The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  "Do you know where this leads?" Celrod asked Margarid.

  "North," Portus spoke for her. "That is all he said to us."

  "Then north it is," Michael told the group. "Let us hope that wherever this mountain pass lets out, it is far enough away from the Raven Army ... and the dragons."

  "Dragons?" Margarid said in disbelieving horror. "There are dragons?"

  "Twin beasts, winged fire-serpents," Celrod told her. "Like the drakes of legend."

  "It is worse than we thought," she sighed in resignation.

  "Aye, it is worse alright! Whatever evil lives inside of them, my lady; they are consuming any who oppose them with their green fire. And their damned voices—they will chill your blood cold," Fryon grumbled as he slung a pack over his shoulder and grabbed the wooden shaft of his halberd.

  "Is Haven gone?" Harmier asked. "I mean … is it gone for good?"

  "Her bricks and walls may still stand," Timorets told him. "But her heart is broken, raped and soiled by the nocturnal fire of the mistress of the dragons."

  "Haven as it once was, as our home—that's gone," Michael said grimly. The mood of his friends darkened under the heaviness of this truth, and even as he spoke, the voice of his teacher bubbled up through the mire of his lament and he thought better of his words. "But here," he continued as he tapped two fingers to his own brow. "Here is where we will begin to build Haven again. Our city is gone, but a new Haven has already begun."

  Margarid beamed a proud smile at this groomsman of hers, truly hopeful even in the midst of so much destruction. "Do you think that we are all that is left?" she asked him.

  "Haven was a big city, and I am sure that we are not alone," Michael said confidently. "And besides, we aren't the only ones who still have hope. For just as the magic of the Arborists leads us north, an even greater magic called my cousin west; and if anyone is going to find that new light of King Illium's, it will be him."

  Michael smiled as he thought about Cal. In all of the madness of the last few weeks— the prison hold, the fire and dragons, the death of his friends, and now this mountain pass—he had almost forgotten that there were still other purposes at work in this world. "No, we are not alone, not at all," he said with a chuckle. "Now come on, there are glowing markers for a reason. Northward they lead ... so northward we will follow."

  The eleven took up their packs and weapons and passed under the amber arrow into yet another vein that flowed out from the heart of Mount Aureole. Fryon and his brother took up the van at the front of the line, and with torches in hand and a hopeful, violet glow about them, they blazed the trail for the rest of the remnant.

  "Where do you think this pass will end?" Celrod asked the brewer.

  "The schoolmaster comes to me now, does he?" Timorets teased. "Well, I have always been rather keen on the matters of maps and geography."

  Celrod rolled his eyes and Michael couldn't help but laugh out loud as the sounds of their camaraderie bounced and echoed off the granite walls.

  Timorets grinned and offered the only answer he had at the moment. "I would say that based on how many steps we have taken and accounting for the innumerable more that we have yet to take, we will end up someplace significantly colder than where we left."

  "I hope these friends of yours, Michael, had the sense enough to pack some coats or furs or something thicker than this Westriver attire of ours," the heavy schoolmaster said.

  "So do I, my friend." Michael agreed. "So do I."

  The remnant carried on, traversing the passageway for hours upon hours. The only change in the scenery was the glittering sparkle of quartz and gemstones that ran in swirled waves throughout the black stone. They walked until their legs could go no further, and there in the granite halls they collapsed in exhausted heaps as sleep came fast upon them. For the first time since the sickening, guttural tones of the enemy's horns were heard upon the wind, these eleven rested peacefully. They slept a dreamless sleep, and when they awoke, their hearts and their feet were ready to continue their northward journey.

  The morning continued much the same way—endless trudging past glittering veins of rock—until the shouts of Fryon and his brother rang out in excitement.

  "Another arrow!" they shouted back to the caravan following behind them. "We found another arrow!"

  The sound of boots upon the stone quickened as the group rushed to see this glowing marker in the rock floor, but before they could fully celebrate the discovery of the arrow, a dread-filled wonder overtook their senses.

