Kral smelled the sudden fear in their host. Rodricko’s voice tremored as he settled his pitcher to the table. “They’ve never come so near.”
Mycelle stood. “They must know we’re here.”
The others quickly gained their feet, and weapons were gathered.
“What are we to do?” Mogweed asked. “Will they attack?”
Rodricko crossed to a broad window that faced south. Kral and the others followed the woodwright. Beyond the window, the woods were bathed in early morning sunlight, but due to the perpetual cloud cover, it was wan and lifeless. Snow frosted the twisted branches of the surrounding trees, creating a stark landscape. Even the small lake was a black mirror.
As they watched, the shadows of the deeper woods stretched toward them, swallowing up the trees and snow, descending and sweeping into the hollow. It was as if a black fog were consuming the world.
“Wh-what is happening?” Mogweed asked, backing away, his fingers reaching for his brother.
Nee’lahn stood still. “The Grim gather. I’ve never seen its like.”
Kral knew what she meant. The wraiths were generally solitary creatures, hunting the forest trails on their own. It was one of the reasons that the Northwall had withstood their numbers until now.
But as Kral stared out at the force gathering around the hollow, he understood how the great Wall had fallen. The Grim were now a unified force, a dark army. Kral remembered the ill’guard wraith who had possessed King Ry’s dead body, animating it. Was this demoness the reason for the change in the Grim as a whole? If so, what control did she bear on these other wild, mindless creatures? How had she joined their madness to her own foul cause?
Outside, the wail of the wraiths grew to a fevered pitch.
The beast inside Kral stirred. How it wanted to howl along with the mad screams and cries, add its voice to the wild chorus. But Kral fought this urge. Now was not the time for Legion, not yet.
He closed his eyes and sent his beastly senses soaring. Touched by the Dark Lord, he felt a familiar thrill running through the gathered dark army. She’s out there, he realized. The demoness herself led this force to their doorstep. She hid amid the wraiths, but she could not hide from another ill’guard. Kral understood who led this assault, but could not alert his companions without exposing himself.
Nee’lahn spoke up, drawing his attention back to the room. She lifted her lute. “I will go out to meet them.”
Mycelle placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know if even your lute’s song will be strong enough against such numbers.”
“You will be a single note against a storm,” Meric said. “Their chorus of wails will swamp the song of a single tree.”
“I must try. We have no other means to drive them away.”
“I will help,” Rodricko said, lifting his crutch. “The bit of living spirit along with the lute’s song may prevail.”
“But we must all be ready,” Nee’lahn said. “If I can drive a wedge through their forces, then you must be as fleet of foot as possible.”
“What do you propose?” Lord Tyrus asked.
“Pack and stow the gear.” She nodded to the stacks of warm clothes and food. “If Rodricko and I succeed in opening a breach, you all must take advantage and flee immediately.”
“And you?” Mycelle asked.
Nee’lahn’s eyes were haunted but determined. “I must stay and protect the child.”
Mogweed shifted his feet, eyes darting everywhere, searching vainly for a means of escape. “Why not take the cursed child with you? If this tree is dead anyway, why do you need to stay here? We don’t stand a chance in the woods on our own.”
Nee’lahn opened her mouth to dismiss this thought, but Mycelle interrupted. “Mogweed’s right. The child will always be in danger here. It is only two days’ march out of the forest. If you could whisk him away . . .”
Rodricko agreed. “Perhaps you should heed their counsel, Nee’lahn.”
“But I can’t just—”
“This place is an empty tomb. As long as the child is at your side and you have the lute, he should remain safe.” The woodwright stared out at the gathering darkness. “Besides, the boy is close to ripening and dropping his seed. Perhaps it is best if that were not done here, in this Blighted soil. Maybe that’s the reason you were all drawn here—to take the boy away.”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Nee’lahn mumbled.
“Well, someone had better make a decision,” Mogweed said, pointing to the windows. “Or it will be made for us.”
Beyond the lake, no trees could be seen. A solid wall of darkness spread all around them.
Nee’lahn bit her lip, then turned to Mycelle. “Gather up the boy. Wrap him well against the cold. At his tender age, he’s still susceptible to frost. You others grab as much gear as possible.”
