The only light in this stormy glade swelled in waves from a bird, a falcon aglow with a deep azure light. Perched on the tall man’s bony wrist, the bird’s response was more vocal than that of its bearer. It screeched through a sharp beak at Nee’lahn, mimicking the tiny woman’s own declaration of rage.
A gust of rain stung Kral’s eyes. He blinked. In that fraction of a heartbeat, the bird vanished from the stranger’s wrist. In a streak of light, not unlike the bolts striking between clouds, the bird dove to Nee’lahn and knocked the dagger from her hand. Before Nee’lahn’s shocked feet could even stumble to a stop, the falcon had returned to its perch.
Nee’lahn stood panting, her fine hair plastered in welts across her face. “This is not your land!” she yelled above the thunder. “Your kind do not belong here.”
By now, Kral had reached her and placed a hand upon her shoulder. Unsure who this man was but trusting Nee’lahn’s instinct, he stood by to support his companion. He felt her quiver under his palm, as if her emotions boiled within her, threatening to explode. “Who is this man? Do you know him?”
Nee’lahn’s quaking calmed as he spoke. “No, not him. But I do know his people—the elv’in!” The last word was spat at the stranger.
The stranger remained silent, unconcerned, as if he did not speak their language. Kral tensed as the elv’in man suddenly moved, but he only reached a long finger to ruffle the feathers of his falcon. This seemed to calm the bird, and it settled deeper on its perch, less taut.
“I have not heard of his clan,” Kral said, his words for some reason whispered.
“You could not. Even before the race of man appeared on these shores, the elv’in were myth, long vanished across the mists of the Great Western Ocean.
“Then how do you know them?”
“The trees have long memories. Our most ancient roots were young when the elv’in still walked under the boughs of the Western Reaches. The most hallowed trees still sang the stories: songs of war . . . and betrayal.”
“But they sing no longer,” the stranger said, speaking for the first time, his voice like the chiming of bells. His eyes, though, were still on his falcon, his head bent slightly in study.
“Because of you!” Nee’lahn began to shake again.
He shrugged.
“You betrayed us.” Tears appeared on her lids.
“No, you destroyed yourselves.” For the first time, a spark of anger glinted in the blue eyes of the stranger, a sudden storm in a summer’s sky. He swung to face them both fully, high cheekbones sharp on his white face.
Kral squeezed Nee’lahn’s shoulder, attempting to bottle the swelling rage inside her. Through his touch, Kral sensed the truth in Nee’lahn’s words. She believed her accusations. But Kral also had the impression that the stranger was not lying either. He believed his own assertions of innocence.
Kral spoke into the tense silence. The storm raging in plays of wind and thunder above seemed calm compared to the quiet war waging here. “I do not understand. What happened between your peoples?”
Nee’lahn turned to Kral. “Once, a long time ago, the spirit trees of my home, the koa’kona, grew everywhere on this land, spreading from the Teeth across the vastness of the Western Reaches to the Great Western Ocean itself. Our people were revered as spirits of root and loam. And we shared our gifts freely.”
The stranger snorted. “You ruled as if all the other races on the land were mere tools to aid in the growth of your precious trees. Your rule was a tyranny.”
“Lies!”
“At first, even we didn’t recognize how unnatural your spread upon the lands was. We aided you, using our gifts of wind and light to help your trees grow. But then from the winds on high, we began to sense the corruption that this marching spread of your people had upon the land: Swamps drained, rivers diverted, mountains fell. The beauty of life’s variety was thwarted by your people’s single-minded creep. So we held back our gifts and tried to speak reason to your ancient elders. But we were reviled and cast out from our homelands.”
“But not before cursing us! You seeded the Blight upon your winds and cast the rot of root and leaf upon us. Our trees began to wither and die across the land until only a small glade, protected by the new magick of the human race, survived the purge. You destroyed us.”
“Never! We held life precious, even your own. It was not we who cursed your trees and brought the Blight, but the land itself. Nature fought your spread to protect its diversity. You were cast down by the land itself. Do not blame us.”
