Legend of the Lost

by Ian P Buckingham

  Tod made as if to go after him but was blocked by Henry’s intervention.

  “But where’s he going? I don’t think we can trust Sam any more as I’m not sure he trusts himself, Henry.”

  “Sam is now in the arms of his destiny, my friend, and there is nothing that any of us can do to argue him from that path, no matter how we try.

  “We can only control what is within our power and the gift of those who can help us.

  “Our task now is to seek out allies and to do what we can to restore sense and balance.

  “You know that too. Now come. Time is fast running out, for us all.”

  Nimbus may have been temporarily blinded by the black wytch, but his keen nymph ears could clearly make out the unmistakable noise of an approaching werebeast when he heard one. He was only thankful he couldn’t smell it.

  One thing his captor didn’t seem to understand about their kind is how clever and industrious woodland nymphs can be, especially his clan.

  His family were builders, architects and engineers. They made the things that made the faerie town the pretty, happy place it was. And he had been working on those holes in the lid of the jar for some time now, quietly convincing the metal edges, with a little help from his wand, to withdraw together, leaving a hole large enough for even his belly to squeeze through.

  He had to work stealthily for there was no way to mould magic without creating at least a little light. But he was counting on the fact that she had covered the jar in a dark cloth to conceal his efforts.

  As he heard the door creak and his captor presumably step outside to greet her beastly guest, he seized his moment and popped from the jar like a cork from a bottle.

  He then opened the latch on a rear window, made his way over to where the ancient, leather-bound book still lay, covered that too with the cloth and cast a replicant spell, taking care not to spill any light.

  Then he re-covered the jar and tip-toed over to the window and climbed gingerly outside.

  First checking that he was down-wind of sensitive snouts, he made his way to the roof and along the wooden gutter until he could see the wytch talking with her visitor.

  He looked like a relatively young werebeast and as the clouds shifted overhead to reveal a sliver of silver moon he noticed that, unusually, it had what appeared to be a white two-toned coat, a long streak of silver extending from neck to tip of tail.

  He couldn’t hear everything they were discussing but one sentence hung in the night breeze and froze the magical blood in his veins: “Revenge will come when we lift the curse of light by ending the reign of the Greene Man.”

  Just then, one of the winged forest ghosts glided past, catching the attention of the conspirators with its hunting call.

  Nimbus seized the opportunity, with the house at his back, to fly hard and fast for the cover of the watching trees.

  He had to find a way to catch up with Alice and his friends and share all he had learned in the cabin that evening.

  For the wytch would soon discover that they were on to her and that would doubtless speed up her evil plans.

  But as he darted between leaves, branches and boughs, what was troubling him greatly was the puzzle about how much Alice understood about her own mother.

  “Surely she must have suspected something?” he thought, panting under the strain of flying so fast for so long. If she did, what would that say about the true nature of their friend?

  And, if she really knew nothing about her true nature, how on earth was he going to break the terrible news? It would surely break her heart.

  Alice and her nymph companions had drifted through the audience with the majestic Hearne like they were in a waking dream.

  It seemed both to last forever and to be over in a flash.

  It was numbing and stimulating, exciting but frightening all at once.

  She remembered every form of benign woodland creature parading by in a constant stream of tributes while they were in his presence. It was as if they were calling in to recharge their life source, worn down by nature’s many tiring trials.

  None of them could actually remember speaking with the Prince of the Forest. Yet he seemed to know precisely what they had come there to tell. He was in front of them and in their minds, their thoughts, doubts, fears and hopes, at the same time.

  It was an odd yet a strangely comforting experience, almost like listening to a soothing lullaby on the shoulder of a loving parent.

  And, as a result, as if surfacing from that waking dream, they were now trekking northward for the Chalk Downs on a mission to search out and extinguish the source of the harrowing of the Fireills.

  “I would do anything for him to protect our way of life. But I still don’t understand how such a small band as ours is supposed to tackle evil in its very lair,” said Sylvane, the natural fretter amongst them, pulling her pretty light green cap tighter as they flew against the wind.

  “You heard his words as the rest of us did,” replied Dianah. She had a bundle of thorn spears tied to her back, sword at her side and new bow. “Our mission and our help awaits us at the pinnacle of the hills, so it’s to help that we’re headed.”

  “But I was always taught that to break from the cover of the forest was fraught with danger,” Sylvie countered. “I just hate being away from the trees. It never feels right. Our enemies multiply the further north we come into the Firewyld domain, and not all dangers crawl or run upon the ground.”

  “Well, you heard what he said, like I did,” Alice said breathlessly as they flew. “Without risks we don’t know what it’s like to be safe and secure. Without hard times we don’t appreciate the good…”

  “Yes, yes, and without darkness we can’t really see the light properly,” repeated Zeph.

  “It’s the darkness bit that has me really worried, because there’s dark with moonlight and lovely twinkling stars and the friendly bush folk…” Sylvane was clearly a little distressed by their mission.