They all moved quickly, goaded by the rising howl of the wraiths. In moments, they were dressed in warm gear with packs of food and supplies on their backs. Mycelle had the additional burden of a child strapped to her chest. Encumbered as she was, she would be useless in a swordfight, but Kral knew it was not the point of a blade that would win freedom here.
He studied Nee’lahn as she held her lute in her arms, staring into the darkness. All their hopes were weighed upon this lone woman. Kral smelled the fear in her, but also her resolve and determination.
She must have sensed his gaze. She turned. “Let’s get this done.”
Kral nodded, turning away, but not before glancing one more time at the gathered horde. Again, he scented the Dark Lord’s touch out there. The ill’guard demoness hid in that cloak of blackness, one wraith among many.
But to what purpose, what end?
NEE’LAHN WAS THE first through the door. After the warmth inside, the sudden cold struck her like a fist. She gasped. It was an unnatural cold. As the wraiths drew the life from a victim, they now drew the warmth from the air.
She stepped away from the threshold and clear of the large tree roots. The lake lay ahead, rimmed in frost. Its edges had frozen overnight. Nee’lahn moved to its shore, facing the wall of blackness that circled the hollow, surrounding them. Closer, she saw that the wall whorled and churned as the massed wraiths writhed at the valley’s edge.
“Sisters,” she mumbled, praying. “Hear me and depart in peace.”
As she lifted her lute, the group gathered behind her. Rodricko stood amongst them, his bit of living wood held out before him like a sword.
Taking a deep breath, Nee’lahn strummed her strings, and sweet notes spread into the gale of cries and screams. The music, though soft and sweet, fought through the cacophony. “Hear me, Sisters,” she repeated, now singing forth with the lute’s melody.
The notes swept across the cold water to strike the wall of darkness like a thousand arrows. Holes were rent through the solidness as individual wraiths wailed and fled. Glimpses of the snow-crowned forest peeked through the throng, but the tears did not last long. The holes quickly disappeared as the remaining Grim closed ranks.
Nee’lahn’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of this action. What was driving the wraiths forward? What was making them fight their natural urge to flee the touch of the True Glen?
A sharp scream split the air. Nee’lahn swung around and saw a wraith rip forth from the others and fly at her companions. It was a dark mist against the white snow.
Rodricko stepped forward, guarding the party with his crutch. Nee’lahn’s fingers hesitated on her strings, fearful for her friends.
“Keep playing!” Mycelle urged, wincing against the railing screams. “Don’t stop!”
Rodricko swept his bit of wood between him and the scrap of darkness. “Begone!” he yelled in the face of his enemy.
The bold wraith hesitated, then stabbed a stream of darkness toward the woodsman’s chest. Rodricko danced back, surprisingly spry on his feeble legs. His stick sliced through the deadly shadow. Where it struck, light flared, the violet of blossoming koa’kona flowers
. The wraith blew apart into ragged fragments. Its bits of shredded spirit fled back into the mass of wraiths.
Kral bellowed in triumph.
But Mycelle’s eyes swung to Nee’lahn. “Play! Play if you want to live!”
Nee’lahn returned to her lute, strumming with renewed energy. The wall of wraiths squirmed in clear agony, screams chasing screams. Nee’lahn turned in a slow circle, casting her music in all directions.
“Hear the song of the True Glen,” she sang softly as the music carried her words far, echoing out over the hollow. “Remember the spring shoots rising with the new sun . . . Remember the hills of a summer’s night, aglow with blossoms . . . Remember autumn’s display of brilliance and the endless rain of leaves, a warm blanket against the winter to come . . . Remember the winter’s crisp breath when the sap runs slow and the stars shine like silver in the night sky. Remember it all. Remember the Glen. Remember life!”
Her words cast a spell on the wraiths. They began to flow and ebb to her music. The wail became less sharp, more mournful. Breaks in the wall grew all around them. Bits of darkness shot high in the air and away, crying in pain and sorrow.
“It’s working,” Meric said.