Kral saw Nee’lahn’s eyes grow wide; reason and rage fought within her gaze. “You lie,” she said, but this time her voice was tinged with doubt. She turned to face Kral. “He lies, doesn’t he?”
Kral shook his head. “I sense only truth, but only in the faith of his words. He believes what he says. That does not mean that what he believes is true.”
Nee’lahn raised her fists to her temples as if to squash the doubts now rooted therein. “Why? Why then have you returned?”
“When we were banished, elemental wards were placed upon these lands by your ancients to keep us from these shores. With the death of the last tree, the strength of the wards faded, and the paths here opened again. So I was sent.”
“Why?” Kral asked.
“To retrieve what we had lost, what we were forced to leave behind.”
“And what is that?” Nee’lahn asked. “We kept nothing of yours.”
“Ahh, but you did. You hid it in this valley, a vale still named as we named it long ago—Winter’s Eyrie.”
Both Kral and Nee’lahn voiced the same question. “What?”
He raised his falcon high. “Seek out what we have lost.” The bird burst out from his wrist in a streak of moonlight and soared across the drowned glade. “Seek out our lost king.”
Book Four
MOONLIGHT
AND MAGICK
25
TOL’CHUK LUMBERED behind the others, his shoulders hunched against the pelting rain. The storm had struck as soon as they had cleared the mountain heights and entered the rimwood forest of the lower highlands. Spears of lightning crashed in jagged bolts across the night sky, illuminating the dark forest ahead in sharp bursts of blinding radiance.
In one of these bursts, he saw Mogweed and his wolf-brother almost a league down the path. Even with the storm’s howl, his companions had traveled lightly once they reached the forest’s edge. Woods were their home, and even though this was not their own forest, the familiar canopy of woven branches and bushy undergrowth seemed to ignite renewed vigor in their limbs. The injured wolf, even burdened by his splinted leg, raced among the trees, while Tol’chuk, racked by rib-cracking coughs and a nose clogged with dripping slime from the constant dampness of the weeks of travel, found himself slipping farther and farther behind the others.
Tol’chuk dreamed of his own dry caves with a roaring fire in his family hearth. He bowed his head and dragged a forearm across his raw nose. The first winter storm had always marked the Sulachra, the ceremony of the dead, in which cured goat dung was burned in family hearths to honor the spirits of the departed. He pictured the caves billowing with the sweet smoke and the females waving fans of dried toka’toka leaves to cast the mingled odors out into the storm. Lightning was supposed to open cracks in the dome of the sky through which the smoke would seep to the next world, letting the dead know they were still remembered. Tol’chuk coughed, an echo of the thunder above, and wondered who would perform the Sulachra for his dead father. And if no smoke arose for him, would he think he had been forgotten?
As Tol’chuk plodded down the path, the tapping of his thigh pouch on his leg brought a sudden realization. He stumbled to a stop, his palm cupping the Heart of the Og’res in the pouch, and remembered the Triad’s words. The spirits of the og’re dead, including his father, had not made the journey to the next world. They were trapped here, in the heartstone!
This realization opened a hole in Tol’chuk’s
chest into which a profound hollowness swelled. The Sulachra ceremony was a sham! The smoke had never reached the flared nostrils of the spirits. The dead had never reached the next world.
Tol’chuk’s hand fell away from the pouch, from the gem. The Sulachra had been a time when all the og’re tribes united for a brief few days in a communal act of homage. It was a time of peace and contemplation, a short respite from the tribal wars. It united the og’re people with its grace. But now, with the knowledge of the lie behind the act, the beauty of the ritual was forever fouled for Tol’chuk.
In just a heartbeat, he had become less an og’re. He glanced ahead at the dark wood spread before him. So many leagues still to cross on this journey. What else would he learn on this trek? Who would he become?
Thunder mocked him from above as lightning split the dark roof of the world. In the flash of illumination, Tol’chuk realized he had lost Mogweed and Fardale. His traveling companions had disappeared among the black, glistening trunks.