  “Then there’s the dark realm those creatures inhabit, a place of hatred and fear and hurt,” said Dianah.

  “Well let’s expect the worst and prepare to be pleasantly surprised, shall we?” Just as the words left her mouth, Alice pointed at the horizon while they browed the first hill.

  There, coming across the valley at incredible pace, was what appeared to be a band of emberhawks flying in hunting formation and they had clearly spotted the travelling companions.

  “Talking of the worst… look! We’re too far from cover now and they are much too fast,” cried Dianah. “We need something protecting our backs.” She pointed at the clay chimney pots on the farmhouse roof beneath them. “They will have to do.”

  They dived fast as one and positioned themselves between the set of four pots, each grabbing a spear and standing back to back in a sort of faerie folk diamond.

  They were just in time.

  The emberhawks were upon them before they could draw breath, three veering off in the face of the unexpected spear barriers and the attentions of Dianah’s fast-firing bow.

  The largest, however, circled back round and landed on the lip of one of the pots with an ear-splitting screech.

  Its razor-sharp talons clack-clacked just above Alice’s head, causing her to flatten herself suddenly in the middle of the pots, losing her spear in the process. She could feel Helygenn the Willowand wriggling in its sheath but it was pinned between her body and the clay roof.

  Then she felt something like moths landing on her face and realised that they were feathers, feathers from the attacking raptor.

  Zeph had conjured an elven sword from his wand and, leaping nimbly this way and that, he was expertly carving chunks from the flight feathers of the winged terror.

  Realising, however, that he had damaged its ability to fly, the hungry bird redoubled its efforts and, like the skilled predator it was,
thrust its vicious beak between two pots.

  It managed to grab hold of the hem of the sprite’s tunic, despite his best efforts to fight it off, dislodging him from the security of the chimney in the same swift action.

  Zephyr, however, cut the cloth with one action then, rather than push back as the bird expected, charged towards it.

  Taking a feathery foothold, he then sprung onto its back.

  This caused the bird to panic for fear of his slashing and stabbing blade, release its claw hold on the roof and attempt to take off.

  The angry bird made a dozen more yards or so but then, in the face of the damage sustained and continual attentions of the nymph, crashed into an unseen washing line and cartwheeled, half dropping and half gliding, to the ground.

  In the meantime, Dianah had sunk her spear into one of the returning birds far enough to encourage it to abandon them as a meal and clear off in search of easier prey.

  The last, however, was proving a lot more determined, until Sylvie, with a wave of her wand, sent a shower of brambles from a nearby bush into the bird’s startled face. That was enough to convince it to join its companions, screaming out its frustration as it launched awkwardly into the empty sky.

  When the birds were far enough away to offer no threat of a return, the nymphs flew over to where the fight between Zephyr and the leading emberhawk had concluded.

  They were expecting to see the bird slain on the floor. But, as they searched, their eyes were drawn upwards by a triumphant screech and the sight of the hunter heading into the horizon, lit up by the pale moon.

  To their horror, it had a wriggling bundle clutched in its terrible talons.

  At first the friends were set to chase the bird of prey.

  But, as Dianah pointed out, a look of horror on her face, “They simply fly too fast and it has too much of a head start.”

  “We can’t just do NOTHING,” cried Sylvane. “Can’t you use the Willowand?”

  Alice had already tried to get a response from her strange companion, however it remained lifeless, as if resigned to a fate it may well have anticipated.

  Dianah was ashen-faced and Sylvie almost hysterical, tears streaming down her lovely face.

  “We have to remember what Hearne said about destiny,” Alice said, speaking slowly and softly, almost as if she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

  “Everything about these events is happening for a reason, it has a purpose. Our purpose, right now, is to get to the meeting place, across the Chalk Downs at the crest of the Fireills.”

  “But how can we just…?” Sylvie said through her tears. “And we’re just a few, little people…” She then broke down, sobbing.

  The nymphs instinctively threw their arms around each other in a comforting, protective circle and held that position for what seemed like a very long while.

  Although it was the hardest thing any of them had ever done, they eventually composed themselves and prepared for the final leg of their journey.

  From the rooftops of the farm buildings they could see a glow appearing over the top of the Downs.

  Some could mistake it for the fable of “red sky at night, shepherd’s delight”. But they knew there was nothing at all delightful about the omens surrounding a red glow over the Fireills.

  Those hills were the very gateway to a wickedness that, if not stopped soon, would unleash unstoppable heartache upon their beloved land.

  So the small party, painfully aware that they were so much smaller now, set off again, a gentler wind kindly lifting their gentle wings as they resumed the climb towards whatever fate had next in store.

  Deep down in what the villagers jokingly, but depressingly, called the Valley of Doom, a long-disused factory lay rotting by a filthy quarry.

  For decades this site had chewed up the land and poisoned the rivers, plundering nature without a thought to the feelings of the creatures that called it home.

  So, eventually, when enough people plucked up enough courage, they ganged up on the company running it and they shut it down. The foul machines ground to a halt and life returned, slowly.