  "What in the name of the THREE who is SEVEN?" exclaimed the butcher's wife as she looked up and into the passage before them. "What is this?"

  The pathway opened before them into a domed chamber. The fragrance of this place was both metallic and sweet, and it hummed with the soft rustlings of a syncopated rhythm. The eyes of the group found the floor, and they beheld the shimmering, pulsating waves of silver.

  "Have you ever in all your life seen such a sight?" Harmier asked as he reached his hand out towards the silver that flowed across the floor "Butterflies! Thousands and thousands of them!"

  "What is this?" Portus asked aloud. "I have never seen this many before, and never any with silver wings such as these! And why do they not fly? Instead they lay here as but a carpet upon this cavern floor."

  "I don't know if you should touch them, Harmier!" Margarid said, worriedly placing a hand upon his back. "Let them be, something in me says not to disturb them."

  "But see the way their wings ... they shine?" Harmier marveled. As he bent down, the merchant was overcome with their beauty. "I have traded in the finest of goods, and I have beheld riches that I might never even dream of possessing, but I have never in all my life seen something as breathtakingly strange and beautiful as this."

  "Do you not see?" Georgina said, the worry in her voice barely constrained. "This is not our home, this is not our mountain! We should not disturb what is not ours!"

  "But there are so many, girl, and I, for one, think we should appreciate the pretty things in this darkened world of ours," the merchant argued. "Besides, the Arborist made this way for us, did he not? So maybe they are for us, after all?"

  "Harmier!" Margarid shouted, and as she did, the cavern floor pulsated in waves of disruption.

  Michael stepped forward and pulled Margarid back. "I think the girls are right, Harmier ... I do not think we should disturb them."

  The merchant could not help but marvel in wide-eyed amazement as he knelt and examined the tiny, silver-winged butterflies. "Oh to have one of you for my very own, for my pleasure, to be mine." His slow, whispered speech took up a possessive tone. "Come, perch upon my finger, and help me forget the evils that have invaded my life, little one."

  "Harmier," came the calm, even-toned voice of the tall tanner as he placed his large hand upon his shoulder. "He has given us their beauty already; you will need only recall the memory and possession of these silver wings will be yours. But I, too, fear that anything more," he gulped back his nerves as he tried to speak, "anything more will come at a price too severe to pay."

  The merchant stared a few moments longer at the butterflies, then blinked his eyes and rose to his feet as a tear traced his smudged face. "If we are not to disturb these winged treasures, tell me, how then do we hope to cross this place?" he said as if waking from a dream.

  The group of them looked about the domed space. Its entire floor pulsated in silver reflection, a sea of dangerous beauty that stood between them and the doorway beyond.

  "I don't know what difference it would make," Harmier grumbled disappointedly to himself.

  "My ma always told me that a guest should keep in mind that they are just that: a guest. Whether honored or not, welcomed or not, a guest should be a guest," Georgina said as if she were playfully scolding the merchant.

  "Look!" Fryon said as he pointed across the room. "Another northward arrow ... it glows there atop the passageway. And yet this arrow ... this arrow at our feet ... it isn't pointing
, north, is it? It points over there, toward the arrow above the passage. Is it a trick?"

  "I do not think that the THREE who is SEVEN would waste the lives of His Arborists for riddles, do you?" Margarid asked.

  "No, I suppose not," Fryon replied.

  "Indeed. What gain would He have by confusing the matter?" Michael said as he focused his determined gaze on the prize before him.

  "What do you mean by that?" the butcher's wife said in confusion. "All the arrows have pointed north until now."

  "I think it means, my lady," Celrod said as his mind connected the pattern before them, "that we should trust their direction, and follow it carefully."

  "Perhaps if we are guilty of disturbing these winged creatures, the THREE who is SEVEN will know that it was done only in an effort to follow His direction," Margarid said aloud.

  "I will go first this time," Michael said to the group. "Mind that you stay close," he let out a nervous exhale, "and that you do not deviate from our course."

  "Aye!" Portus agreed.