Alone among the trees, Tol’chuk felt as if he were the only living creature for a thousand leagues. Between the rumbles of thunder, the forest lay silent around him except for the rattle of rain on leaves and the brief whistles of wind through pine branches. Not a tor’crow cawed, not a frog croaked. Tol’chuk wiped at his nose and sniffed loudly, just to interrupt the forest’s silence. I am here, he said with each sniff. I am not dead.
He marched on. As he took his first step forward, he saw a glow blossom into existence on his right. How had Fardale and Mogweed gotten so far? He adjusted his course toward the light, his legs as heavy as the tree trunks around him. These swampy woods addled his sense of direction. The light, like an island in a storm-swept sea, became his beacon. With his eyes fixed on the glow, Tol’chuk trudged forward.
The lonely wood fired a craving for the sight of others, some reassurance that all living creatures had not been swallowed up by this black forest. As his legs increased their lumbering pace, he wondered how his companions could enjoy this cramped and closed world of heavy limbs and choking undergrowth. Where were the open views across a thousand leagues? Where was the parade of snowy peaks spread far and wide? Here, he could barely reach a hand forward to keep a branch from slapping his face or see much beyond the tip of his nose. Even the tunnel to the chamber of spirits had not felt this confining.
As he marched, he noticed he was gaining ground on the glow’s position. The others must have stopped and were finally resting. Hopefully they had found a dry spot to weather out the remainder of this night’s storm. Besides the desire for companionship, the thought of a dry shelter hurried his pace.
Soon he spotted the motion of dark figures within the glow. His heart gladdened at the sight of others. He was not alone. As the light swelled momentarily brighter, he saw three silhouettes limned in the azure glow. His feet stumbled to a halt.
Three? Who had his companions met?
Suddenly the glow shot away, streaking like a fiery arrow into the wood. Perhaps he should stay hidden. But what if the others were in trouble, met up with some brigand or marauder? He was not familiar with the tricks of the forest floor and knew that the only reason the others were unaware of his location was because of the blanketing noise of the storm. To sneak closer and survey the situation firsthand was beyond his skill. Too many snapping twigs and branches would betray his approach.
Seldom creatures of deception or cunning, og’res relied on brute force for both offense or defense. Though only a half-breed, Tol’chuk knew this part of his heritage held true.
So he took the single course open to an og’re. He wiped his nose, swelled his chest with damp air, and crashed forward in a loping run that had surprised many crag’goats among the peaks. The speed of an og’re was their tribe’s only deception. Few creatures were aware of how quickly an og’re could move when necessary. And these few creatures, like the hunted goats, never lived to tell.
It was the suddenness of his speed, even though accompanied by a shattering roar of cracking branches and sapling trunks, that caught the three in the glade unaware. Three faces swung to face Tol’chuk as he burst into their tiny clearing—three faces of startled strangers.
None of these were his companions!
He realized his lonely thoughts had hidden from him the possibility that a different group of travelers might be huddling in the stormy forest. Tol’chuk stood stunned as the others momentarily stared wide-eyed back at him. The largest man, almost as massive as an og’re himself, was holding an ax, while a tiny female gasped with a hand over her mouth. A waifish, silver-haired man stood frozen nearby, eyebrows high up on his forehead.
The thin man, like a version of Mogweed stretched close to breaking, was the first to move. Only a slight pursing of his lips and a relaxing of his posture spoke his lack of alarm. He raised a single finger, pointed it at Tol’chuk, and spoke with bells in his voice. “It seems I’m not the only one straying far from home this stormy night.”
With the man’s words, Tol’chuk felt a pull on his heart, as if from hooks imbedded deep in his chest, from the chunk of heartstone at his thigh. This meeting was not chance. He stared at the small blond woman with her hulking friend. Tol’chuk spoke in the common tongue, “Who be you?”
That he could speak seemed to stun the ax man and the tiny woman. She even took a step away. Only the gaunt man seemed unimpressed.
“Who be you all?” Tol’chuk repeated.
The wraith of a man spoke, waving his hand to encompass the group. “Seekers like you, og’re. The wit’ch draws us to her like moths to the flame.”