  But soon reports were being received of strange creatures emerging from the swampy water, of foul and twisted beasts created by the mess left behind.

  Most people dismissed these tales as fanciful scare stories, but not everyone.

  Eventually, there were so many stories that the entire valley became a place that only the foolhardy entered at their peril. For, monsters aside, it was clear that the factory owners had not cleaned up as they should have and the land was now cursed and rotten.

  The place was all but forgotten.

  Until the incidents started.

  Gradually, the poison started to spread in the water and in the air, as dark clouds bringing acid rain.

  First it killed plant life and then it started harming the animals that lived in the lakes and pools nearby.

  Many grew ill and then simply wandered off, never to be seen again.

  Then reports came of strange, disfigured beasts raiding dwellings on the fringes of the forest, mostly late at night, carrying away crops and occasionally attacking woodland creatures or friendly faerie folk who got in their way.

  The victims’ tales were varied. But they had two things in common: the monsters all came from the valley of the Fireills and they all had a desperate, malign intent.

  The night creatures signalled the witching hour as the tiny party of woodland nymphs reached the Sentinel Tree, an ancient and hardy yew that marked the valley’s southern edge.

  As they flew into its welcoming foliage, Alice noticed that it was only evergreen on one side now. The other was brown and bare. Despite its ancient power, it had clearly suffered as well.

  This noble bough was the stuff of legend and had provided an important buffer to the sadness its roots could feel.

  Sylvie was hugging one of its boughs tenderly and Alice could sense her wand tingling now, as if it were communicating with its woody cousin in a language none of them could hope to understand.

  From this safe, sheltered vantage point, their magic was strong and the nymphs could survey large swathes of the valley for the first time.

  But it was a view that both frightened and horrified in equal measure.

  Compared to their forest home there was so little growing here. The hillside was barren bar exposed rocks, clumps of brown and spent dirt. All the goodness had been bleached from its soul.

  A dark brown, clay-like sludge oozed from the quarry pit.

  It had been dammed off by the villagers at some point, presumably to stem the poison from spreading.

  Yet nothing had been done to contain the steady trickle of effluent from its source in the hills.

  This continued to spill over the lip of the makeshift dam, soaking into and tormenting the parched ground until it was dead and bare.

  In the heat of summer days, a foul dust arose from this land, sending toxic clouds deeper down the valley or causing acid rain when the weather turned.

  This burned the plants and trees and brought sickness and disease.

  So the evil, poisonous plague of this place spread and spread.

  While the friends surveyed this distressing scene of desolation, worse than anything they had allowed themselves to imagine, various hunch-backed, hairy and gnarled shapes shifted in the dark mouth of the disused factory.

  An unnatural force was clearly gathering in the gloom and before long they realised that this was a greeting party for another nocturnal traveller from Ashridge Forest.

  Emerging steadily from the path that scarred the valley floor was an entirely unexpected but unmistakable form.

  Travelling to meet the malevolent creatures that dwelled in this desolate place, was what looked like an elderly woman. She was carrying a walking stick and clad in dark robes. She was als
o flanked by a snarling, striped werebeast. But it was walking upright, like a human.

  That sickening image was chilling enough.

  But, not far behind them, as if being born from the darkness that licked the fringe of the pit, were dozens and dozens of hideously twisted bears, wolves, badgers, polecats, boars and other deformed beasts.

  “It’s some form of filthy werebeast army,” hissed Dianah, a little louder than intended.

  “But… but…” Alice cried, through hands cupped to her mouth due to the horror of sudden realisation. “they seem to be led by… by…”

  “Who?” her friends asked, voicing unanimous concern.

  “By my mother.”

  Book 4:

  Ravenring

  Everything about the beautifully twisted creatures at her command reeked of her malevolence and bleak revenge. They embodied her thoughts as they snickered, snarled and howled their way down the long-forgotten passageway connecting the darkest part of the dark downs to the centre of the castle, the former home of the Black Prince.

  This vengeance had been decades in the making. And it would be all the more fulfilling for the torturous wait.

  This would be justice for the outcasts, revenge against the race that had treated her own mother so cruelly, that had destroyed her own family and that had now abused, polluted and neglected the creatures of the forest and the fields where they lived.

  The Sea Gypsy convoy had now grown into a ragtag mini-armada as it made steady progress by night, travelling up tributaries of the mighty Thames river.

  Madame Rebecca and NJ were getting along famously and teasing the young pirates mercilessly as they floated fast.

  Holly’s mind, as active as always, was scrambling to try to put together the pieces of the very many things she had learned about their special family.

  While she contemplated what may lie ahead at the end of this journey, she reached into the smart leather bag and took out the necklace and the ring.

  She then took the Moonstone from her pocket, which was, as ever, vibrating slightly as it glowed.

  “Try it there…” whispered Savannah, who, despite her ever-gentle tones, made Holly jump a little. She had been so wrapped up in the magic of the moment that she forgot her sister was in the corner of the cabin watching the strange world glide by.