  Michael put the sole of his boot directly upon the glowing, amber arrow and inhaled a steeling breath, hoping against all hope that this was what they were supposed to do. One step, and then another, until he was not but a hairsbreadth away from the silver-winged creatures.

  Michael raised his boot and held it out before him. As he put the weight of his body into his forward step, the ground beneath him erupted in a whirlwind of winged fury. A wave of movement pulsed through the resting butterflies, revealing scattered bones and little brass bells, hidden beneath the canopy of butterflies. They stopped and stared in a strange sort of fascination as a wave of silver rolled away and the pathway before him became clear.

  "Are those … bones?" Georgina asked with dread.

  "What kind of place is this?" Timorets whispered to the travelers. "Where bone and bells lay unburied?"

  "I have felt dread in my stomach from the moment we first stepped foot into this winged cathedral," Portus agreed.

  "Follow my footsteps. The way is clear before me, and I do not wish to tarry long," Michael told his friends.

  With each step, a shockwave rippled through the ranks of butterflies, and yet they hovered without attack or consequence. Whispers were all that any of this company were willing to speak, for it seemed that any sort of noise fed the agitation of the congregated insects below them.

  "Michael?" Celrod tried to whisper as he carefully took his next step, not taking his eyes from the boots that walked in front of him. "How much further must we go?" His deep voice carried and bounced off of the rotunda of granite, and a single butterfly flew up in front of his face, passing the layer of whatever invisible magic it was that had kept them at bay.

  "Brewer?" Celrod asked nervously. "What is it doing? Why did it-"

  But even as he was asking the question, the silver-winged creature landed upon his large nose and robbed him of his voice, mid-sentence. Celrod's eyes went wild in panic as he desperately tried to make a sound, but nothing save gasps of breath would come from his lips.

  The schoolmaster whirled around wildly in a wave of panic, and as Timorets beheld his friend's state, he too could not stop the frightened words from escaping his lips. "What in the damnable dark?"

  No sooner were the words spoken than the sound of an ill-timed sneeze crashed through the hush, like a boulder hurled from the grasp of a mighty trebuchet. The clamorous noise woke the herd, and without warning the tide broke in upon them. The otherworldly butterfly creatures began to swarm angrily around the frightened travelers.

  "Run!" Michael shouted. As soon he spoke the word, the very next word he tried to say was devoured before it was completely uttered.

  The magical insects engulfed the eleven travelers in a writhing, hungry cloud of angered indignation, and though the remnant ran towards the glowing northward marker, the silver swarm easily overtook them, stealing voices and paralyzing strength. Their eyes were wild in panic as fear overwhelmed their senses. They ran as hard and as fast as they could in the maddened wake of the silver-winged assault, but they could not escape the suffocating horde. Within mere moments, the eleven were completely covered by the weightless, silver bodies.

  The chaos ceased once the covering was complete, and then not a sound was heard, although countless muted screams still rang loud in the minds of the eleven. The violet light that had shone brightly just a handful of moments ago waned, and the hopelessness of the moment threatened utter darkness amidst the silver silence.

  After what seemed like an eternity of aborted purpose, the deafening silence that had forced their surrender gave way to the presence of a great wind.

  WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH came the pounding of wings upon the silent air.

  The dragons have found us, Michael thought to himself. We have failed; it is finished.

  This is holy ground to you who have been born from the dust. A wise, old voice reverberated in their thoughts. You have tread thoughtlessly upon its hallowed space, waking the wrath of the Danatace. Were it not for HIS great compassion, I would not have intervened. But alas, a greater purpose awaits you, travelers, and so I impart HIS mercy.

  And with that last word, the wind of the great wings pounded throughout the chamber. The silver insects fluttered in its mighty wake, releasing at last their muted prisoners to remain willfully speechless in the presence of so great a magic.

  There, hovering motionless save the beating of its mighty, red-tipped wings, flew a beast more terrible and more breathtaking than they could have described. An Owele, with violet eyes that saw deep into the hearts and minds of man, peered at them warily. His talons shone in violent beauty and yet anger could not be found on his feathered face.