Nee’lahn continued to sing, now in the Old Tongue. She sang of flowers, and sunshine, and drops of morning dew, while the lute rang with woodsong and a call for communion. It was all too much, even for the strength of the gathered horde. More wraiths fled.
A pair tried again to attack the group, more in an attempt to stop the pain of her song than in true malice. But Rodricko quickly dispatched them.
Nee’lahn kept singing. Sensing victory, she let her voice grow in strength, but eventually she realized she did not sing alone. Another voice had crept in on hers, blending into her song so smoothly that Nee’lahn was not aware of it until it was too late. It came from the fraying wall of darkness. The new voice twisted Nee’lahn’s song, subtly and skillfully, changing the bright to the dark.
“Dream of the sun’s warm touch . . .” Nee’lahn sang.
“. . . and the burn of an endless drought,” the unseen singer chorused.
“Sing of petals soft with the first bloom . . .” Nee’lahn fought back.
“. . . and worms that eat out the flower’s tender heart.”
Frowning, Nee’lahn struggled to chase the other off, singing more fiercely, ringing with the voice of the True Glen. But the parasitic voice would not let go, wrapping its song around her own, strangling it with whispers of dead wood and rotting roots. Slowly Nee’lahn realized she was outmatched. The singer was older, more experienced. The voice sang with the echoes of centuries.
Nee’lahn could not resist it. Her voice began to warp; her lute’s music shook with disease and crumbling bark. All around the hollow, the wraiths regrouped, fortifying the dark wall.
“What’s wrong?” Mycelle asked, moving nearer, clutching the small child to her chest.
“I don’t know,” Nee’lahn said, slowing her fingers on the lute’s strings, struggling to think of a means to attack. “Something . . . something’s out there . . . Something stronger than I . . .”
Kral moved to her other side. He growled. “It comes.”
Mycelle glanced to him, then out to the gathered wraiths. A black cloud bloomed from the wall, a swirling formless fog. It drifted across the lake, slowly, laconically, as if it cared little for the small band of people or the music of the lute.
Nee’lahn and the others retreated from it.
Upon reaching the near shore, the cloud roiled inward on itself, fog becoming substance. The vague figure of a slender woman took shape on the frozen lake’s edge. Silver energy traced her form. Her eyes opened.
Nee’lahn sensed here stood the singer who had so skillfully corrupted her song.
Fardale growled, baring his teeth, and Rodricko stepped forward, the branch held before him.
The dark woman smiled at the man’s response. “A brave knight carved of wood,” she said disdainfully. “The last protector of the True Glen.” Yet despite her words, she held back.
“I know you,” Nee’lahn said, recognizing the screechy voice and where she had heard it last. “You’re the wraith who possessed King Ry.”
The wraith’s smile broadened, while growing colder at the same time. “Ah, yes . . . it was good to wear flesh again.” She glanced to Lord Tyrus. “Even a moldy form as distasteful as that old man.”
The Mrylian prince lunged forward, but he was blocked by Kral. “You’ve no weapon that can harm an ill’guard,” the mountain man warned, holding fast to the prince’s elbow.
The wraith ignored the men and swung her gaze back to Nee’lahn. “As you know me, so I know you, Nee’lahn.” A laugh, empty of mirth, escaped the shadowy lips. “You caught me by surprise back at the castle. I had not been expecting you to pop out of the granite like that. But now I’ve had time to adjust to your presence. The Black Root has strengthened me against your pretty little song.”
“You’ll not have us,” Nee’lahn warned. “I will fight with every spark of life in me.”
This earned another laugh. “You’ve grown full of yourself, little one. But it is not you I want.” The figure’s gaze swung to the child held by Mycelle, then back to Nee’lahn. “I want the boy . . . My boy.”
Nee’lahn jerked a step back. “Y-your boy?”
Again the laugh. “I thought you said you knew me, Nee’lahn.” The smoky figure coalesced tighter, firming the vague form into someone familiar.
“Cecelia.” Nee’lahn gasped, stunned.
Rodricko stepped forward. “The keeper of the Grove.”
Nee’lahn moaned. No wonder her song had been thwarted. Before Cecelia’s corruption, the elder’s age had numbered in centuries. She was the wisest of the nyphai, full of knowledge and guile.