Tol’chuk wiped his nose, confused, the ache in his heart beginning to dull. “I do not understand. What wit’ch?”
The man smiled, but there was no mirth in his voice. “The wit’ch who will destroy our worlds.”
MOGWEED CROUCHED BY the opening in the hill. The tumble of stone blocks near the entrance to the ancient tunnel was covered in wet moss and a flaky lichen. A gnarled oak growing on the slope above the black opening wormed roots through the soil to drape across the entrance like bars to a prison. From the size of the oak and the thickness of the lichen growth on the stones, this tunnel was as old as the forest itself. He noticed this whole valley seemed littered with crumbling stone and the remnants of ancient walls.
Perhaps it was an abandoned mine. Mogweed had heard that the Teeth were pocketed with ore and jewel mines like old cavities. The thought of diamonds and gold drove Mogweed closer to the tunnel entrance.
Bending near the opening, Mogweed crinkled his nose at the smell from the hole. It reeked of old animal droppings and the muskiness of bear. But the scent must be old because the growth of root across the entrance was too thick for a bear to pass. Even Fardale had had a hard time squeezing through to explore the tunnel.
If no dangers lurked there, it would be a safe haven to wait out the brunt of the storm. He heard his brother snuffling deeper down the tunnel. “Did you find anything?” he called.
Of course, his brother could not answer. Even discounting Fardale’s wolf form, it still took direct contact, eye-to-eye, to speak the spirit language of his people. But the voiced question helped dispel the misgivings that grew like webs around his heart as he sat out in the rain among these foreign trees. He could swear just moments ago he had heard a scream from somewhere not too far away. But the thunder and rain muffled the scream, and now Mogweed was unsure if it was just the howling wind he had heard.
And where was the og’re?
Mogweed was a tiny bit shocked at the pang of worry that accompanied this quandary. He should be relieved that the lumbering beast that could break him in half with a shrug was not here. But by now Mogweed had grown confident that the og’re meant him no harm, and here in the dark forest, alone, Mogweed would gladly welcome the appearance of his sharp-eared, rocky face.
Mogweed stood back up and studied the slopes around him as lightning lit the surroundings. He had known Tol’chuk was lagging behind. The phlegmy illness pl
aguing the og’re had been getting worse. A day’s rest beside a warm fire in a dry shelter was what they all needed.
Adjusting his oilcloth slicker, Mogweed again crouched to watch for the reappearance of his brother. Luckily, Fardale’s keen wolf sense had discovered the tunnel. It was what they all needed, especially the sick og’re. As he bent to lean on a root and peer into the darkness, a rivulet of rain that had pooled on his coat’s collar tipped and ran down his neck in an icy trail. Shivering down to his toes, Mogweed called, aggravation thick in his throat, “Hurry up, Fardale, before I freeze to death out here.”
Suddenly a brilliant crack of lightning burst behind Mogweed. Its radiance reflected off a pair of eyes only an arm’s length from Mogweed’s nose. With a sharp cry, Mogweed tumbled back. As his backside landed square in a frigid puddle, the realization that the eyes were amber and slitted struck him. They were the eyes of his brother.
He watched Fardale poke his wolf head between two roots. If a wolf could express amusement, this one was certainly doing so.
“Fardale, you piece of cold dung!” Mogweed rolled to his feet. His fury and embarrassment blazed away his chills. “Give a warning before pouncing on a person.”
His brother’s eyes glowed. The hungry sparrow fixed on a worm gets eaten by a hawk.
“Yeah, well I don’t have your sharp nose or night eyes. The senses of a man are so dull, why do they even bother wasting room on a face with noses and eyes?” Mogweed wiped at his wet bottom with a scowl. “So is it safe?”
An image formed behind Mogweed’s eyes as Fardale climbed from the tunnel: A nest lined by dry feathers and high in the crook of a tree. Fardale limped on his splinted leg to join his brother.
Mogweed sighed. “Finally I can get warm, and maybe dry these clothes. Seems like I have been damp forever.”