  "Forgive us, my lord." Georgina spoke with tears catching in her voice. "We did not mean to offend you."

  I am no lord. The Owele spoke kindly to the farm girl. I am but a servant.

  "Who are you?" Celrod asked, his curiosity outweighing his frayed nerves.

  I am Remiel—a watcher in the night, whose sight is set upon the coming dawn. The mighty bird screeched his answer inside their minds.

  "What would you have of us?" Michael asked penitently. "What does ..." he fumbled over his words, unsure here in the presence of the Owele. "What does HE want from us?"

  Follow, Remiel screeched. It was mercy that made this way for you, remnant of Haven, and it will be mercy yet again that you might keep it. So by this mercy I bid you follow, follow until the remaking of the whole of Aiénor."

  As soon as the last of his words were spoken, the pounding of his wings sent the holy bird backwards, his violet gaze still holding their stare until the Owele was out of sight, beyond the passageway and the glowing marker.

  "What in the name …" Harmier began to speak, but the heavy hand of his tanner friend silenced him. "Let's not disturb them a second time, huh?" he whispered.

  The merchant nodded his understanding, and in a single line the eleven passed through the silent judgment in grateful awe at the unlooked for mercy they had received.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  THE THREE LIGHT-SEEKERS SET out from the ruins of the ship Wilderness with new vigor and an air of wonder that seemed to fuel their violet hope all the more. They rode north, in and through the massive columns of soldier pines where not a sound could be heard save the crunch of the two horses' hooves upon the floor of the wild Greywood. They rode for what seemed like hours, while Cal recounted all the lore and legends of the Lost King to his violet-eyed companion.

  "For decades—decades, Astyræ—not a living soul in all of Haven had heard even a single word of Illium's whereabouts ... and now this! This is overwhelming to say the least!" he gushed in disbelief.

  "Tell me this, groomsman," she said with a hint of mischief in her voice. "Why does this matter so much to you? Why do the ruined words of ruined men move your soul in such a way?"

  He thought about it for a moment before he spoke, as the clop of the heavy-hooved horses counted the moment
s of reverie. "Haven is not what it once was, much the same way your city, Dardanos, lost her true heart. And now, the thought ... no, the reality that something of the old Haven—the true Haven—yet lives in this darkened world, even if it is buried beneath all of this wilderness ... well, that moves my soul, alright, my lady. That matters, more than I can quite say. It makes me want to ask even greater questions, I think."

  She smiled her understanding and then turned her head to meet his gaze. "And what questions would those be?"

  "What else have I not yet dared to truly hope is possible?" he said quietly as his eyes fixated on something moving off in the distance.

  "Well now, that is rather poetic of you, isn't it?" she teased, but whatever it was that had caught his notice had now indeed stolen his attention.

  Cal did not respond to her compliment; rather, he remained absorbed with something just out of sight.

  "Cal?" she asked, a bit worried at his silence. "Cal, are you alright?" She looked at him hard and then followed his gaze out in front of them, but beyond the shallow, violet illumination, she could not see anything except for the suffocating darkness of the forest. "Cal!" she said, rather unnerved now. "What is it? You are starting to scare me! Speak to me … please?" she pleaded as she reached over to take Farran by the reins. The groomsman's hands fell slack as she took the leather from him, and his face was expressionless, as though he had altogether departed from his very self. "Where did you go, groomsman?" she begged as she reached a hand up to his forehead. "Cal, please!"

  Without warning he gasped hard, drawing in air in deep breaths as his eyes widened in wonder and shock.

  "What happened to you?" she said as she let go of the reins. "Where did you go? You scared me!"

  "You sound like my aunt," he told her as he rubbed at his eyes.

  "What?" she puzzled.

  "After my parents ... after they died, I would stare off from time to time. The healers just thought it was sadness of mind, but I would see things, dream of things. Things that were not sad at all, come to think of it. But no one ever really believed me. It's strange," he said softly, looking at her with a sense of realization. "The trances, they haven't been happening to me nearly as often as they used to."