The wraith glanced down at the woodwright. “Are you still here?” She glided closer.
Rodricko swung his stave.
“No!” Nee’lahn called out.
The branch swept into the shadowed woman. Violet light again flared, but this time no harm was done to the wraith. Cecelia smiled, staring down at the wooden crutch imbedded in her chest. “Your tree’s spirit cannot harm me. Our two spirits have mingled. We are one.” A tendril of darkness swept out of the woman’s chest to wrap lovingly around the branch.
“Get back, Rodricko!” Nee’lahn urged.
“I . . . I can’t move . . .”
The wraith smiled. “I smell your spirit in the wood, brave knight. Has it been feeding on you? Such a cruel act, dragging out the inevitable so slowly. Let me show you the benevolence of the Dark One.” The tendril spasmed on the branch, and Rodricko fell to his knees.
In less than a heartbeat, the woodwright’s life was sucked through the branch and into the dread wraith. He shriveled with a scream on his lips, then tumbled dead to the snowy ground, a twisted, empty shell. The tree branch fell to cinders in his hand.
“A shame. So little life was left in him,” the demoness whined, kicking aside the branch. “It did nothing but whet my appetite.”
Nee’lahn felt her legs weaken. “Rodricko’s family served you for generations. What have you become?”
Kral appeared at her side, holding her up. “Do not look for answers here. She is lost to the Black Heart, twisted to his will.”
“Twisted?” The forest rang with her laughter and bitterness. “Look around you, man of the mountains. It was the Land itself that twisted my forest. The grief, the loss . . . it is unimaginable. And when Nee’lahn’s dying tree summoned me, the pain grew a hundredfold. I could not stand it, touching the pure spirit with my taint.” A mournful wail blew up into the sky.
Around Nee’lahn, her companions fell to their knees at the despairing cry. Only Nee’lahn remained standing.
Cecelia’s keening moan slowly died away. She continued in a quieter voice. “In my weak and defenseless state, the Black Root found me. I let him do what he wished. What did it matter any longer? Afterward I w
as glad that I’d not fought. The Black Root’s touch unwove what was tangled by the Land’s curse. His fire returned my mind and revealed my true enemy.”
“And what enemy is that?” Nee’lahn asked.
The wraith stared hard at her. “The Land, my dear! The cruel, harsh, unforgiving Land. The Black Root promised vengeance. I used my skills to gather the Grim to our mutual cause, to bring down the Northwall, to guard the paths up into the mountains. Nothing must interfere with his design.”
Nee’lahn stood stunned.
Mycelle spoke up, still on her knees in the snow. “What does he plan to do?”
Cecelia’s eyes shone with madness. “He’ll make the Land wail as my sisters do. Twist it the same as my handsome forest.”
After a stunned moment, Mycelle slowly stood. “And what of this child? What role does he play?”
This question seemed to shake the demoness. Her gaze fixed on the swaddled child held in the shape-shifter’s arms. “He . . . he’s mine.”
Mycelle remained quiet, then whispered. “The Dark Lord doesn’t know about your child, does he? You’ve kept a secret from your master.”
The figure trembled. “He . . . he’s mine,” she repeated.
“Your last bit of purity,” Mycelle pressed.
The edges of the shadow began to fray.
Nee’lahn stepped forward, sensing a weakness to probe. She tenderly stroked the lute’s strings. The music wafted so gently that no human ear could hear it. She wove an ancient song—of birth and death, the cycle of life. Distracted, the wraith seemed unaware of it.
“Let us take the child from here,” Mycelle urged. “Take him where the Blight can never touch him.”
The wraith hesitated, becoming more cloud than woman. “There is no such place. Not until the Black Root destroys the Land. Only then will the boy be able to grow hale and straight.”
Mycelle nodded her understanding. “Let us keep him safe until that day.”
“He is safest with me. No harm will come to him.”
“But how can you be so sure? Did you escape the Blight? Did your sisters? The Dire Fell poses the most risk to the boy. His only safety lies in escaping here, as Nee’lahn did.”