “I will, Father.” He waited for Valens to reply, but the old knight’s eyes grew dim, and Dolosus realised he would be saying no more.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He realised he had left his own sword behind, and picked up Valens’s instead. Thalassinus stood in front of him, green eyes dangerously bright, all trace of humour gone. “You think you can take me, boy?”
“I do not think it – I know it,” said Dolosus, swinging the sword around his body, testing its weight. To his surprise, it was almost as light as his own. Valens had clearly realised his strength was waning and had attempted to compensate by using a lighter weapon.
He faced Thalassinus, and they circled each other warily. Thalassinus hefted his sword in his hand. “Do you really think you can best me?” he asked silkily. “With your one arm and your split loyalties?”
Dolosus said nothing. Thalassinus was trying to distract him, to make him angry and force him to lose his control. Well, he wasn’t going to do that. He was past letting other people control him.
He spun his sword around his body, getting used to the feel of the grip, the balance and the weight. He eyed Thalassinus as he did so. Though the water warrior was big and sturdily built, Dolosus had the advantage of being more used to fighting on land. Thalassinus was used to the water currents helping him to follow through on some sword strikes, and occasionally his swing fell short. Dolosus would use that to his advantage.
He began to test the other’s sword skills, thrusting first to one side, then the other, testing for weaknesses, finding where Thalassinus left flesh exposed, and where he kept a tight defence. The High Lord did not return the thrusts but parried e
asily, talking all the while, taunting Dolosus with cruel words, but Dolosus shut him out, concentrating only on the clash of swords and feeling his body begin to loosen up as he moved around.
Gradually, he began to increase the pressure of his thrust and swipes, poking and prodding at Thalassinus’s weaknesses as if trying to prise a winkle out of a shell. Slowly, Thalassinus’s taunts stopped, as all his attention focussed on not getting hurt. The game stopped being a game when Dolosus’s sword slipped through the High Lord’s guard and nicked his arm. Thalassinus drew back with a hiss and looked down at the green blood that marked his arm.
Dolosus turned his sword in his hand and smiled. “Do I have your attention now?”
Thalassinus growled and began to fight properly, putting his weight behind his thrusts and slashing back rather than just accepting the blows. Dolosus kept on the balls of his feet and met each blow as it came, still probing the weak spots. It became harder as Thalassinus also warmed up, and he soon realised they were an even match.
They swung, parried, thrust and stabbed, circling around the Arbor, oblivious to those who fought around them, and those who lay dead or injured on the floor. All that mattered was the moment, that one instance in time with the two of them locked in combat.
Gradually Dolosus grew tired, and yet the water warrior grew, if anything, stronger and stronger. He could not allow Thalassinus to beat him! The thought kept him going, but he could feel his muscles beginning to strain, his brain tiring with the constant effort of keeping alert. Thalassinus seemed to be sensing it, too, and let out a triumphant bellow as he pressed forward, the number and force of his blows increasing. Dolosus fell back gradually, finding himself more and more on the defensive, and a slither of fear crept into his stomach: he was going to lose this fight.
And then it happened. Thalassinus forgot he was fighting on land and let a sword swing carry too far; the momentum carried him farther than he had meant, and he twisted slightly, exposing his side and under his arm. Dolosus did not pass on the opportunity; he brought up his sword, thrusting it into the flesh.
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